Anybody There?

Another friend told me the other day they were deleting their blog. "Nobody reads it any more. I get more comments and feedback on Facebook no matter what I post."

"So," I said, "you're tired of being ignored and want that instant gratification."

"No. That's not it."

Methinks they did protest too much.

Who doesn't like comments? Who doesn't like to know they're being read -- and heard? Who doesn't tap the mic when no stops what they're doing or turns to face them when they speak?

We all do. I'm no different from you. I like to know that someone is paying attention, someone other than the faithful readers who always comment -- or mostly comment when they have time from their own posting and waiting and hoping someone acknowledges them.

Thank you, faithful readers. I appreciate every one of you. Even when you never comment.

I decided a long time ago that I would write what moves me, what I want to share, and even what tickles me and not care when people respond. Someone will see the leaves I write on and give to the winds and if they don't . . . . Well, it shouldn't matter. That leaves me free to be me, free to say what I choose without worrying about  offending someone (usually everyone). I don't worry about pleasing everyone either, although I do take some pains to take the best pictures I possibly can and choosing a picture that illustrates what I write and pleases my asthetic senses. Okay, I do that for you and not so much for me because I can enjoy reading without the pictures. I also do it a bit for me because I like to exercise the artistic part of myself. So, yes, it is a selfish thing, just like writing what is on my mind.

I learned during my time on Facebook that the instant gratification of quick responses and lots of likes that it feels good to have proof that people are paying attention, that the mic is on and transmitting. I also found out that I draw the loons more often than not and that most immediate responses are from people who don't really care what I write. They care that they are paying just enough attention to acknowledge that I'm writing so I will pay attention to them. They really don't read, digest, or often even understand what I write. Moreover, they don't really care because they are doing their best to make sure that people notice them. A pat on the back even when there is nothing more than the fleeting thought someone is there under their hand is sufficient, especially if that person actually likes their comments and posts and acknowledges that they are being read. Or heard. They want to be noticed whether you get noticed or not.

That is not the case with a good friend of mine who stopped reading my posts because I would engage in unthinkable -- and often unconscionable -- behavior. I actually debated and discussed issues with people who flamed, yelled, and sought to change my mind. Had we been in the same room, the opposition would have begun yelling and gesticulating while calling me an idiot and a mindless sheep only aware enough to follow the wooly hind quarters in front of me. Through all the ranting and name-calling, I remained calm and logical and respectful, even when my opponents did not. When things got too far out of hand I would chide them, remind them to respect my rules, and then, when they inevitably continued on their tirade while frothing at the mouth and wishing they could hit me in the face or over the head with a hard and heavy object, I would shut them down. I blocked them. He was upset because I was being savaged and did not seem to realize it. I still smile at his chivalrous care of me. I made him angry by giving the nut jobs on both sides of the discussion space and time and my attention and not being there to defend me. I think he would have waded into the debate and beat them to a bloody pulp had we been standing in the same room. He's a gentleman like that.

He finally had to stop paying attention so it wouldn't make him angry enough to hit someone. I understood. He's a good man and that is not something I say about a lot of men -- or women for that matter. He pays attention. He listens. He reads. Even when he seldom comments, and most especially when he does comment, he cares. We often get into spirited debates that stir the blood and flush my cheeks. No doubt they flush his cheeks too, but you don't say such things about a GUY.

It's funny in a way. We were aware of each other all through high school, but didn't run with the same crowd. I sailed through the halls with a smile and he sailed through the halls usually high and sometimes drunk. He was an excellent student, but he was one of the hippie types with long hair and jeans with tattered ends He is still a bit of a hippie, wearing ankle bracelets, though his hair is mostly gone. He's still a handsome man. I thought he was cute in high school, but I was more intent on studying than dating.

Oh, don't think I didn't date, that I was one of THOSE nerds. Not at all. I dated a number of guys and met my first husband in high school playing Euchre during lunch. I was the only girl in the history of the school that was allowed to play Euchre with the guys at lunch, and one of the few girls who took the game seriously enough that I was invited to play in their homes. They eagerly included me whenever they played, even if it was in my house. My friend wasn't one of those guys. He was busy frying other fish, but we were aware of each other. That was enough then. Now we call each other frequently and sometimes talk for hours, changing subjects quickly, sliding from music to politics to finances to every topic under the sun -- and a few under the stars and moon. We are friends. He listens. He reads. He pays attention. Between us, the mic is always on.

Do  I care if anyone reads my posts? Yes, but not THAT much. I don't care if they comment, and they rarely do. What I care about is that I am writing my words on leaves and tossing them to the winds to land wherever they will. If someone picks up the leaf and reads what I have written, it is enough. If the leaf dries and crumbles to duff and dust, that's all right too. I sent my words on the wind and the wind spreads them.

I am reminded of something one of my teachers told me. "It's enough that over all the decades of teaching, a couple people pay attention, and at least one gets something useful out of it." Now that I have turned 60, I understand that so much better. Not just the words, but the sentiment and the emotion. If a couple people read my words and just one gets something useful from my mental meanderings, it is enough. It is like an author whose work I have edited telling me that they thank me as they rewrite their book, thank me for giving them something useful they can use.

That is all. Disperse.

As in Cross-Stitch, so it is in Writing

One of the things I love most about cross-stitch is the way the picture emerges from tiny stitches and colored threads.

It begins with a blob of color that grows with each stitch and each new color from nothing special to something quite beautiful -- if I do it right. I have moments when I get frustrated and tear out stitches because I've counted wrong or read the wrong part of the pattern, but mostly I get it right and can't resist stopping to unroll my work just to look at what emerges.

I'm working on Xmas stockings for my grandchildren this year. It's different than what I've given them in the past and I hope it will be something they will treasure and use each year, remembering that it was made especially for them.

I'm working on a cute pattern that is much prettier as it emerges from the amorphous collection of stitches and colors. I have just finished the bottom half of the stocking and am now working on the top, finishing off stray stitches and making sure the back is as neat as the front with no loose threads. The cat and kitten's eyes are finished and I'm moving on to the rest of the tree and ornaments.

Cross-stitch is calming, despite scattered moments of frustration, and reminds me of how I feel when I paint or draw -- and especially when I write. I begin with an idea, begin writing, and from the words and sentences, paragraphs and pages, emerges a book complete and far more inventive than what it was when I began. That is true of all the creative projects I have done and continue to do.

I feel best and happiest when I'm creating and, for a while, cross-stitch has fulfilled my need to create. I will continue with the stocking and the last 2 I need to make for this year well ahead of schedule, and I will also continue writing, exorcising the dreams that plague me with snatches of conversation, plots, description, and the urgency the dreams fill me with when I'm not writing. There is room enough for more than one creative art in my life and I must have writing or be caught in an endless cycle of realistic dreams that invade my waking and sleeping worlds. At least with cross-stitch there is an end and with writing there is always one more thing to add, one more paragraph to trim, and a few more words to choose to exorcise or leave.

In a couple more weeks, I will have another Xmas stocking for one of my grandchildren, and maybe a new book to begin fleshing out and preparing for publication. It is the journey I love with a goal at the end that never fails to make me smile.

One Trick Ponies

Can anyone learn to write? Yes.

Can anyone learn to be a writer? Not really.

No matter what people and teachers will say, not everyone has it in them to be writers. That's a good thing. Everyone has a talent, a desire to do something or be someone, but not everyone can or should be a writer. That is a lesson that came home to me again this week.

The publishers of the Chicken Soup for the Soul anthologies send me regular call-outs for new books. Since my stories have been featured in six books, it makes sense they want to hear from writers who have been published with them before.

One such call-out came a month ago. The book was for stories about caregiving. While I have taken care of my ex-husbands and children (the kids were much easier), I don't consider myself a caregiver. I have helped out with relatives and friends, but still no real caregiver stories. I did, however, know of two people who had stories to tell and it would be a nice to see their stories in print.

My sister Beanie took care of our father in the last months of his life without the help of my other sister Hoity-Toity and my brother The Mushroom. What began as a bit of resentment for having to do it all alone and put her own life and family on hold, turned out to be a rich and memorable experience full of love and laughter. We are talking about my dad and there was always laughter, even when the cancer was devouring his bones and he was in great pain. That was just Dad. I've written about him before, but this story was Beanie's to tell.

I didn't help out because they all lived in Ohio and I live in Colorado. I wouldn't mind the commute, but I really couldn't afford to fly back and forth every day.

I told Beanie about the book and urged her to write about taking care of Dad, explaining she had until August 31st to get it done.

"That's not long enough," she complained. "Why don't you do it?"

