My Brain, On Fear: Part II

As you’ll recall, a couple weeks ago I talked about a pretty bad dream of mine and what it might mean, specifically as it related to my work in progress. I said then that two interpretations for that dream came to mind, and while I’m sure there are others, both rang true. One was easy enough to figure out: I’m doing something really tough, and I’m unsure if I’ll succeed. It’s an uneasy alliance, this book and me. (Though, for the record, we seem to be getting along better these days. At least, I’ve not had another house dream to tell me otherwise. Oh, I’m still plenty uncertain, but if I listen too long and hard to that anxiety-rat scuttling around my skull . . . well, that way lies paralysis.)

So let’s talk about the second interpretation today because I think that it has a broader applicability to all us writers. Sooner or later, if we’re in traditional publishing, we’ll face this. And face what, you ask? Why, being orphaned. No, I don’t mean an orphan in the traditional sense of no parents. I’m talking, specifically, about something writers face all the time: having their works orphaned, or their series interrupted. That is, the marketing team goes away, or the line’s discontinued, or a lot of key people—the editor, the publisher—leave the company . . . that kind of thing. Many pro writers have talked about this, and there are quite a few horror stories out there as, for example, in the case of Dr. Yvonne Thorton’s experience with Kaplan Publishing in 2010. Read this article in its entirety; it’s enough to set your teeth. In a nutshell, though, Thorton, who had already written a very well-received memoir, went with Kaplan Publishing for her second book on the strength of a lot of promises by Kaplan about how they’d really push the book, etc., etc. She even turned down offers of more money from other publishers. As Kris Rusch talks about it on her blog, Thorton only understood something was going terribly wrong—i.e., that her book was DOA or published “dead,” with no marketing push, no support, no nothing—when she realized that her book wasn’t available as an e-book preorder. She did the logical thing and wrote to her editor—but the email bounced back. And that was because the editor was gone and the line discontinued. Someone just forget to mention this tiny little fact to Thorton.

Rusch is correct when she says this kind of thing happens to writers all the time. That’s because she’s been in the biz for quite a while, and it’s happened not only to her but other pros. Take the time to read about her experiences, too; if you don’t get a tiny little shiver down your spine, you’re not paying attention.

In fact, that kind of being cut off at the knees happened to me several years ago, with another publisher and a different series. Here I am, all set to write a trilogy. I’ve done two books in the series; I’ve mapped out where the next story has to go. I’m daring to think about more books and a new series. In the interim, I’ve done stories for the series, and a whole other stand-alone when another writer crapped out and the editor needed someone to fill in, pronto. Things are looking great, and I’m excited: my first trilogy, within my reach.

But then—one day—I get this call from the principal editor: the line’s going away; the parent company went defunct; and there just ain’t gonna be a third book.

To say I was bummed is putting it mildly. To say that I was in despair would be much closer. Of course, it wasn’t just me who’d gotten the axe; it was every single author in the line; it was the editor, the copy-editors, the continuity people, the graphics folks . . . a lot of pink slips in various guises, and not a damn thing any of us could do about it.

What does this have to do with me and my dream? 

It’s pretty simple, actually: let’s fast forward a couple years, and here I am, a couple books under my belt and more either in the pipeline or my head. (If I could only figure out how to do a direct cerebral transfer of all those books into a computer...)

Except . . . one of my publishers is going through some big transitions. In essence, the entire team that put together a bunch of books have all gone on to other jobs: first, it was one marketing guy, followed by the rep from the parent company. Not that long after, the publisher’s gone. Then the two marketing and library outreach folks go adios—and, finally, just a couple weeks ago, my editor. My lovely, wonderful editor. My editor.

Now none of this came as a surprise in the Thorton-way of surprises, and in fact, if a writer had to be orphaned, both these people--as well as the editor from that first time years back when an entire line disappeared beneath my feet--have been pros about it. Every single time someone’s left, there’s been a phone call, and a long one at that: nothing perfunctory, and all of it sincere. In the case of my editor, I got two: from the editor and then the publisher, both of them trying to be as reassuring as they could. I know they also went on to call every single author and his/her agent. They kept everybody in the loop, and in the case of the key marketing person, I subsequently got a phone call and then several emails from the person who’s stepping into the job—and that person’s already doing some heavy-lifting for me.

So let me repeat: I am bummed and feel kind of down, but I'm not devastated. If there has to be a shake-up or big change, this is the way a writer ought to find out. These guys have been consummate pros, and at this point in time, I have absolutely no reason to believe that the same commitment and care the company’s given my books won’t continue. I’m not having a Thorton-style experience at this moment. As of right now, my books are as caught up as they’re could possibly be given the circumstances and I am confident the publisher—a very wonderful and warm person—is committed to giving them their best possible shot.

Except . . . I had that dream: about a house in which I didn’t belong and a relationship/marriage I wasn’t comfortable with.

Duh.

It’s not such a stretch to see the house as a publishing “house.” The relationship I had with the original team was very special. I was comfortable with those guys; I liked them as pros and people. (I still like and wish them well; I wouldn’t spend this much psychic energy on them otherwise. Fine, go work for the Antichrist; see what I care.)

