"Real Suspense" and Why I'm a Pantser

Yesterday, I struggled with my writing for the day and berated myself yet again for being a pantser and not a plotter.  Then I remembered that I DO have options. I COULD become a plotter.  Except that I also remembered that I've tried that before, numerous times, and it didn't work so well for me

I topped off my remembering with the recollection that one of the editors I'm hoping to invite for an SCBWI event teaches a much lauded Master Class on Plot. She must know something that could help me. So I hightailed it to Cheryl Klein's website where I found this post.

The entire thing is brilliant, and I highly suggest reading it, but this quote, from John Gardner (The Art Of Fiction) struck me in particular:

This hit me right in the truth bone. That's exactly why I'm a pantser not a plotter. When I get deep into the head and world of my character the story moves forward inevitably.  When I hit a snag and feel stuck it's usually because I've lost that deep connection and resorted to inserting one damn thing after another.

After this epiphany, I went back to my WIP and examined it.  I took out a couple of damn things and I was on my way!

Are you a pantser or a plotter? Have you tried the opposite method? How did it work out for you? 

When Writing and Parenting Don't Mix

Being a parent and a writer can be complicated.  Sometimes the two things seem mutually exclusive and, indeed, impossible!  I often wonder how I ever finished writing a book when these small creatures need every iota of my attention.  Kids, especially very young ones, are an all-consuming responsibility. Granted, a blessed responsibility, an adored responsibility, but still an all consuming one. Writing is especially difficult to manage because it requires such intense focus and distance from reality.  

Since my oldest was a power-napper, who topped out at 20 minutes per shut-eye, any attempts to write during that time led to frustration, followed by anger at myself for being frustrated.  It was difficult.  I finally had to come to terms with the fact that, at least for a while, writing wasn’t going to be part of the picture.

So, during daylight hours I learned to accomplish other things that fulfilled my need to create, while still retaining my ability to interact with my baby. 

I started tiling a picnic table when my first son was 6 months old.  I propped him up in his wooden wagon with some toys while I worked. Slowly.  Sometimes I could only place one tile before I had to abandon it for the day. That first summer I finished a bee:

The summer after, whenever my little one played in his water table, I painstakingly tiled a ladybug:

The June of the following summer brought baby boy #2 and a butterfly was barely begun:

The year after, I accomplished even less but it still felt good to get outside, and snag a moment to draw (copying from google images) and erase several creatures on my backer-board.

I kept the finished bugs covered with plywood to protect little fingers from sharp, broken tiles and whenever I stopped for the day, I carefully slid the board back over to cover the whole thing so we’d still be able to use the table.  It was a sanity saver for a writer who could rarely write.

This summer I think my older son, with his big-boy fingers, might be able to help with the tiling.

I have high hopes we’ll finish the table soon and I know the first meal we eat on it--after giving it a good scrubbing--will be a celebration!  It may end up taking four years to accomplish, but then it took me nine to write my novel.  If there is one thing I’ve learned from these mama-intensive years of parenting it’s to make the absolute most of my alone time when I get it.  The final third of my book was finished after my boys began attending a twice-weekly mom’s-day-out program last September.   By December it was accepted for publication.

If you’re a new parent wondering how you’re ever going to write again--or do anything else outside of child-rearing--take heart.  Just keep at it, and focus hard when you do get the chance.  I believe good things come not to those who wait, but to those who finish what they start, no matter how long it takes.

 

Attempt Something Beautiful

Play with your ideas. Don't be afraid if they come out wonky--be fearless!  Ignore the odd, clunky, dangly bit you included for no discernible reason.  You can remove it later if you find it doesn't fit--that's what revisions are for.  Be proud of your work even if it's awkward and lopsided.  You're finally doing something with all the stray bits you've had lying around waiting to be given a shape.

 

Now, get serious.  Your idea is viable. You can do it.  The premise is solid, and your vision is beginning to coalesce.  Take note of key elements that pop into your head, pinpoint them, then use that framework to create your arc.

 

Once your project has a rough shape, step back, drink coffee, save a copy of your work, and ponder what you've done.  Think.  Plan.  Then, get back to work, cutting and smoothing out rough edges--but  don't toss the scraps! You might need them to bind loose ends.