"Because it's not my story. It's yours."

"I could tell you and you could write it."

"Nope. It has to be your story. I'll help with editing."

I could have heard her sigh without the telephone. "You'll rip it to pieces. You always do."

After a short explanation of editing and a discussion about how my ripping her work to pieces helped her earn As in her college composition classes (a required subject), she relented and agreed to give it a try.

My next call was to my aunt. She had just lost her youngest son Timmy and had taken care of him in his final days. Timmy was forty-eight when he died a few months ago. I knew it would be a tough sell, so I suggested it gently. She took to the idea right away and said it might help. (She's been crying for months now and I thought writing the story about caring for Timmy would be cathartic even if it was never published.)

We were off to the races -- or rather they were off to the races and I waited . . . patiently.

Beanie sent me her first draft about two weeks ago. I edited it, suggested some changes and sent the edited version (marked up in red and "ripped apart"). She was reluctant to open the files and finally did. She found out it wasn't quite as bad as she thought it would be. I suggested she add more about what it was like to take care of Dad and she said she'd get to it. "Better yet," she said, "why don't you write it and send it in? I've done the hard part."

"We talked about this and the answer is still no."

That's when the truth came out.

"I worked on that for three weeks. I tried to write it when we went camping, at night when the kids were asleep, at work when there was nothing to do, everywhere. Every time I started writing or thinking about it, I got a headache. I have too much going on and I can't go through that again. Either make the changes yourself -- I'll tell you what I did -- or forget about it."

I really do not and did not understand what there was about writing that gave her a headache. Writing helps clear my head and gets rid of any tension headaches I get.

We went back and forth and finally I agreed to her solution. I'd write what she said and incorporate it into the story. I submitted the story yesterday with her information. She can use the money, but I thought getting a story published would also boost her confidence and show her that she could write. "It's just not my thing," she said. "That's more your turf."

She's right about that.

My aunt was easier.

Aunt Anne worked on the story, did a bit of tightening and rewriting, but couldn't get it printed out. Her desktop computer was ancient, at least ten years old, and Timmy's printer wouldn't interface with it. She told me about it after the fact, but I would have suggested copying the file to disk, going to Kinko's, and printing it out there. Cheap, fast, and reliable.

Aunt Anne bought a new printer. The computer didn't recognize it at all and the printer said she needed to upgrade her software. She wasn't about to pay $129 for a Windows upgrade, so she took her grandson's advice, went to Best Buy, and got a laptop for $298. The new printer installed quickly and she printed out the story, put it in an envelope, and sent it overnight to me. The clock was ticking.

Her grandson told her to get the computer, print out the story, and take the computer back. She wouldn't be out any money and she'd get the job done. The only problem with that idea was she liked the new laptop so much she decided to keep it.

I received the story today, looked it over, and noticed that it needed a little more about what it was like taking care of Timmy. I called. We talked. She answered my questions and gave me the go-ahead to add to the story and submit it, which I did this evening well ahead of the deadline.

Aunt Anne did good. The story was clear, touched the emotions, and there were only a couple of spelling errors. (She couldn't find the spell check on the new computer.) I told her I was impressed and I could hear the big grim over the phone."Well, you're the expert," she said.

"No, I'm just a writer with some experience."

"I'm a one trick pony," she added when I suggested she might like to try writing something else. "I love the new laptop, but I'm no writer. That's your thing."

I teased her a little (she used all caps to write the story) about getting older (she is 77 years old as of last Wednesday) and she laughed and teased me. We're family. She is definitely not interested in writing any more stories, but she did appreciate this challenge because it gave her a chance to write about being with Timmy those last days after he decided not to get the liver transplant, and she had something to share with her other son Jeff and Timmy's children. I learned something, too, about what it was like for her, although I knew because we talked on the phone nearly every day. She lives in Ohio, too, and it's still nearly 2000 miles away.

My sister and my aunt rose to the challenge and got a little satisfaction from writing about their experiences, but Beanie isn't fond of headaches and Aunt Anne only had one story she wanted to tell. They are content with what they've done but they don't want to be writers. That's my thing, as they both reminded me.

No, not everyone wants to be a writer, nor should they. Someone has to read the books, stories, and articles writers create.

I would have welcomed both my aunt and my sister into the family of writers if that had been their choice. It just is not going to happen. I'll keep correcting Beanie's grammar, spelling, and punctuation when she emails and Aunt Anne will keep me on tap to help her get the most use from her laptop. That I can do.

Even though they're not writers, nor do they want to be writers, it's nice to know they appreciate the work and talent that goes into my writing. If nothing else, they understand me a little better. I guess that is enough for me -- and for them.

Editing, the Gentler Side

Editing professionals is often difficult. Few writers thank you for bloodying their pages. Editing amateurs is usually much worse. Case in point: editing my sister's story for anthology submission.

Professionals, and most advanced amateurs, realize that what they write isn't perfect and it often takes a practiced eye to catch the faux pas, grammar goofs, and sentence structure problems that should be fixed, especially if publication is the goal. Editing my sister is always an exercise in perceived brutality and rampant perfectionism (mine) and inflicted pain and torture (hers). I am neither a brute nor a rampant perfectionist, but you will not convince her of that. I live to correct her. No, I live to write and correcting writing is a byproduct of the process, and I've dealt with my share of slash and burn sessions with editors, some of which I accepted with grace and some I accepted with grace after a spate of turning the air blue with curses, calling the editors' intelligence and competence into question, and envisioning the editor staked out naked over a red ant hill covered in honey in the middle of a desert with a pool of water just out of reach, although those incidents are rare and no editors have been harmed, except within the confines of my very fertile brain.

My sister (I'll call her Beanie. It is her nickname after all) sent me her essay about taking care of our dad when he was dying of cancer four years ago. She got a few facts wrong (dying four years ago and not five) and has a tendency toward run-on sentences, most of which are immediately apparent. It's the way she talks as well. It's partly my fault because I told her to talk it out and then type up what she recorded.

The central theme of the essay is taking care of dad and how that felt, which is in there. It is buried beneath a ton of sibling rancor and emotional detritus that is not going to make it into an anthology that is meant to feature the up side of life. This is all mostly downer. I get to tell her that she needs to dump most of what she has written and write more. She's going to love me.

The point is to do this delicately without hurting her feelings too much. She expects a little pain since she's known me all her life, but the pain must be quick and minimal. It's a balancing act.

The trick is to point up the good things -- and there are a few of those -- and show how to make the bad things go away or improve with a positive slant, sort of like political spin, except not so blatant. The point of the essay -- how difficult it was to balance her own life with taking care of dad -- is buried three paragraphs down and the dialogue is not in dialogue format. The latter is an easy fix. More description is needed, like how dad looked and how she saw him, and that will be fairly easy to fix once I can dig and drag it out of her. Beanie is a very private person and not so in your face and out there as I am. Another balancing act is necessary: me balancing criticism with praise and guidance.

It can be done and, in this case, must be done. Even if Beanie never writes anything else for publication, at least she will have tangible evidence that she wrote a memorial to Dad and shared it with others. It will be cathartic and also a bit of an ego boost that she had something published, both of which she needs right now. My job is to get her published.

One thing I've learned in editing and critiquing is that people remember what they read last. It is important to emphasize the praise and gently insert the criticism. I must do something right because, despite my red pen wielding slash-and-burn editing sessions, many of the writers I work with keep coming back and sending more people my way. I'm certain they turned the air blue and cursed me to the lowest circle of hell before they thanked me for my help. Beanie will curse me directly and will remember the time I slashed and burned my way through her writing right before she thanks me for helping her make the writing better.

When Beanie was taking some college English courses, she ranted about my editing. When I asked her what grades she received, she smiled and said she passed with an A. I hope a similar scenario will ensue, which is writer speak for, I hope she feels the same way this time.

In editing, as in dealing with anyone who could be homicidal given the right circumstances, it is best to deal gently with the writer, especially when the writer is an amateur. Use their words to best advantage, praise the good things, and help the writer see why removing a chunk of the text makes the work better. Last of all, add a dollop of praise and a pat on the back, and step aside to avoid the sling and arrows of the outraged writer. You'll live longer and be able to edit again.

Balancing the Elements

This morning I read an article on editing and it suggested that Show Don't Tell is not the only rule in the book. It isn't, but that has been the rule for a very long time. I didn't know that Sol Stein and Donald Maass popularized the technique to "modernize storytelling." As the author suggested, we need to be more catholic in our tastes and styles of writing and embrace more than one style.