But now there is nobody at the house that I really know in the sense of having closely worked with them to birth a book—and I’m understandably anxious. I’m not the only author in the house. What if they bring in an editor who really hates what I do? That person won't have originally acquired me; that person will be handed me and that's a very different animal. So what if how I write just doesn’t appeal or fit with whatever his or her vision is/will be? What if we simply don’t get on? What if she/he doesn’t get my jokes? What if I say something dumb, or we can’t have a good time while we’re at it? Sure, I’m a pro and I’ll get the work done—but shaping a book of the heart (and all my books are that) should be enjoyable; it should be collegial; there ought to be the sense that we’re all doing something really important together, as a team. 

Maybe you think that’s . . . oh, I don’t know . . . so much treacle, or just naïve. You’re a cog, Bick; there are dozens of other talented and way more talented writers, and you’re nothing very special. 

On the other hand, part of what Kris Rusch has to say about writers and power, broadly speaking, applies to me: in my dream, I’m stuck and helpless. I think that reflects my angst that there is/was nothing I could do about, say, my editor leaving; it wasn’t up to me. In that sense, the dream is an accurate reflection of my inability to do anything to change what was happening about a person to whom I was very attached and really liked. What happened wasn’t personal . . . and yet it affected and continues to affect me in a very personal way because my work is personal. It can’t be any other way. Every book I manage to publish is the best book I’ve ever written at that point in time, and I would be a fool not to hope that every book gets the best possible shot at reaching an audience.

It’s just the future that bugs me, I guess, and the next new face and the realization that as much as I—like all of us—would like for things to remain comfortable and familiar, change will happen. This is a part of doing business in this business, and it happens to everyone. For some, it all goes down in a terrible way. For others, like me, the change goes forward with as much care and sensitivity as possible.

So, it’s like that old serenity prayer: accepting what I can’t change while having the courage to change the things that I can. For me, right now, that means writing the next best book I’ve ever written—and then the one after that.

I’ll let you know if I find myself in the bad house of my dreams anytime soon.

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.

Satisfaction Guaranteed?

First true story:  About two weeks ago, I decided to try out the Kobo app, not because I'd succumbed to any of the company's bazillion emails for sales--most were books I wouldn't read--but because I wanted to support independent booksellers who partner with the company.  Deal is, you go to the store's web page and then click through to the Kobo site to buy the ebook, and your favorite indie gets a split of the profit.  (Yes, before you ask: this was the same thing Google Books tried.  That tanked.  Nuff said.)

Bottom line is the thing only sort of worked.  Yes, I could buy a traditionally pubbed book, put out by a standard publisher.  But, no, on my iPod Touch and iPad, I couldn't really read the zillions of other ebooks, many self-pubbed, that can only be read if they're paired with Adobe Digital Editions, which the Touch and iPad (not to mention the iPhone) does not support.  I have an Android phone, and the app only worked fitfully there as well (and required sign-ins through Kobo and Adobe for me to read anything).  And forget previews: I couldn't see a one.  Not one. And books I did purchase weren't showing up on my various devices either.  Couldn't get the darned things to sync.

So I said a lot of stuff that I really shouldn't (the cats covered their ears, and we were all good) and then I emailed Kobo Customer Service with my questions and problems.  At the same time, I went on Facebook and Twitter and ask around to see if there were solutions or work-arounds.

I'll spare you the agony, but let's just say that a NUMBER of emails and almost four days later, nothing good was happening, and Kobo's replies didn't cut it.  One even helpfully suggested that for me to read books, gosh, I really needed the app . . . which meant the guy or gal hadn't bothered reading my original email which was all about the app.

Contrary to my normal way of doing things--I tend to suffer in silence--I vented a tad on Facebook and Twitter.  People tried to help; they really did.  Finally, after something like five days, I did something I've never done: went on Facebook and Twitter--even found the Kobo Twitter handle--and said I was through with Kobo and told them why.  Even now, I'm not sure why I did that, but I was just so frustrated with NO ONE bothering to solve the bloody problem for which I'd already spent money I really didn't want to see pissed away.  But I don't normally do these things.   Except this time, I did--and the results were shocking.  Within something like . . . wuh . . . fifteen minutes, the Kobo Help Desk people were talking to me through Twitter, asking for incident numbers and all that (I had, like, three).  In thirty minutes, they'd kicked everything up to their "Tier Two" team.  In less than two hours, the entire issue was resolved.  (Part was my screw-up, and part was theirs.  Like . . . ready for this?  You can't read previews on any Apple device, period.  You can only read them by putting the book on a wish list . . . except not every book can be put on a wish list.  So, pretty much, you are NOT free to preview every book on Kobo--and I'm sorry, but I'm not paying for a book I can't at least leaf through a little bit, you know?  I suggested that it might be nice if they put that  little nugget up someplace where folks with Apple devices might notice.)

Anyway, problem mostly solved, but because of, what is for me, a ridiculous escalation.  I hate doing crap like that, I really do.

Read on.

Second True Story: This morning, I decided I'd like a gander at a discounted book that just happened to be free for Amazon Prime members through the Lending Library.  Having used the library only fitfully, I thought, Cool.  So I hit the "buy" button.

Bet you know where this is going.

So I get charged.  I'm surprised; Amazon always seems to keep track of my Prime-ness . . . so what gives?  I immediately dash off an email query. I figured, okay, I'll hear sometime tomorrow.

Eh . . . no.  Amazon popped back with a reply in five minutes.  They fixed my goof within twenty, and educated me in the bargain.  I thanked them--and I got a note back, thanking me for thanking them.

But it was painless.  No escalation; no frustration.  No public venting.  Mostly importantly, no wasted time--and guess where I'll likely go for my next e-book?

* * *

Now, why bother with these examples?  Well, it's pretty simple, actually: not only are we talking about customer satisfaction, the Kobo episode, in particular, speaks to public shaming.  As a tactic to force another party to respond, shaming is nothing new. All you have to do is look at the latest public protest in whatever city or country you choose--or, say, the brouhaha over James Frey's fabrication of a memoir and Oprah's dressing-down--to understand the tactical power inherent in public shame as a motivator.  Standing up and having my one-woman protest march on Twitter and Facebook got Kobo's attention right quick and a resolution where days of (clueless) email replies only left me increasingly frustrated.  Put simply, Kobo cares about saving face in a highly public forum.  In this, they are no different than any other company--but it took an act of public shame to get their attention and provoke a response.

The same is often asked of us writers because readers broadcast their opinions in highly public forums; they engage in mass praise or public shame and degradation in a big way.  Like any company, though, a writer needs to be responsive to her customers.  No, no, you don't write to committee; you don't do what fans tell you to, and for heaven's sake, you don't apologize.  You wrote the book you wrote, and it won't be everyone's cuppa.  But people diss books on a regular basis; sometimes the attacks are personal or can get nasty.  Worse, these are carried out in highly public forums like Goodreads and Amazon, venues that, in many ways, certainly provoke responses from other readers--if you think about it, a crummy review might be all the permission that the guy who also hated the book but  wasn't going to say anything needs.  (That is also a true fact: people frequently engage in behaviors they normally don't if other people do it first.)  But because this is all so public, a writer might feel motivated to say something back. 

And here's what I say to that.  Just two words: Anne.  Rice.

For those of you who need a quick refresher or were just too young to remember--and, God, you do not know how it kills me to type that--here's what you need to know: Anne Rice was a mega bestseller (she may still be; I haven't kept tabs).  Among other things, she pretty much kick-started the whole vampire craze with things like Interview with a Vampire and The Vampire Lestat.  This was back in 1985, okay?  Yeah, yeah, a while ago; ancient history.  Anyway, her Vampire Chronicles did gangbusters; she went on to do stuff with witches . . . honestly, I lost track after a while.  But then she came out with what I guess was a real clunker, Blood Canticle.  Haven't read it, so I can't comment.  Well, readers were not amused and tore her up with horrid Amazon reviews--and, you know, it happens.  It happens to everyone, even my hero, Stephen King.  But, you know, you shrug it off, or you try to.  Actually, you do yourself a favor and stay away from public forums like Amazon where you might suddenly find yourself with a new orifice you really didn't need.

But Anne Rice . . . well, let's just say she reacted very badly to this public shaming.  What she did was post a long--and I mean, long rant on Amazon.  Really, I don't think the lady took a breath.  If you've never read it, take a couple minutes and check it out here; scroll down until you hit the review "from Anne Rice herself."  Go ahead; I'll wait. 

So what was Rice reacting to?  Duh . . . customer complaints, and there were a ton.  Take a couple seconds to read through some of those; you're talking disappointed fans.  Was it the right thing for Rice to do?  Well, not for my money, although whatever you think of her ego--I mean, the woman was on her 25th book, for heaven's sake, so she must've been doing something right--you have to give her points for chutzpah and offering refunds.  But I think my point here is that she reacted to being publicly shamed, and in a very big way.

I think most of us know that it's best not to blast back, right?  You probably adopt this policy all the time without realizing it.  Case in point: you're on Facebook; you make a comment; someone else chimes in that you're wrong.  You then react by reiterating your point or trying to rephrase; the someone else fires back; and before long, you find that you have two choices: continue the argument--or shrug and disengage/walk away.  Me, I walk away because I've been a shrink long enough to know that when someone in the room is yelling or firing back or getting all defensive . . . they've ceased to listen.  And, really, I got better things to do.  Said what I had to say, and I'm outta here.

Same thing goes for public forums, right?  We all know this?  Don't get into a pissing match with readers?  Readers are entitled to their opinions, and no one necessarily asked you to join in the conversation.  No one asked you to like what they say either . . . but, then again, you shouldn't necessarily go looking for trouble (or approval).  I'm serious.  Yes, I know that needy feeling; you work hard for what feels like very little; you send your baby out into the world and watch it get shredded; you and your baby are exposed to public shame.  It's like someone stood up in the middle of a very big, very crowded room and shouted, "Ilsa Bick's book sucks!"  And then, in an even worst case scenario, everyone applauded and high-fived the guy. 

Hard to walk away.  I know.

But then there's the other problem, when someone ups the ante and writes to you, personally: pops into your inbox and yells; or pops into your inbox and throws a tantrum; or pops into your inbox or your website's comments screen and wants to know why you did x, y, z or conversely, how dare you not do x, y, z.

Then what do you do?  Do you approve the comment and respond?  Do you respond to the email?  Because this is different: it's someone coming to you only semi-privately.  Now, emails are easier, of course; I always take the approach that not everything I do will appeal to everyone, but gee, thanks for giving the book a shot.  Mainly, I choose not to argue, and since I know the person's already unhappy . . . well, there's nothing I can say or do that will change that, is there?  We just keep the conversation between ourselves.