The short story I spent the weekend critiquing is predominantly dialogue with no sense of place or time or much in the way or characterization. All the characters nod, grin, shrug and sigh with nearly every confrontation, which is pretty much all interactions. Only a couple of characters had any real quirks or speech patterns that set them apart from the rest and that's because their dialogue was written in colloquial style. There are a few descriptions of the ship, as would be expected in a space opera, but very few of those. The main character checks his appearance in a mirror at the beginning of a story and describes what he sees, but other than a few brief remarks about a couple of characters, there is no real sense of how the characters move, talk, react or are and even less to set the scene or give a sense of place and space to the environs.

The other big problem is that the dialogue is used as an information dump for the background of the story and there is very little action except in one short sequence. It reads more like a script than a short story and I found myself writing "show don't tell" or "show me how he moves and acts" more than once, outside of adding comments about "grinning again, nodding again, sighing again" in almost every line on every page. There is no emotional range and I do not feel connected to these characters. Now I wonder if telling the writer to show me what's happening and how the characters inhabit the space of the story is wrong.

Uh, no.

While there is room still for Show Don't Tell, there is also room for exposition, something that particular piece lacks. Don't tell me the character grinned when you just told me the other character grinned and the character in the next second grinned and sighed without telling me how they looked and how their grins are different. Give me something to work with. Is that wrong? Do we expect too much of our characters? Wasn't Shakespeare able to convey in dialogue alone what Tybalt and Puck and Henry V were like? Yes, but he was Shakespeare and he knew how to write.

What I strive for in my own writing is balance between dialogue, description, inner monologue, and exposition. It's not easy and I do struggle with it some times, but I do have more of a grip on facial expressions and emotions than grinning, nodding, sighing and shrugging. I expect more from my reading that such generic and unimaginative terms and reactions. It is as if the writer took no effort with building characters and used stock phrases and words to convey his meaning. I doubt he really has a handle on the characters except as pawns in his own science fiction chess game, and very little imagination except for technical details.

While I don't dislike the story of a 100-year-old battle cruiser running a plague beacon and waiting to be found and returned to its planet before the surrounding systems can glom onto it and use it against the rest of the universe, I want more than dialogue and vague facts. I want to be engaged. I want to be able to lose myself in the story and not run headlong into a brick wall of typos, information dumps and bland characters. I want action. I want life. I want a good story that isn't ruined by its lack of attention to detail. I want him to show me something or at least tell me something good.

Do we ask too much of writers so that we end up with a generic soup of writing that is formulaic and unimaginative? I wonder.

I have two novels currently jostling for position inside my mind (more, if the truth be told). One is a post apocalyptic vampire story that is anything but run-of-the-mill vampires. Imagine an earth where here has been eternal winter for 200 years and humans living underground and guided by vampires, while on the surface of the planet in domed cities vampires rule humanity, cloning and raising them to do the menial tasks and provide a steady supply of food. As the earth begins to warm and come out of nuclear winter and the underground humans return to the surface to begin life anew, they need one thing, DNA to re-establish plant, animal and human life, information contained in DNA banks beneath the domed cities. The vampires in the domed cities need fresh DNA because they have cloned the clones until there are too many replication errors and the blood is thin. They need food.

The other novel is a Victorian gothic where morals and science and superstition collide until a man is split and a serial killer spawned.

Each novel requires different styles and techniques, but the one thing that remains the same is the need to put the reader in the scene and let him feel and sense everything that is happening. The reader needs to be invested in the story. Can the reader lose himself if the book is all dialogue or if he is bogged down in exposition and description? I doubt it. The real techniques lie somewhere in between, a balance of style and Show Don't Tell and pacing that is matched to the story and the time period. Therein lies the hard part, finding that balance.

In the end, it's all about what the reader needs and how the writer can provide that. The writer must craft his tale so that it's something he would enjoy reading as much as he enjoyed writing it. Editing, that's never fun and is something else again.

I can write a whole book in two weeks and get the structure laid out, but it takes a bit more time to find the balance and add muscle, sinews, nerve and flesh to the bones. It takes even more to add style and flair and clothe the characters; that's where polish comes in, and where I balance all the elements as best I can.

I doubt I'll give up the tenets of Show Don't Tell, but I'm also not averse to using whatever techniques and style will create a book that I want to read when I'm finished, balancing all the elements until the book is worth reading.

Another Step on the Self-Publishing Road

A lot goes into publishing a book, and self-publishing, if it's going to be done right, and that means knowing the extent of strengths and weaknesses. My strengths include a good sense of artistic design and writing books. My weaknesses are more on the publicity, marketing and writing synopses side. I'm also good at pitches and queries, having won more than my fair share of book contracts for myself and others.

I have another strength, and that's knowing when to do it myself and when to delegate. That is why I hired a couple of top notch artists to do the cover art for my books. I also took the advice of a good friend and let her do the synopsis that will appear on the back cover of Among Women when it comes out in print. I also took another good friend's advice and let her take a crack at the synopsis; I'm using hers as the description on Amazon.

Self-publishing has a bad reputation, mostly gained from people who are rejected by publishing houses and decided they know best and publish their books anyway. In a way, I fit that category because I couldn't interest an agent or a publisher in my book. They were enthusiastic about the project, but not enthusiastic enough. They also couldn't get a handle on how to market the book, which is something I will have to deal with. Among Women is not easily shelved or pigeonholed. I'm looking to word of mouth to get the ball rolling and I'll take it from there. Advertising will help, and that's something else I'm not good at, but I am good at talking about my projects, so I'll work the publicity from that angle. Unfortunately, marketing is all about starting a buzz and, as long as I stay away from bees, wasps and hornets (I'm allergic), I should be all right. I'll wear veils and masks and gloves to protect the more sensitive parts of my skin -- and hide my identity. So to speak.

I'm also good at controlling things. My sister Tracy calls me a control freak, "In a good way," she says. Self-publishing gives writers a lot of control. I'm good with control, and I know how to decide what to delegate and what to do myself, like editing.

A good book needs a really good editor, and I have one with a taste for blood -- the red pencil kind. She doesn't spare my feelings or sugar coat anything; she just tells it like it is and we compromise, as long as it has nothing to do with grammar. Spelling, I've got that cold, and I have a few medals to prove it.

Self-publishing has a bad name because of all the bad books published that shouldn't be published, but that is changing almost as fast as the publishing business. Computers have made self-publishing so much easier and very user friendly. There are still glitches, but it's a learning process and we're all learning. We learn from our mistakes and from what has gone before. And we learn from big publishing, which seems to have lost its way.

Traditional publishing had one big advantage over self-publishing, or vanity publishing, as it used to be called. Vanity publishers are still out there, but that's a different topic for another day. Traditional publishing offered savvy editors, proofreaders, copy editors, line editors, marketing, distribution and a sales force. A lot of that has been marginalized for the sake of the bottom line. The first cuts seem to have been in editing: copy and line editing, proofing and concept editors. A writer, no matter how much of a genius s/he is, can only get better with a great editor. Most of the books I see from big publishing houses these days are full of wrong words, grammar mistakes, typo, writer's tics, and all kinds of continuity and concept errors. I cringe whenever I hit one of those brick walls. I wanted better for my book, so I hired an editor.

I learned a long time ago that I cannot do it all. I have limitations (we're back to strengths and weaknesses) and a second, or even third, pair of eyes will only make my book better. I have the best. I'm willing to share her, but not give her up. Mary Ann is the best editor I've worked with in a long time, and if it ain't broke, you don't fix it. I don't even mind (too much) her slash and burn technique where it's warranted. I need that sometimes. Keeps me on track.

In order to get my book into e-book and print, I used my brains and got help. I got two young and talented artists for the cover art and a great editor. I'm the general (control freak) and I marshalled my troops where they would do the most good. The book that came from all our efforts -- I could not have done it without them -- is a better book and good enough to publish. How do I know? Because a publisher told me he would've published the book if I'd sent it to him. I'm considering talking to him since he might be willing to help me get wider distribution for my book in Europe. Every little bit helps, and I'm not afraid to color outside the lines.

Sometimes it isn't what you know, but who you know, and that is very true of self-publishing. I chose my self-publishing company because I had the option to do most of the work myself (control freak) and yet could employ the talents and strengths of others to balance my weaknesses. I'm very happy giving up some control as long as I have the final say. One of my artists keeps telling me that I don't have to settle for less than what I want, for less than perfect. I don't -- at least as far as I know.

One good thing about self-publishing and the user friendly systems available is that I can make changes (when I find mistakes) and not have to wait for another print run of 50,000 books to do it. I can make the changes and see them within a day or two. Now that is power.