But . . . if you approve that website comment, you make the exchange public.  In a weirdly perverse way, you participate in making that shaming public because the person contacting you did so in the expectation that you two would move to a public forum . . . the reverse of taking your argument to a different room, out of earshot, or having a nice quiet chat where you won't be overhead.  So what do you do?  Because if you don't approve a comment, how much you want to bet that person will send you another?  And a third or fourth?  So what do you do?

My fast and simple rule: if the comment's abusive . . . sorry, but you're out of luck, bub.  It's my website; you're in my house; these are my rules.  Unlike customer service reps for Kobo or Amazon or whomever, I have the luxury of deciding if I want to pick up the phone.  Eventually even the abusive bozos get tired and give up.

But if the comment's not a personal attack, I'll post it, even the ones that are less than laudatory--because if you were a guest in my house, you'd be entitled to your opinion.  My own experience with this is that someone who's got a beef will frequently want to have a conversation; if you respond in a polite and even-handed way, things calm down pretty quickly.  I've even had someone with a beef end up apologizing to and reassuring me that he really did like the book; he just wished I'd done things a tad differently.  It was all very civil, and no one screamed or pulled an Anne Rice.

The moral is: you can't solve or resolve disappointment.  But it is important that you recognize that this is the emotion your readers are having if they're upset.  Conversely, it is just as essential for you to understand that you are important enough for them to invest their energy, time, money and emotion in your work.  So take complaints that come to you seriously, and for heaven's sake, answer that email so long as it's within bounds.  (Believe it or not, I know writers who won't respond to readers, period.  The mind reels.  I understand that some writers are just so deluged they'd never get any work done, but then you gotta post that on your site or something.) 

Above all, remember this: I know this feels counter-intuitive . . . but disappointment is also a bit of a compliment.  Understand that if a reader is disappointed it is because he thought or had heard you were so great, or had a wonderful experience with another book of yours. 

Then go write the next book.  That reader's waiting for you to, anyway.

Better Productivity through Murdering Dandelions

 Sechin Tower

@SechinTower

This isn’t one of those posts where gardening is used as a metaphor for the writing process.

Not that there’s anything wrong with those kinds of posts. I may not be much of a gardener, but even I can see that these comparisons are usually very apt and interesting. You know the kinds of metaphors I’m talking about: Give the seeds of your idea time to grow. Tend your plot carefully to makes sure everything blooms. Beware the aphids of poor subject-verb agreement.

Indeed, you can probably guess that I allow one gardening metaphor to rule most everything I write: pile on lots of fertilizer.

But, no, that’s not what this post is about. This one is literal, and it’s about what I do when I need a break from the keyboard. It’s also about a new/old gizmo, because gizmos are fun.

Writing requires sitting down for hours and hours and hours. The trouble is that our bodies evolved to move around all day long, not to stay seated. Did you know that our prehistoric ancestors probably walked 20 miles a day? The “paleo-diet” doesn’t compare to the “paleo-workout.”

Aside from causing eye-strain, sitting and staring at a screen can also drag down our alertness and creativity. The human mind can certainly travel farther in a day than our bodies ever could, but it can go farther still with a bit more blood flow.

This summer, I’ve instituted a 25 minute timer while writing. Every time it goes off, I have to stand up and go do something for at least 60 seconds, even if it’s just reaching for my toes. But my favorite thing is to run out to the yard and murder dandelions.

My dandelion-murdering capability recently skyrocketed when I found the ultimate weed-wrecker at my local hardware store. I used to have one like it, but it broke, and for years I never saw any others of its kind. Sure, I tried some other styles, but they didn’t do much other than poke the ground a little and try to give the dandelions a guilt complex. That’s not what I wanted: I wanted raw mechanical leverage.

This baby clamps the weed beneath its leaves and yanks it right out of the ground, usually taking the whole root with it. No evil chemicals, no bending over, and no mercy for the weed. POP! Up comes one weed. POP! POP! In five minutes, I’m ankle-deep in dandelion corpses. It gets completely addictive: I’m actually starting to worry that I’ll run out of dandelions in my yard.

Root and all!

Ever watch the Big Bang Theory? You might remember the episode where Sheldon was working on a tough physics problem, so he tried to free his higher brain functions by seeking out the most menial tasks to occupy his lower functions. Naturally, he assumed that everyone else’s jobs were the most menial, and comedy ensued.

If Sheldon had one of these weed pullers he might have saved himself some time. After popping off a few weeds, I always end up with a better idea of what to write next and how to say it. That think-time lets me get down deep, almost like I’m pulling at the root of my story and characters while I’m pulling at the roots of the dandelions.

OOPS! That was a gardening metaphor for writing. How’d that get in there?

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

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.  

That Blast From the Past

So I had one of those moments, both nostalgic and bittersweet, this past week when my author copies for WEIRD DETECTIVES: RECENT INVESTIGATIONS arrived. 

I knew the anthology was floating around because I'd gotten an email from someone who'd read my story, "The Key" (the first story in the anthology and something I didn't know but which I'll tell you why I'm tickled about that in a second) and wanted to let me know how much he loved it.  So that was nice.

When the books arrived, I flipped to the story and was sort of . . . Wow, long time no see, how you been doing?  The story is one I'd written back in 2004 and was a bit of a departure for me because I chose to write about a detective who was the partner of another detective I'd introduced in a story I'd done the year before, "Sarah's Heart."    That story made it into an e-anthology (Hauntings; L. Marie Wood, Ed.; Houston, TX: Cyber-Pulp Publishing; 2003) but not print.  I found that after writing SH, I was very. . . well, fond of the Jason Saunders character, the partner.  So I thought, I'd really like to see who this Jason-guy is, you know?  Who are his friends; what does he like; that kind of stuff.  I also think that the reason I chose Jason to spin off was because the story in which he was introduced was both finished and not; I don't want to give away what happens in SH in case I ever decide to finally dredge it up and put it out there for folks to read. (HAH! In my copious free time.)  But, suffice to say, there are some MAJOR loose ends.

In retrospect, maybe I wrote Adam's story (the POV detective in SH) so I could do Jason's, I don't know.  But I do remember writing "The Key" and then trying to figure out where to send it.  I tried all the regular mystery venues and have some very nice rejection letters from Alfred Hitchcock and Ellery Queen. (And, yes, guys, some rejections letter are okay to get because the editors have written something really NICE, like, essentially, God, this is great, but we can't publish this kind of story.  Gotten more than a few, and while rejection is never pleasant, seeing an editor's personal note . . . you know, they're busy people. So you appreciate the time they took to tell you how bad they felt about having to pass, and why.) 

So I was sitting there, scratching my head, and then thought, Whoa, wait.  There's SciFiction.COM.  <DOH!> 

Let me explain: back in the Dark Ages of 2004, the SciFi channel (which was, yes, properly science fiction and fantasy then and DON'T GET ME STARTED) maintained a FANTASTIC website for original sf and fantasy.  (As of this moment, it's been resurrected into something completely different, and if you go to the site, you won't find my story or anyone else's.)  The editor was Ellen Datlow, fabulous at her job, already famous by the time she was there, and--in person--an all-around really nice and fun lady, who shares my obsession for cats and also surprised the heck out of me by appearing in my signing line for DRAW THE DARK at the BEA.  (A confession: the first time I met her, at a Westercon back in . . . gosh . . . '99?  2000? . . . she said my name was "familiar" and why was that?  Well, I'd only sent her like ten trillion stories she kept rejecting.  But I chickened out and just said something dumb, like, oh, I'm presenting a lot at the con.  I know: stupid.  I'm much better now.)

Anyhoo--I'd already sold Ellen a couple of stories, and I thought, Okay, why not?  The worst thing she could tell me was to get lost.  One thing I can tell you is this: when you make a sale to an editor you really admire and respect, it means the world.  There are some editors I would kill to sell to; a few I've managed; and most I've not--and it's no slam-dunk either.  It's not like you sell once, and yay, you're set for life.  No, no: every story or book is a new hurdle, another chance for someone to say, Eehhh . . . no.  You've never really arrived unless you're . . . well, I won't name names, but I'll bet you can fill in your own blanks with authors you think pretty much sell everything they write simply on the basis of name recognition, whether it's "better" than the rest or not.  I'm not being catty or nasty; I'm just saying: they've produced to a high enough level for a long enough period of time that an editor would have to be INSANE to pass them by (and knows the author would probably find another venue in a heartbeat anyway).

Now I remember my very first sale of a short story.  I remember my first book sale.  I remember my first sale to different editors, and I very definitely recall what it was like to get an email from Ellen for the first story of mine that she took, "In the Blood"  (which, yeah, I really am in the process of dredging up and getting together, but other work keeps getting in the way).    So I knew that Ellen was a) an editor I respected and admired and b) someone open enough to look at something . . . well, kind of quirky.

So I shot off "The Key," my weird little story about infanticide and soul murder and Jewish mysticism and guilt and redemption; and worried for weeks.  Tried not to think about it. Moved on with other work.  Had the nagging suspicion that, you know, regardless of what happens, I was really starting to like this Jason Saunders guy. I started having these . . . thoughts.  Like, hunh, what if I did a novel with him as a character?  Or another short story? Or a series of short stories?  (GAWD, so Holmes.  So Dresden.)  It was weird; I'd never had a character get under my skin like that before.

Long story short: Ellen took the story, which is why it shows up reprinted in this new anthology.  Now, have I re-read it?  No.  I know how the story ends.  But did seeing it in print revive a whole lot of memories and half-formed ideas?  Oh, you bet.  Specifically: I did do another Jason Saunders story, "Second Sight" for the anthology, CRIME SPELLS .  That story was published five years after "The Key," but the character still felt immediate, fresh, alive.  By the time I was done with SS, which is pretty lonnng short story, I had populated Jason's world with characters he cared about.  I had a introduced a recurring partner; a new and very mysterious woman-shrink with interesting, well, powers of her own and her enigmatic FBI dad; the shrink's sister, a medical student;  a rabbi, who'd appeared in all three Jason Saunders stories . . . this guy, Jason, was getting a real life.

And I have to admit: I had plans.  I'd tried using Jason as a support character in another adult mystery, but it just didn't work.  I know why now.  Jason was crying out to be his own guy and go back to the nebulous and fantastical territory into which I'd originally given him a voice.  He was never meant to be a bit character.

So seeing this story . . . well, I think my husband saw it before I did: that, admit it, Ils, you'd like to do some stuff with Jason.  And, sure, I would.  It's funny, but I've not forgotten a thing about the guy; I know what the women look like; I understand what kind of music this guy likes and what beer he'll drink , what he likes to eat, nd even where he lives and why. 