I also gave up some power where synopses are concerned. I do not do them well. It is one of my big weaknesses. When a good friend suggested mine was crap (she said it needed work), I asked her to write it. What she sent me is what I used on the back cover. I know good when I see it. Another good friend suggested my synopsis was missing something, so I asked her to write something for me, and that one is the description on Amazon. A good control freak knows when to step out of the way and let the professionals handle things. I would rather eat worms than write synopses, but that's just because I'm awful at it. For me, it's like calling someone and getting the answering machine or voice mail. I never know what to say and whatever I do say, unless it's business and I have a specific reason for calling, makes me sound like a dithering idiot. I usually just hang up or say as little as possible. It's the old saying about people thinking you're an idiot until you open your mouth and remove all doubt. That's me. The idiot on the recording.

As long as writers are willing to give up some power, or at least find people with strengths to match their weaknesses, self-publishing will become less about vanity and more about quality books, and that is what's important. Being a control freak helps, as long as no micromanaging is involved. The proof is in the pudding -- or, in this case, in the book. The proof, I mean. It's in the mail now and I'll be able to look it over on Friday. In the meantime, I'll try to focus on work. It should be easier since my book was reviewed in record time, in about 12 hours, as opposed to the 48 hours I was expecting, but then I made sure my book was as good as it could be before I hit the publish button.

Cracks in the Vanity Publishing Mirror

I began the process of migrating the data from Word into the template provided by CreateSpace and it went well the first time around, that is until I found out that the cover artist wouldn't have a template that fit the 6 x 9 size paperback. Drat! Oh, well, I downloaded another template and began all over, discovering that all the italics were missing, as were the little masks between time and location changes, and that some of the pages had lost the formatting and were still the 6 x 9 size instead of the 8.5 x 5.5 size. Well, double drat! I spent the next two hours before work and several hours -- until 11 p.m. -- after work putting it all right, checking, double checking, saving as a PDF file and checking and redoing it until it was perfect. I also found two small errors, and I fixed those. Oh, and I fine tuned a few sentences, not much, just a skoch. My part is done, except for the back cover copy and I'm not read to go there yet. I mean, how many times can I tell the story without telling the story and make it fresh and interesting and not something I've written and rewritten a dozen or more times before? It's a difficult and time consuming job, but the effort will be worth it because my book will not be just some thrown together piece of editorial tripe that should have taken much longer to write.

That's the problem with self-publishing. Too many people refuse to take the time to do it right. I could name names, but I won't. It's not necessary, especially when Mark Deniz of Morrigan Books does such a wonderful job of tearing down vanity publishing. I agree with him, but I also believe in a barrel of mostly rotten apples there is bound to be a few that are still fresh and tasty. I will do my best to make sure my book is among the edible.

Since starting this whole self-publishing odyssey, I have spent a lot of time reading blogs and commentary about well known writers jumping the legacy publishing ships to do it for themselves. They do have the advantage of having been published and on top (most of them) for years and that definitely brings up the tone of the general rush to self-publish. What I found most interesting was Kristine Kathryn Rusch's series of articles on the often arcane workings of Big Publishing and I do agree mostly with her. A behemoth like Big Publishing is not going to be able to change overnight, or even over a decade or two from the looks of it, and embrace the digital revolution. It's like trying to take a tight corner at top speed with a stegosaurus. It can't be done.

I do think there are some things that Big Publishing can do right away and that is lower the price of the digital versions of hardback books. An e-book that costs almost as much as hard cover is ridiculous, as is limiting how many times libraries may loan a digital version before getting a new license -- 26 does seem to be ridiculously low. After all, it's not like a hardback or soft cover book that can be loaned out as long as there are covers to keep the pages in place. Digital books do not wear out. That's just pure and simple blindness and greed. That is part of the reason why so many writers are jumping ship.

There will always be wide-eyed and self-published writers tired of doing it all themselves who just want someone to do everything but the writing for them. They'll still have to market and publicize and do a lot of the heavy lifting, but at least they will have more time to write. Putting a book together and making it good enough for publication is a time-consuming process and you have to juggle a lot of balls at the same time in order to get it all done right so you can move on to the next book, which is why I'm still holding off on finishing Whitechapel Hearts. Yes, it is procrastination, but procrastination for a good reason. Luckily, I'm keen on learning new skills and expanding my horizons and, when it gets to be too much, I'll simply hire someone else to do it. I don't see that happening in the near future. I'm too poor. But a time will come and I will be able to afford it, even though I will still have the last word.

I suspect my journey along the self-publishing road will not be as difficult as it is for some because I have some work and background in the business. I've been an editor at a magazine and a web site designer. I've edited a few books, ghost written a few and dealt with publishers and agents. I am learning how to market and I have to say I'm not all that keen on it, but with the bitter . . . . I have a background in art and know what I want and yet am flexible enough to be able to bend when necessary. I've been through the publishing process a time or twelve, give or take a half dozen, and I'm not averse to hard work, and believe me self-publishing, when it's done correctly, is hard work. I will never say it isn't. But, like with anything worth doing, it is worth doing well, and I, unlike many self-publishing writers, prefer to get it right the first time, and I'm not afraid to take the time to do it right.

There are times when self-publishing is all about vanity, and I freely admit there is a bit of vanity in my decision to journey down the self-publishing road. After all, I believe in my book and my ability to put it all together. In an industry when the final decision is no longer made by editors and publishers but by the advertising and sales departments of Big Publishing, I prefer my judgment to theirs. After all, what do they know about writing a good book? Advertising and sales should be about selling a product to the best of their abilities and not to deciding which product -- or book -- would be easiest to sell. If that were the case, who would have published Dickens or Steinbeck or even Hemingway since they were definitely never the flavor of the month?

It took a visionary to take Harry Potter at face value and see that he had potential. Think of the editors who turned J. K. Rowling down. I'll bet they're kicking themselves for not being able to see the future more accurately and clearly. I'll bet Rowling wouldn't have hesitated to self-publish if she couldn't get Harry to the masses any other way.

Getting hard

The more I interact with amateurs, the more I am inclined to move to a cave and live like Thoreau. It isn't because they're stupid (they are) or that they're unprofessional (yep, that too) but because they are rude and ignorant and take delight in trampling all over everything that isn't theirs.

I recently critiqued another writer's work. It came up in the queue. In order to get a critique, I have to give one. This person sought me out the next day and trashed my hard work, giving me the lowest scores possible. At first, the comments seemed unnecessarily vicious and hammered away at literary writing techniques that have nothing to do with genre writing. I decided to check the person out to thank them (teeth gritted) for their carefully considered comments. That's when I found out I had written a critique of their work the day before. I pointed out the cliches in their work and the too obvious plot devices, never giving a score below 3/5, and offered suggestions that would elevate their work above the cookie cutter style they had chosen (beautiful, rich, bored woman in expensive car seeks out starving young man living in hostel and selling newspapers in the rain for food offers hot bath, gourmet food and top shelf alcohol for the night in her secluded, well appointed hideaway). There was no sense of place. The dialogue was stilted and obviously pulled from some television show or 1900s melodrama. The characters were one-dimensional and the situation trite.

Unlike my usual methods where I state flat out that someone has screwed the English language with a broken skewer and trampled it with jump boots into the quagmire of a tar pit, I used tact. He used none and simply had a screaming tantrum all over my hard work. I feel like I'm flying with turkeys. It's enough to dishearten and depress, and it has done both in the recent past.

On a hunch, I checked out the other negative critiques and they were also people I had given low marks for horrid, misspelled and grammar-deficient writing. Flying with turkeys again.

I know professionals can be rude and snarky, but at least they have some credentials backing up their comments. These amateurs have none, as their lack of understanding or familiarity with the English language and basic grammar show. Now I know why successful writers refuse to read amateur work. It makes them despair for the future of literature. And I certainly do.

I don't expect everyone to love everything I write, but I do expect a certain level of professionalism and tact. I give what I expect to get -- the golden rule. Too bad no one has taught these literary anthropoids that being able to use a computer keyboard does not mean they can write.

Oh, well, time to go back to my cave and read good writing or even marginal writing with promise. I have so many to choose from.

That is all. Disperse.

Novel Finished; What Next?

The question caught my eye on the forums: I've finished writing, now what?

At first, it seemed a silly question. How could a writer not know what to do next? Are there no classes, no instructions, no innate knowledge gleaned from hanging around and reading and hearing other writers complain, mention, howl and talk about what happens when the rough draft is finished? Then I remember back to the first romance novel I started writing. I never finished the book, not with all the how-to books and critique sessions did I have an idea how to finish the novel. I chose romance because I was told it was the hottest market and more new writers could get published there than in any other genre. It was a bad choice for me. I don't like reading romances and writing one was harder than I thought.