Will I do another Jason Saunders story?  I don't know.  I do know that I had another idea for the very next story that ought to follow SS.  I still think it would work.  A short story  is a very different animal from a novel, and I would ultimately have to decide if Jason belongs in a short story format, or something longer.  I just don't know.  Right now, because he was born in a short story, I feel like that's where he belongs.  So, maybe . . . someday.

Oh, yeah, I know what I forgot: to tell you why it's so great my story's the first one you see (and, no, it's not alphabetical).  Having been to a couple workshops where the task is to take stories and put together an anthology, I can tell you that story placement is important.  Specifically, you want to start off an anthology very strongly, right out of the gate.  It's why, for example, stories by Stephen King are often the very first: they grab the reader and set the tone for the anthology while hopefully leaving you, the reader, wanting more.  (This is also why the middle's important and why you find some very fabulous stories right smack-dab in the center: you want your reader, who may be getting a little tired by then, to get that little jolt, a KERPOW moment.  That middle story is a reward for sticking it out and the pivot point for the rest of the anthology.)  Ditto the last two stories of an anthology: you want something that eases the reader into the last story which should provide closure and satisfaction, a bit like a novel (well, except mine, I guess; if you know my work, you know I thrive on ambiguity).

It was a thrill to be contacted at all for this anthology; I was blown away that someone had read and remembered that story after all these years and liked it enough to want to reprint it.  But for "The Key" to be the first thing you see, for the editor to put that kind of faith in my work . . . guys, in my book, that's an honor. 

Writing May Be Hazardous to Your Health

If you've ever read one of my novels, you know that I tend to put my characters through a lot.  To put it bluntly, their life expectancy isn't the greatest, and finding yourself in an Ilsa J. Bick novel may be quite hazardous to your health.

Well, it turns out that my characters might be returning the favor because here's a news flash for you: Writing is hazardous to your health. 

Let me rephrase.  It's not that writing per se is bad; it's the sitting all day that will kill you.  No joke.  NPR did a piece on this a couple years ago that's worth reading and/or listening to.  According to numerous studies (including a relatively recent study in Medicine and Science in Sports and Exercise), excessive sitting--say, up to 23 hours a week--increases the risk of heart disease in young men by as much as 64%.  I'm sure it's comparable for women.  The kicker is that all those guys?  A lot of them routinely exercised. 

So what the heck is a writer supposed to do?  From personal experience, I can tell you that I'm easily sitting 9+ hours a day, and I do that every day.  I also exercise 90-120 minutes a day, every day.  I'm not overweight, although--you know--once you're past a certain age, things that used to defy gravity don't. 

But I'm a doc.  So I know.  The less you engage major muscle groups, the lower your metabolic rate.  It's one of the reasons why people can become quite obese even if their total intake is low.  Their metabolic rates slow to a crawl.  A slug is faster.  It's one of the truisms of weight loss, too.  If you want a kid or adult to lose weight, you have to kick up the metabolic rate first by getting moving--and then you zip your pie-hole.

So if I believe the stats, and I do, then all this work?  All these stories?  These characters?  There are a lot of days when I think a story's going to kill me, but the reality is that they really might be the death of me. 

Well, the solution is to get moving, right?  Or moving even more than I already do?  The problem is that the more time I spend doing that, the less time I have to write.  There are a couple solutions out there; in the current April issue, there's a fine article  by Susan Dawson-Cook, "Better Health for Writers."  The majority of the stuff she mentions you already know: the importance of proper ergonomics, ways to reduce discomfort while writing, and all that.  (Another news flash: I have NEVER had as many problems with my arms, hands, and--strangely--feet before I upped my writing time.)  If you want to fork over the money for a treadmill, you can build yourself a treadmill desk (or buy one).  Me, I actually considered that, but it seemed kind of criminal to buy a machine when I have access to plenty of them at the gym.  I also wonder how effective I can really be trying to both walk (even very, very slowly) and compose at the same time.

Yet, there is a long tradition of writers walking as a way of clearing out the cobwebs.  Thoreau once wrote: "Me thinks the moment my legs begin to move, my thoughts begin to flow."  We all know some of literature's famous walkers--Robert Louis Stevenson, Mark Twain, Virginia Woolf, and--my personal favorite--Dickens, a man who routinely walked over twenty miles a day.  (Of course, he was also an insomniac and died early of a stroke, but who's keeping score?)  I know that I can write all day long, get my pages in and all that--and still I've done my best thinking while walking or working the machines.  (Swimming . . . not so much; I think it's because I have to both count laps and breathe.  When I let my mind go, however, I do think relatively well . . . although I seem to end up swimming the same lap over and over again.  Same problem with spinning: if I'm listening to music to keep a cadence, there's no way I can think about a story.  I love to bike, but I find it tough to sit for even more hours after I've been sitting all day.)  When I go for long walks, I always bring along an iPod to listen to an audiobook . . . but I've also noticed that when I'm deep into a story, I might plug in the earbuds but never turn on the iPod at all.  Or I'll listen to the story, but my mind wanders because I'm very wrapped up in my own work.  So I lose track and finally turn the silly thing off.   I just don't want any distractions.

So walking works for me in terms of freeing my mind.  (Ditto hiking; my husband once turned to me at the end of a fifteen-miler and remarked that I hadn't strung together more than ten words the entire day.  He wasn't miffed, but it's a good thing he knows me so well, or else he'd think it was his breath.)  The question is . . . do I really want to take time away from writing to take a couple walks during the day?  Say, before I get started and at the midway point of my day, half hour at a pop, and in addition to the workout at the end of my workday I already do?  We're talking about another hour, minimum, and more likely an hour and a half by the time you do the shoes, wash the hands, get a drink of water, blah, blah.  You know how time dribbles away.

Here's what I'm really concerned about: breaking my rhythm.  Yes, yes, I often realize that I'll have to kill the work I just did or change things in those last five pages just as soon as I've turned off my computer and walked away because that's when it hits me that <DOH>, you idiot, that wasn't the right place for that scene.  But it is just as true that I have a tough time getting back into writing after a break.  I can do it and certainly have done.  When the husband's away on a business trip, then it's not unusual for me to either work 12+ hours and then exercise, or work, break for my workout, and then slide back into a few more hours at night.  But that second chunk of time often feels less focused, quite possibly because I'm . . . well, tired.  I mean, I've been hunched over the keyboard all bloody day; I can tell I start to lose focus roundabout the 5th or 6th hour, but I also know that if I just keep going, that seems to diminish.  At any rate, I'm a little concerned that I'll be shooting myself in the foot, work- and production-wise, on the outside chance I might live longer or, at least, as long as I might have if I'd never begun writing and sitting for such long stretches in the first place.

On the other hand, for my poor characters?  Given all the tsuris I put them through?

I'm sure they'll think it's poetic justice.

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. 

People Like Us

A couple years ago, some writer-friends and I were having this discussion about Obama and that brouhaha about Reverend Jeremiah Wright's remarks about Jews and the like with another, much more seasoned pro writer-friend.  I don't even remember what the specific comments were, but I do recall my pro-friend turning to me and saying something like, "Listen, white girl, you just don't know."  Now, I didn't take offense or anything because my friend's comment wasn't meant as a slap.  My friend was making a point that I, as a white girl (even a Jewish white girl, at whom some of these remarks were broadly directed), couldn't really grasp the cultural milieu in which the comments were made.

I believe my friend--to a point.  It's true that this friend is much more knowledgeable about black history; in fact, this friend wrote a very fine mystery series that featured a black protagonist.  While the specifics of the series aren't important, this is: at the time these books were out and about in the world, my friend wasn't touring or publicizing them much for a very simply reason.

My friend is white.  And of the opposite sex from the protag.

Talk about irony and (a bit of) reverse discrimination.

Why am I not more specific here?  Honestly, I'm not trying to be a tease, but my point isn't to out my friend.  But I was reminded of this incident after reading the New York Times piece earlier this week all about young Latino readers and educators' fears that these younger kids might not be as drawn into reading because there's a dearth of Latino protagonists for them to identify with. Read the comments, and you'll find both an even split and a wide array of responses.  Some people think this is a big deal; others don't.

Now I'll be really honest here: by and large, my feeling is that this is another of those New York Times hand-wringing non-issues.  You could say that I think it's not, because as a white girl, I was in the majority back in the day and so always felt that I was being represented in one way or another in whatever I read--but you would be wrong.  There really weren't that many female protagonists out there for me to identify with.  In fact, in a large proportion of both classical and contemporary lit, the protags were/are white males--and I can guarantee you that the overwhelming majority weren't Jewish.

You want to read about diversity?  Pick up any good sf with alien species as the primary protags--I remember one book that featured these funky insect-like creatures--and then tell me that I couldn't possibly have enjoyed that because, oh, the protagonists don't look like me.  Back when I was a kid, there wasn't anyone out there in either literature or film for me to take as a role model--and so what?  I've never looked to books for role models, nor do I, as a writer, think about providing a role model for my readers.  That's way too preachy for me.  Conversely, I don't remember a single book that was just so influential I carried it around like a talisman or modeled my life after it.  I wanted role models? They were called parents and teachers and other significant adults.  ((I mean, my God, my mom was working outside the house, doing science stuff and going for a PhD in an era when women just didn't do that.  And who were her role models?  Her father was a sponge diver and then worked in a rubber factory; her mother was a housewife.  Neither went to college; I doubt my grandmother made it out of high school; they lived in a crummy section of Akron.  But they all worked hard.)  Similarly, none of my role models lived in books.

I'll be honest (again): whenever I was handed the rare book with a Jewish protag (always male, as far as I can recall), I remember cringing.  Reading stories about people I knew--folks I saw every bloody day--didn't interest me in the slightest.  Revisiting certain events in my cultural past--say, the Holocaust--was and remains a busman's holiday.  Then as now, I look to books to tell me a good story.

I may be really off-base here; maybe I just don't get it.  But when I'm immersed in a story, I couldn't care less what the characters look like, or about ethnicity.  (Oh all right, yes: if this is a romance that keeps mentioning that the girl is a size 2 and wears strappy sandals without breaking an ankle . . . yeah, okay, I may not want to step on the scale for a couple days, but I don't stop reading on that basis.)  When the story revolves around the character's difference--Invisible Man and Native Son spring to mind--then, yes, of course this becomes an issue, because the difference is the story.  But that difference doesn't keep me from being able to either get into the story or feel along/identify with the characters either.