I had a great premise, great characters, snappy dialogue, back story and a plot in my mind, but it would not come together on the page. I never finished it. It's on a floppy disk and on a hard drive in storage. I don't think I'll revisit it. Instead, I worked on writing nonfiction: books, articles, how-tos, interviews, profiles, etc. I didn't revisit the novel until eleven years ago when I got a great idea, having just ended a relationship because the guy wouldn't commit. I turned back to romance. Imagine. Me, writing romance.

I started and finished the novel in two weeks, the first rough draft. What came next was obvious; I moved on to something else. I knew it was too fresh and too raw for me to be objective and I was not ready to face the characters again. A break was in order. Can't edit or rewrite or proofread something that has taken so much energy and time without winding down a bit beforehand.

That's what I told the novelist on the forum who asked, what next? Put the novel away and start something new. Don't even think about the just finished novel. Think about new characters and situations. Take a vacation from that situation and find a new one to concentrate on. Write something else. In a week or two, when you have some distance and objectivity, go back and read.

Print out the rough draft. Pick up a red pen, or whatever color works for you, and begin making notes, marking errors in spelling, syntax, grammar and punctuation, and tightening up or fleshing out wherever it is needed. This is the editing, rewriting and proofing part of writing a novel.

Unless you are the Mozart of prose, there will be blood on the page and plenty of editing and rewriting to do. Go through once, take a breather and work on something else, and then go through again and again until the prose is perfectly polished and ready to send. Anything less is a waste of time.

I also told him that before he begins any work on the novel to celebrate. He started and finished a novel. That is grounds for a really good celebration. Writing a whole novel is a major accomplishment, whether it sees print or not. Few people, me included, have been able to master the craft and, in mastering any craft, there will be mistakes and things that have to be done and redone, but completing a project is a big step in the right direction. The first novel may not be the best, but writing is a process that gets better with time and practice.

That first novel I didn't finish gave way to the second novel that I did finish. It was light years better than the first and I learned a lot along the way. I learned even more when the publisher got hold of it, but that's a tale for a different time. The third novel was better than the second and my fourth novel shows the scars and marks of everything I've learned to date. Each successive novel will be better for the lessons learned before. At least, I can hope and believe and keep writing to find out.

I don't know whether the guy with the first draft of his novel will take my advice, or the advice of several other writers who told him about the same thing, but I hope for the best. If he does nothing with his book and sticks it in a drawer, he has still accomplished more than most people ever do. He started and finished writing a novel. Whether it is good or bad only reviewers and readers will know. Right now, all he knows is that he has earned his typing spurs and will never be the same person -- or writer -- again.

Kick Start Your Writing

My astrological chart says I'm not a self starter and I would have to agree. I am a born procrastinator -- on some things, writing being one of them. I love to write and can sit and write for hours on end, usually irritated that I have to get up and tend to nature's call or eat. I have been known to write for 36 hours straight, with nature breaks, of course, and not get tired. I am in the zone. The words are coming. The characters are cooperating and often teaching me things about them I did not know. My fingers are not tired of typing and my backside has not yet reached the leaden stage where getting up is like trying to free my nether regions from a powerful electromagnet -- must be the endorphins and adrenaline coursing through my bloodstream. Everything works fine. I wrote a 100,000-word biography like that once.

Then there are times that I just cannot face the page, knowing that if I do I will be caught in powerful currents and dragged down into the zone where I will not emerge for hours, maybe even a day or two. I cannot afford it. I have to work my day job and do the laundry and bulldoze the detritus from the last writing stint, definitely not a good idea if avoiding surprise visits by the health department.

I do write every day, but not on my works-in-progress. I journal every day, keep up with correspondence and emails, and work, which consists of 8-10 hours of typing dictation, very technical dictation. On the laptop waits my novel or short story waiting to be finished and it calls to me. Like the hunger pangs I ignore when I am in the writing zone, I ignore the siren's call to write until pretty soon, like hunger pangs, the call fades. Then begins the avoidance dance and the procrastination when a deadline looms. It is my fault; I am not a halfway person. I am either all in or all out, my versions of "Do or do not; there is no try," from Yoda to Luke Skywalker. There stands the problem: inability to commit hindquarters to seat in order to write.

Instead, I play a couple rounds of computer games (I prefer skill and knowledge games), work on blog posts, fire off a couple of quick tweets and a run through Facebook to see if I missed anything and then rounds through the various blogs, all while checking email and getting ready for work while sipping a cup of hot green tea that is cooling fast. One job through the widgets to check hits on the blogs and a quick visit to see if anyone has read the latest chapter of the novel I posted on a publishing site. The novel is unfinished and needs a final edit and proofread. It is the reason I have been procrastinating.

I want to finish the novel. Well, it is already finished and needs a little tune-up and loose ends tied. I need to finish the novel before the editor gets to it. I plan to finish the proofreading but, oops, where has time gone. Almost time for work and I still need to eat breakfast (pesky hunger pangs) and take a shower. Maybe later.

Maybe tomorrow.

Maybe this weekend.

By then, a few weeks have passed. Good thing the editor has not contacted me because I have nothing to offer to excuse my inability to kick start my writing engine.

That was yesterday. This morning, I found the answer. I knew it all along because it works for getting the laundry done, the clothes folded and put away, the bed made after the sheets are washed (making the bed every day provides a warm and moist environment for dust mites and other microscopic vermin to grow and procreate -- that is my story and I am sticking to it), the dishes done, the vacuuming finished, exercising and taking out the trash. Once I begin, the rest takes care of itself.

With writing, it is the internal editor that kick starts my engine. One of my critique partners mentioned an extra word in chapter twelve and a comma missing in chapter fifteen. They cannot be allowed to stand or I will forget and the spell check program will not catch them. Into the breach once more I go.

Control-F and type in a few words of the phrase and the extra word is easily found. Next search coordinates go in and, wait a minute, there is something else. How could I have missed that awkward phrasing? Well, that has to go. A few moments later and I am in the zone happily writing and editing and listening to the characters tell me secrets that I dutifully transcribe and polish. The first step is the problem, but the internal editor makes taking the first step effortless.

I do not have the problem in journaling or editing others' work or writing reviews. Deadlines and missing days in the journals keep me honest, but there is no real deadline for a new book or a work-in-progress that has not been contracted. Yes, the problem crops up when I have a long critique and the first glance at the manuscript ends with groaning sighs after glancing at the first page, but the deadline keeps me honest there, too. No, I will just have to rely on the internal editor and program her to whisper errors, typos and misspellings in my ear that she caught on the way out of the zone so that I am anxious one again to go once more into the breach. When that wears thin and begins to go the way of the hunger pangs, I will have to find another way to kick start the writing.

Someone else will have to whisper errors into my ear that engages the internal editor. I doubt I will ever get past the need to clean up mistakes, especially when they are mine.

Spring Cleaning

Pages bleed.

All the pages are bleeding. Some are hemorrhaging and some just grazed by the editing pen. On the computer screen, the hemorrhaging is in blue or purple or green, signs of alien intrusion into the fabric and heart of the story. Characters are remodeled. Evocative descriptions are slashed to ribbons. Double-spaced lines flood the once pristine words with criticism and suggestions. Shock sets in. Denial is followed by anger. How dare they? Curiosity peers over the edge, grows bolder and settles in for a long and thorough look until the writer is overwhelmed.

Are they right? Is the main character that unsympathetic? No, someone likes her grit and determination. Another critic sees the brittle facade hiding the fear and confusion. Yes, there's another critic who hates her, who missed the subtle body language: cringing against the wall, spooked by harsh sounds, refusing to meet anyone's eyes.

How much of the burning, pillaging and savaging of editing is personal and how much impersonal and useful? That is the real question.

When writers entrust the work to other writers of different experience and skills, the results are always mixed. It is easy to fall back on the knowledge that every opinion is subjective, colored by personal prejudices. The real problem is finding balance and weeding out the negative from the positive. In the end, it all comes back to the writer.

What is the point of the story? What is the dominant theme? What is the best starting point for the main character's journey? Where is the beating heart of the story? How much should be revealed -- and when?

It is difficult to find balance between your vision and how the results are perceived and received. You are the writer. You get to decide.

Beginning writers will follow every suggestion and change the manuscript to reflect everyone's taste until the essence, the writer's vision, gets lost in a muddle of different styles. It is hard to hold up against so many different, and often more experienced, critics. The critics could be right. The critics could also be wrong. One things cancels out all the rest. No one writer can please everyone all the time. It is impossible. The best one can do is to hold fast to the vision and point of writing the story -- any story.