The magical thing about becoming lost in a book is that you also lose sight of who you are along the way.  It's really quite an interesting phenomenon, if you stop to think about it.  You can both read yourself into a character and stand alongside at the same time.  You get wrapped up in the adventure at the same moment that you may be thinking, Oh no, don't do it!  You can get mad at a character for being so stupid and still get a vicarious thrill with that first kiss.  All of that speaks to the skill of the story-teller and--to my mind--has virtually nothing to do with what the characters look like, or whether they're like me.  (I mean, guys, think about it: are we really saying that kids can't possibly identify with Wilbur because he's a pig, and they're not?  That I can't read about or enjoy or even identify with characters like Fiver and Bigwig in Watership Down . . . because I'm not a male rabbit?  Get real.)  Picking up a book is a way to get away from me now, just as it was a means to take me on an adventure and out of myself back then.  The business of a book is not to instruct.

Which brings me back to my very talented pro-friend, who could fashion a thoroughly wonderful series about a character of a different gender, culture, and ethnicity, not because my friend was the same but because that writer was (and is) empathetic, passionate . . . and a damned good writer.  

Now that's what I call a role model.

What Lives in My Trunk

Earlier this week, I was scheduled to do a live audio-interview on Bookspark.  As with most tech, Murphy's Law prevailed; no one could sign into the site; and the evening looked like a bust. I just happened to be moaning on my publisher's FB page about this because she and a bunch of other folks had wanted to virtually attend. Long story short, she called; we moaned together; then I suggested we just move the event to Twitter and do a live chat there.  Smart move: we had a great discussion (we even "trended," which, I gather, is a good thing), got tons of participation and fabulous questions, and went for over an hour before I had to beg off and break the fast, or fall on my nose.

One question from that which stuck with me revolved around whether or not I'd ever run into a story I just couldn't write or tell.  My response at the time wasn't disingenuous; I said that I kept working until I got it right--and that is true.  I tend to be a drudge.  OTOH, I went to medical school, so that figures.  We were all drudges.  

But when I took a step back and thought about it, I realized that, of course, there are tons of stories I've been unable to tell.  Either they die in outline form (the most frequent and least painful way, frankly, because you realize halfway through that what you thought was a great idea wasn't), fail to find an editor, or languish in the trunk every storyteller has in that dark closet because you know there's something wrong . . . but you just don't know what.  

Only later, when you've either gotten distance or better at the craft--and, frequently both--do you realize why the story defeated you.  Some you're able to redraft (never try to "fix" a story that didn't work; by definition, that's one dog that just won't hunt), as I did with ASHES.  From others, I've lifted ideas and scenes to use in other stories,  not verbatim because, again, the setups themselves didn't work.  

An example: there was one basic, overarching setup for a TREK novel that I actually carried two-thirds of the way through (an origin story about the Borg) before deciding that no one would ever actually LET me write a TREK novel.  Years later, when I'd done just that (and many stories and novellas in the universe), I dredged up my original idea because, you know, I just really liked it.  That idea was stuck in my craw; it was a cautionary, sweeping kind of story I felt compelled to write.  So I redrafted the entire thing to the parameters of a TREK spin-off series I was writing for (SCE) and finally got to see my book become reality as a two-parter, WOUNDS, and the thing was popular to boot (enough that I earned out and made royalties . . . a big deal).

The story fit much better into that universe.  Not to be immodest or anything, but whenever you do an "origin" story for a universe, it's  a risky proposition.  You're mucking with a basic tenet of that universe, something editors tend to be protective of and with good reason.   I even hedged at the end of my book because I didn't want to run afoul of the canon.  But I was blessed with an editor willing to take those risks, and the story was so successful--so interesting--that he and I planned another spin-off series based on those characters (a kind of TREK CSI).  Unfortunately, the SCE series was cancelled, and so that went nowhere.  Which sucked because my poor characters were left in limbo.  One of the dangers of work-for-hire: if a series is cancelled, it's like all your great ideas--your babies--get orphaned.  Sometimes you can scrub off the serial numbers.  Many times, you can't. Again, better just to redraft.  With these characters, I couldn't, so now I'll NEVER know what happens next. 

OTOH, that book was an example of an idea whose time finally came.  Before then, I hadn't grown into my writing chops enough to pull it off.  I was trying to tell the wrong story at the wrong time.  

So, have stories defeated me?  Oh, yeah.  Have I lived through the trauma to tackle them another day?  Yes, and frequently, I'm able to see why they got the upper-hand to begin with.  There are tons of novelists who brush off trunk novels--things they either were unable to sell or couldn't quite pull off--spruce 'em up, bring 'em out.  Some writers even tell you when they haven't changed much and, sometimes, it shows.  I guess my feeling, and I can only speak for my own stuff . . . Ils, honey, if it sucked the first time through, it'll suck now.  You really want your name on stuff that sucks?  

For me, what lives in my trunk: my failures, either in execution, conception, or both.  But you really can learn from your mistakes.  Sometimes, you even get a do-over.

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And now for something completely different:

Calling all film makers! Egmont USA is hosting a SHADOWS: Book Two of the Ashes Trilogy book trailer contest. To enter simply read SHADOWS and then submit your awesome book trailer to ashestrilogy@yahoo.com. Entries should be 30-45 seconds in length and should not exceed 3MB. We'll be accepting entries from now until Halloween!

The winner will receive a customized ASHES pack and signed copies of both ASHES and SHADOWS.

Now get filming!