Ayn Rand had a hard time getting The Fountainhead published. It was long. Some publishers considered it boring and pointless. Others thought it was too radical, too different. Rand stood firm. When a publisher finally contracted the book, editors suggested changes. Rand agreed to remove one character, Roark's girlfriend before Dominique, because it did not advance the story. The rest of the book would be published without any further changes or she would go elsewhere. The book was published without another change.

I remember seeing the massive book on the bookshelves when I was growing up. It was a book club selection. It was so big, taking up a significant space on the shelf. It would be missed. I chose The Graduate instead, switching dust jackets with a less adult book so it wouldn't be discovered. I didn't read Rand's book until many years later.

When I finally read The Fountainhead I was mesmerized. I flew through the story, marveled at the themes and characters and wanted to start all over again when I read the last page. I didn't know that many critics panned the book and said Roark was unsympathetic, too harsh, too unlikable. I liked him immediately. I knew what he felt and wished I had the same strength of character, the same passion and devotion to my own dreams. He touched and awakened feelings and thoughts I didn't realize were there even though I didn't care for his carrot orange hair. One small feature in another wise remarkable character was not enough to ruin my enjoyment. It was insignificant in contrast to everything else about the admirable and stoic Roark. Had I read the savage criticisms before I picked up the book, I would have read The Fountainhead anyway. No one earns the critics' ire or dismissal without arousing my curiosity.

I expected critics to rape and pillage my first published novel, but I didn't expect it with my current book. I had learned and evolved. I was a better writer -- I thought -- and I wrote a story that was close to my heart, born out of my own experiences. How could I go wrong? I forgot the rule. No one can please everyone all the time.

Seeing the bloody comments and suggestions was like starting at square one all over again. The main character isn't sympathetic. She's snooty. Why isn't she afraid? How can she be so cool, calm and collected in her situation? Too much back story. Not enough back story. Too many adjectives. Not enough adjectives. The sentences are too long, too short, too many. Too much dialogue. Not enough dialogue. Too much action. Not enough inner monologue. The comments went from one extreme to the other. I resisted the urge to change everything.

You cannot please everyone all the time.

I chose to focus on spelling mistakes, sneaky words that hid when edited and popped out later during critiques. I made a few changes. Added scenes, took others out, put them in earlier or later. Then I stopped. The story I wrote was getting lost. It didn't help that after over a year of stalling and schedule changes, the publisher decided not to publish the book after all. My confidence was shaken. This book meant so much.

All the books mean so much.

I know I will not please everyone all the time. I can only write the story, fix the typos and grammar mistakes, and let it go.

No matter how many books an author publishes, when the critics descend, confidence wavers and the urge to change everything to fit everyone's suggestions grows stronger. No one can write a book that pleases everyone. It is impossible. The only thing that comes close is an interactive story where the reader gets to choose the paths the characters take. I don't write those kinds of books. I will never please everyone. There's no need to try.

In the end, it all comes back to the writer's vision, the writer's skills and experience and the writer's story. It is like spring cleaning. No two people do it the same way, no matter how they were taught. Editing one's own writing is like spring cleaning. No matter what rules and guidelines were learned, editing is as individual as the writer. Stick to the original vision.

Write the story in your own voice with your own style. Take criticism and suggestions under advisement. Stay true to the course. It may take a while to find a like-minded agent or publisher, but the result will be worth it. Your book may not be The Fountainhead, but it will be memorable and readers, critics and other writers will like it. Even if they don't, it doesn't matter. What matters is writing what moves you.

Overnight Success Takes a While

The same question crops up all the time: How long did it take you to write Past Imperfect? Answer: 2 weeks.

Yes, it's true. I wrote the whole book in two weeks, at least the first draft. The published book took a little longer -- 10 years. Why? That isn't a simple answer.

In between writing the novel and publication, I had a full time job, sometimes two jobs, wrote articles, stories, edited other books and stories, kept a paper journal and several online blogs, read and reviewed numerous books (300+) and, from time to time, went back to the novel to tweak it. I had to tweak it a lot after 9/11 because there were major changes in the way airports handled incoming traffic and that affected the story.

In the meantime, I also learned about electronic surveillance and earned a ham radio operator's license, actually three licenses (Technician, General and Extra -- all within a week -- and learned Morse code). I traveled and moved and kept writing stories and articles for publication while still tweaking the novel. That brings me up to three years ago when a publisher finally contracted the novel and I changed the original name, Out of the Past, to Past Imperfect, which, as it turned out, wasn't such a good idea. The name fit but what I didn't know what that someone else had chosen the same title. But I'm getting ahead of myself.

As September 2007 rolled around, I was getting antsy because I still had not heard from the publisher or the editor and my emails weren't answered. I did some checking only to find out the publisher had gone bankrupt and forgot to tell me. There I was with the manuscript ready to be published and no publisher. Goodbye January 2008 debut.

Undaunted, I sent the manuscript to another publisher and got a quick response. YES! I signed the contracts and waited and I didn't have to wait long. During an email conversation about choosing an editor, the publisher decided she didn't want to publish the book. I had a contract, but decided it wasn't worth fighting it out in court to force her to publish the novel because she wouldn't give it her full attention or her support.

I sent the manuscript out again and got another quick response, another yes, but I didn't hold my breath. Good thing I didn't. The publisher loved the manuscript but they were over sold and requested I send it in again in a year. I didn't want to wait, so I sent it out again. That was October 2008 and I was anxious to get moving. Another yes. Another wait. This time the publisher kept in contact and finally in March 2009 the editor contacted me. Two quick edits and I was ready, but not in time for the Rocky Mountain Writers Showcase. I didn't have a cover and hadn't seen even a mock-up, and no one asked me for my input. I began to worry, seeing yet another contract fizzle.

July 2009 rolled around and two weeks before my novel debuted the publisher sent me a JPG file of the cover and the link for my page on their website. I was in business. I had a publishing date and Amazon listed the book for sale. The rest is history.

It has been a long road for that particular book, but I refused to give up. It wasn't my best work, but it was a good start and so far the reviewers feel the same way, giving Past Imperfect rave reviews all across the board. I'm now an overnight success -- sort of.

Overnight is a relative term. It may take years to get off the ground and see not only physical proof of all the hard work and struggles, but money from sales. It's not an easy road and writing isn't for the faint of heart or the easily scared and cowed. What it takes, beside hard work and a certain talent for words, is forbearance, fortitude and a whole lot of determination.

As it stands now, I'm waiting to hear from the editor for the next two novels waiting in the wings for their turn at bat. One took many years to write and the other I wrote in two weeks, spending the last year revising, editing and adding to the bones with blood, sinew, flesh and skin. I still get nervous waiting because I'm not a patient person, but it's coming. Until the next two books arrive overnight on the scene, there's plenty of time to work on new projects to keep from biting my nails and going crazy with my overnight success.

When Characters Take Over

It seemed to be an isolated incident when John Logan, one of the background characters in Past Imperfect, then called Out of the Past, followed me into my dreams. He nagged me for days before I finally gave in and listened. I had to get some sleep or I wouldn't be able to write anything. So I listened and he changed the course of the story and my writing life. He was right.

John Logan had taken on a life of his own and, even though it trespassed into my life outside writing, I am glad he nagged me until I paid attention. The novel that resulted was much better than the one planned in my head and the ending surprised even me. I was just along for the ride.

I'd heard about characters talking back and refusing to be pushed around and maneuvered like pieces on a chess board, but I didn't really believe it until John Logan. From the moment I listened to him, writing changed for me. It's also likely why I write more nonfiction than fiction; I get to write what I want and the characters don't make cameo appearances in my dreams. Not usually.

A lot of my writing is done in my head before I put fingers to keyboard or pen to paper. Scenes, dialogue and exposition play out in my mind, the words arranging and re-arranging into more pleasing shapes until, like the ice Kai must arrange into a word in The Snow Queen, they spell out the story. The good thing about writing this way is that I can write anywhere--in the shower, while doing housework, driving and grocery shopping. The bad thing about writing this way is that I write anywhere and any time--in the shower, while I'm working, watching a movie, reading a book . . . and sleeping.

The more I write, the more my writing affects other aspects of my life and now spills over into my nonfiction. Last night, or rather early this morning, is a good example.

After waking up at 3 a.m., I fully intended to go back to sleep for another couple of hours, but something switched my mind into writing mode. I couldn't sleep. I tossed. I turned. I used my relaxation and breathing techniques. And in my mind, I rearranged the words into a story that has been on the edge of awareness for weeks. No rest would be had this morning, not until I got up and put down on paper or on my computer the words that slithered and slid and rearranged themselves in my mind.

This time it's not a character but a story I've been trying to write about a great love. The deadline looms and so I will lose sleep until what's in my head is on the page and safely sent to the publisher. But characters will follow since I'm finishing rewrites on a finished novel, except that one thing I've learned is that no novel is every really finished. There's always more to do and more I want to do even when the book is in print.

Characters jostle and play hide-and-seek for a while, but eventually, when they begin invading my dreams, I know they're ready to find their way to the page and they won't let me sleep until I give in and let them have their way.

The one goal I've worked toward for so long is being able to quit my day job and spend all my time writing, but I'm beginning to wonder if that's such a good thing. Characters barely recognize the boundaries now. What will happen when I have nothing else to occupy my mind but writing? Will I disappear and the characters take over, using my body to give their dreams and realities life? Probably. And yet that doesn't seem like such a bad trade-off.

When the author disappears and the characters take on a life of their own it's magic. What's a few sleeps nights when the results is the creation of characters who are living, breathing, nagging, dream invading magic?

Writing Murphy's Law: A Fable

Anything that can go wrong will go wrong.

Everyone knows the saying and knows it's called "Murphy's Law," but does anyone know how it came about?

It started in aerospace engineering when using a human, specifically Murphy's unnamed assistant. What Edward Murphy actually said was that if there was a way for his assistant to make a mistake he would. In conversation later among the team members, the aphorism was pared down to its basics and thus a legend was born.

The idea that if something can go wrong, it will, or that if someone can make a mistake, they will, has been around as long as there have been people. Jehovah set the whole thing up when he told Adam not to eat the fruit of a certain tree, thus guaranteeing it would happen.

In 1841 in Norwalk, Ohio, a newspaper ran this parody of Thomas Moore's Lalla Rookh:


I never had a slice of bread,
Particularly large and wide,
That did not fall upon the floor,
And always on the buttered side.

But back to Murphy's Law and Nick T. Sparks who put Murphy's Law on the literary map with the publication of A History of Murphy's Law where the story goes that the first run printing of the book had to be destroyed because of a typographical error that was not discovered until several of the books were sold, thus proving the aphorism that when something can go wrong, it will. In this case, on the cover of the book.

There is nothing so humiliating or depressing as seeing the cover of your very own book for the first time. For Nick T. Sparks, it was a mixed blessing. His books were already on the shelf when he opened the box sent by his publisher and gazed with excitement on the cover of the book, A History of Murpy's Law. It took a few moments for the euphoria to die a quick and violent death as the realization of what he saw sank in. The worst had happened, something had gone wrong and hundreds of thousands of books were sitting on bookshelves around the country with a glaring mistake on the cover: Murpy's Law.

The editors at Periscope Film didn't catch it, neither did the copy editor or printer, and no one in the marketing department saw what was obvious to Sparks. On the front cover in bold yellow type, Murphy's Law had struck before anyone would open the book and read one of the sixty-eight pages. Murpy's Law. Could anything be worse? Not even when Why Everything You know About Murphy's Law is Wrong was serialized and published as a four-part article had the Law descended and hit with such force. There were a couple of minor mistakes in syntax, grammar and spelling, but they were minor, almost invisible compared to the first run publication of the book. What could Sparks do but laugh?

He was still laughing when he called the publisher's office and requested his editor get a copy of the book and look at it, really look at it. The editor's groan turned into a banshee wail when the enormity of the mistake hit with full force. The very idea of recalling hundreds of thousands of books from retailers all over the country was a monumentally daunting task, and then there was the publisher to face. Who would get the axe over this one? The buck could not be passed fast enough or far enough.

It is sad to say that all the books were recalled and consumers were hunted down and forced to give up their copies of The History of Murpy's Law so new covers could be printed and hurriedly replaced. It was the worst typographical error in the history of printing, at least to publisher and editor of the book. I think it was the ghost of Murphy's assistant making sure that his fame would not be forgotten and so the world would realize that mistakes . . . happen.

When mistakes happen in minting coins and paper money it turns otherwise ordinary money, few seldom see except as a way to pay for good and services, into an item to treasure, an item that will inevitably go up in value. Stamps with airplanes printed upside down or monarchs facing the wrong direction are sought after and cherished. In books, errors bring readers to a screeching halt in grammar shock when reading racked with guilt where wracked with guilt should be or, in a financial article, pay the principal replaces pay the principle, even though everyone knows that principals seldom required bribing to discipline rebellious students. Such mistakes in grammar are the result of sloppy work and lazy writers unwilling or unable to use a dictionary when in doubt. Strict grammarians cringe, wail, and gnash their teeth while less exacting readers keep turning page after page, occasionally stopping just long enough to sip their glasses of wine, nibble a bit of cheese or strew crumbs of food between the pages while chuckling softly at misplaced subjects and dangling participles.

In the end, when all is said and done, Murpy's Law will out.

Silly rejections

I just read the form submission I got on my story, Theft of the Seventh Chakra, and the editor took the time to print a note: "Don't skip extra lines between paragraphs." I'm pleased he took the time from his busy schedule to jot down that note -- and sign it -- but he's wrong. There are times when you skip an extra line between paragraphs, but he obviously missed it.

When you are changing points of view, narrators, chapters in a long short story, and denote a time or scene change, you use an extra line between paragraphs. Since the only extra line in my story is between the body of the story and the ending when the main character is dead and the point of view is no longer first person singular, that tells me he at least read the whole story. To pick out that one "mistake" and make a note of it makes me wonder if he was looking for an excuse to reject the story. That's the thing about rejections, as I've told many beginning writers anguishing over rejections, they are completely subjective and sometimes silly.

Editors are just people and they are subject to the same stresses, prejudices and moods as the rest of humanity, although there are some people who would argue that editors are people or even human. Some editors look for a reason to reject a story, like one editor who boasted she had read over 500 stories during the year and found only two worth publishing. She threw out stories when a word was misspelled or a sentence incorrectly published and rejected several stories because the grammar was incorrect. Her rejections had nothing to do with the stories and everything to do with feeling the need to reject everything that came across her desk. It happens. Editors can be very petty and mean. Not all editors are petty and mean every day; sometimes they're just having a bad day. As one friend said this morning when we discussed rejections, an editor can wake up in the morning and decide the minute they put their feet on the floor that they're going to reject everything that comes from a female writer. I'll just add that sometimes an editor will reject everything by writers whose names begin with a specific letter of the alphabet.

"Today I'll reject every writer whose name begins with C." The editor smiles and goes about his work.

Being an editor is hard work, especially when wading through a mountainous slush pile with stories that are unbelievably bad. It's like standing in a perfume shop assaulted by a thousand different smells and having to pick one scent out of the sensory avalanche of smells. Sometimes an editor misses the good ones because there have been so many bad ones that the eyes are swimming and slightly unfocused and the feeling of hope is a far distant dream.

The whole point of this informational rant is that rejection isn't personal 99.9% of the time and it is subjective 99.9% of the time. The only remedy for rejection is to send the story to another magazine or publisher or editor and keep sending it out until you sell it. Keep the work in play, especially if the comments are generic or are silly, like not skipping an extra line between a change of time, point of view, scene, character or chapter.

Maybe if I had used three asterisks between the story and the ending, the editor would have figured out the point of view change and understood the extra line -- or not. My story is going out in the mail this afternoon. I don't take silly comments seriously. Neither should you.

Beyond drama in the zone

There are times when writing is effortless and other times when it's hard work. Even when I've finished a book or a story, ideas will nibble at the edges of my mind and slip themselves seamlessly into a story I thought was finished. Good thing when it happened this time, I wasn't in final editing. I still have time to change a few things, and my publisher is generous about changes -- at least until we're actually in the editing phase.

There are so many themes and layers to a novel length work, and I've discovered a new theme in the one that has been invading my dreams and interrupting my work day, but it's adding a lot to the story and making it much more richly textured. I love when that happens. I get into the zone with little preparation and no effort. It's like a heaven sent gift and I never refuse or return those.

It has been a while since I've been in the zone and I've missed it. I've allowed trivialities and drama (other people's not my own) to invade my space and take me away where even Calgon cannot reach. I didn't know how much I have needed this literary vacation until I looked up and four hours had passed in the most pleasant and untroubled way. My character feels the tick-tick-tick of time like an eternity of seconds with no end in sight, but time has flown for me.

That's the funny thing about time, it stretches endlessly into a boring and monumental weight or speeds by like a shooting star, a glimpse of argent fire that suddenly winks out as if it never existed, the after image lingering long after the event.

Time has been an imponderable weight of late, but not today. That's what it's like in the zone, and I am reluctant to leave it even to go to the bathroom, but chores and duty call me away. At least I'm at a good stopping point that will quickly and easily admit me back to the zone when I'm finished with the more mundane details of life. Today is a good day, and a productive one, I cannot wait to repeat. I know where I'll be spending the next few days -- in the zone in another time and another world where hidden textures and depths wait to be discovered and unearthed.

Harried, harassed and hopeful

There is nothing like an editor marking up your work to make you feel like you are a hack. I know. I just went through it again. The editor said she was impressed by my writing and that my novel wouldn't need another edit after this one. When I starting hitting comments and changes, so many changes, I began to wonder if that was her way of sugar coating the horrible truth, that I really can't write. The inevitable feelings of doubt and insecurities slammed me like Refrigerator Johnson hitting the Steelers' defensive line. I can't write. I don't know what I'm doing. How could I have missed that? And that? And that? I was only sixty pages in had over two hundred more to go. My lunch repeated on me and I ran for the bathroom. As I rifled the medicine cabinet, I kept asking myself why I had no dangerous drugs. Oh, yeah, because I wanted to be healthy and live. Cursing my lack of chemicals, I went back to work.

I almost feel sorry for all the writers I've edited. I put them through more than one or two edits, usually more than ten.

Actually, the changes weren't too bad, but they did point up a few little literary tics and habits I need keep an eye on. It took ten hours to go through everything, but it wouldn't have taken so long if I hadn't spent considerable time rewriting scenes, trimming dialogue and adding a few new scenes. There's always something I feel I could have done better. I wrote this novel ten years ago, rewrote it from scratch a couple of years ago and it finally found a publisher after being rejected twice. That's not such a bad track record and now the worst is over with. The editor assures me that I won't have to go through another edit unless I really feel the need.

Let me check. Do I really feel the need to go through this humbling experience again?

Nope. I'm good.

If I go through it one more time I'll tweak and fiddle and fret, so it's best to end things now. Like parties and relationships, it's best to know when to get out -- usually before you get kicked out.

The only thing left is to go through the galleys, take a look at the cover art and wait for the book and check. Stick a fork in me; I'm done with this one. I also have a few other projects that had to sit on the back burner while I focused on this one. I'm ready for a change. I have a whole pile of reviews to get through this weekend and I need clean clothes so I'll be shuttling between laundry and reading while I fit in a few hours of operative reports. I'll bet everyone thought I was off on a hot weekend of dating, drinks, dinner and decadent pleasure. Ha! Fooled you.

There is one other reason for my non-journal focus this weekend. We're hammering out the details of a contract for another book, nonfiction this time, that will be tied into two movies headed by two Oscar winning directors. The details are very confidential right now because there are still details to sign, seal and deliver, but putting together a complicated contract like this one takes time and intense focus, at least on my part. It's nothing new for the others involved, but I promise to reveal all when everything is in place and I can breathe again.

On another note, I want to wish all you mothers out there a very happy Mothers Day. May all your troubles be little ones that bring you flowers and chocolate.

And for all the writers, a little gift.

It's back

It's January so it's time for the annual Preditors & Editors vote for your favorites.

Most people send out the word to promote themselves, hoping everyone on their friends list will vote for them, but the P&E poll is about the best writing and not just a chance to stuff the ballot box -- or at least it shouldn't be. It will take some time to go through the whole list -- if you choose to check out all the categories -- but take the time to read the entries and don't just vote for someone because you know them. Friendship and loyalty are admirable, but should not be a factor when it comes to excellence in writing. You have until January 14th.

Ready.

Set.

VOTE!

Don't forget to scroll all the way down.

Is it worth it?

Hold onto your seats and your hats. I'm going to make two posts in one day. That hasn't happened in a very long time and might not happen again for a while. If you need to go to the bathroom, get something to drink or stretch your legs, do it now. This might take a while. Then again, it might not.

As I sent another ham club newsletter to the printer I thought about what I've done and how hard I've worked to maintain a position that gives me more grief than pleasure. When I was first approached about the newsletter I was congratulated for taking over. No one bothered to inform me that I had been chosen or that the entire ham community in Colorado Springs had already decided to hand the reins to me. I went to a board meeting to find out what exactly was going on and was asked my credentials, something I found very surprising since, to my knowledge, no one before me had had the professional writing and editing experience I have. I answered the questions and offered a copy of my resume. Then I was asked to pay the membership fee in order to take over the job, and I did.

Getting information from the outgoing editor proved difficult and it was only after the first of the year he sent me a garbled email with even more garbled instructions and said, "Here you go and good luck." I didn't know how much I would need the luck. Emails for help went unanswered as if they had floated off into the cybervoid and gotten lost. I soldiered on but was unable to get the January issue out. No one was available to answer my questions, but one person did offer to pick up the newsletter from the printer, except they had forgotten to tell me who the printer was or where they were located, not to mention in what form he wanted the newsletter sent to him, mailed to him or hand carried to him. I still didn't know where the printer was located a year later when the same helpful member told me I'd have to start picking it up myself. I found out in a hurry. The past two years have been just like that rocky beginning, except twice a month every month I send out an email to the membership asking for news, articles, notices, ads, columns or even just a joke that isn't copyrighted to no avail.

Every month I pull together the ragged ends of whatever I can find, rewrite the misspelled and grammatically horrific articles I blackmail members to get to put out a 12-page issue. Sometimes I have cut the issue to eight pages just to get by since there's nothing else I can do to fill the pages without spilling blood and abasing myself for a single paragraph of content. People have made comments on my monthly nag and beg sessions in email as if it's a big joke, and I signed on for this gig.

After the first month, I put together a newsletter for the second month only to be told I would have to audition before I would be allowed to take over as editor. I faced down the president with what I had learned. They had never had a professional writer or editor to do the newsletter and no one wanted the job until it was thrust on me. The previous editor begged for two years to get someone -- anyone -- to take over. And he was requiring me to audition. He backed down and I got the job. Last year when the new officers were elected and another board chosen, I was attacked once again by one of the brand new members who was taking over everything he could get his hands on. I defended myself with no input from the board although the attack was carried out in public through emails to the board. One lone board member said my attacker should remember we are on the same team. I offered to step down and the board got together and gave me a vote of confidence. Like I said, I signed on for this. Now I wonder why.

This afternoon I wrote the president and gave him my notice. He has until December 2008 to find someone else to take over as editor. I'm done fighting for something no one wants and most people complain or joke about. I have no doubt that the same two or three members who always publicly thank me will do so again, and probably offer to pay for my dinner at the annual Xmas dinner, just like last year. Or they will finally break into the dusty vaults of the bank and vote to give me a plaque to thank me for my hard work and service over the past three years. I don't want their thanks but if I were going to give a speech in thanks, this would be it.

I'm supposed to thank you all for recognizing my contribution over the past three years and tell you that I am reluctant to step down. I'm not. I look forward to no more deadlines, no more begging and hounding and no more newsletter to put out for people who don't care except to complain. The time for your thanks is past. The time for your thanks was during the past three years when I asked you to get involved, to send in articles, pictures, jokes and stories for the newsletter. That is the thanks for which I've waited the past three years.

In various forms I have explained what it means to be a volunteer and how your input is needed to keep the lights burning and the newsletter full of something other than dry meeting minutes and a short presidential message that never fills a full page. I have changed the format and made it more colorful, easier to read, more accessible. I have added content to the email and web versions to entice you to get involved, all to no avail. I have spent hours of my valuable time giving you for free what other associations and professionals have paid me to do, and I have done it without your help and input only from the same one or two people. I have answered your complaints and fixed whatever was wrong. I have gone through endless web sites and begged local amateur operators to tell me their stories and send in the pictures, and I have had some success, but not nearly as much as I would have had if you had cared enough to get involved. I have watched the board put together programs and events that few people attended, stretching their own personal resources and time to cover the jobs that no one would take, and the same people kept showing up all the time. I have watched as board members begged for someone to take over as chairman of the Megafest or just show up to set up, take down or even take tickets, but the only ones who answered are the same small group of people who always step up to take your place. I know they must be as tired as I am right now and just as frustrated. So, no, I am not sorry to step down. I am eager to let someone else find the right words or twist the right arms to make you all care enough to get involved in your own club. Were the past three years worth my time and effort and the fight I put up to keep the job? Right now, I don't think so.

Goodbye and good luck. You are going to need it.

I think that goes over pretty well. Don't you? At least it isn't screw you and the horse you rode in on.

That is all. Disperse.