 

Now for the fun part: make your work pretty! Don't weaken the structure by removing things willy-nilly, but do replace mundane bits with bits that zing or sing or twirl.  Don't be afraid to experiment! After all, nothing is being wasted.  If one shape doesn't work out, simply bend your medium into a new one.

When you've done everything you can it's time to lift your project into the sunlight and see if it can carry it's own weight.  Check for gaping holes.  If you find them,  fill them. You're lucky--you're working with a flexible medium--everything can be fixed with a little thought and elbow grease.  Ask someone else to take a look.  Then someone else.  Listen, learn, improve your project.

Make sure that the important connections are there, inextricably intertwined so that no part is complete without the others. Then take one last look, clip a stray tendril, and turn your back, and walk away.

It's out of your hands.  You can help it along, sure, and take an active part in its care.  Invite people to look at it if you'd like.  Hope they can appreciate the work you've done. But mostly, try to keep a smile on your face, and cross your fingers that something beautiful will grow.

An Introverted Mama

I just read a post on Shrinking Violet Promotions: Dispelling Ten Myths About Introverts  and it resonated deeply.  It said, “Introversion is simply the need to recharge in solitude”. Please pardon me while I squeal in recognition: “yes, Yes, YES!”  That is it.  That is me.

I loved the myths they listed.  I’m definitely not shy. I’m not weak. I may be socially awkward and oblivious to some social niceties, but that has nothing to do with being introverted and everything to do with the man who fathered me (you know who you are, Dad).  I am and I'm not a lot of things, but I can say with confidence that if I were to par-boil my essence to one word it would be “introvert”.

Solitude isn’t something I want. It is something I need. Not just to write--or to weasel my way out of  responsibilities--I simply can't connect with myself without it. I don’t think well on my feet.  I can’t get to the roots of problems--my own or anyone else's--by talking them out. I have to work things out or, rather, write things out, in solitude. And solitude is as rare as wombat-testicles in my world. I have two little boys--I’m never alone. And that’s the crux of a current difficulty. I don’t want to be away from them, but recharging in their presence—in anyone’s presence, really—just doesn’t get down deep enough to do the job. And that’s a real pain-in-my-ass.

I’ve managed to work around the “rules of writing" to finish a novel. I can’t write every day. I can’t even always write every other day.  I plug along when I can, where I can—and praise all that is good and holy that my kids occasionally attend preschool (when they're not sick, as they are now--or on spring break, as they are next week).  I'm figuring out how to make writing mesh with parenting—even when the schedule isn’t exactly optimal. But I can’t seem to flip my solitude switch to “none required” no matter how I might like to. It’s my struggle as a parent, as a wife, and as a writer.

Being an introvert isn’t a bad thing, but it can certainly be a tough thing.  For me, anyway.

Muse-Flash! Dreams that Getcha

Last night was filled with fever-dreams.  My four-year-old had dreams so vivid that he still saw them even when we spoke lucidly together.  He couldn't stop staring at his wall.  He said it was crumbling and that bad men were hurting the animals.  When I asked him what animals he said "baby seals and hippos".  I was glad it wasn't snakes and lizards as then I'd be worried about it being a result of our first Herpetological Society meeting which we attended last night:

Luckily the snakes and lizards were safe from his bad-guys, and Pat was eventually able to talk him down by imagining the tree-house they'd build together someday.

As I snuggled with him and listened to his fears, though, I found myself wishing I could see the scenario he was dreaming.  What creative scene had his mind envisioned to involve bad men, baby seals and hippos? 

For writers, dreams can spark story ideas.  Sometimes very lucrative ones.  Probably the most famous novel resulting from a dream was "Twilight" by Stephanie Meyer.  Unfortunately my dreams never spring fully-formed like that, with dollar-signs attached.  And, while I'd love to mine my most vivid dream-bits for likely fewer bajillions of dollars, instead I'm going to offer them to you as a possible spark:

Here are two dream fragments that stick with me: 

1. I live in a world entirely covered by the sea.  Houses must be anchored and floors are reed mats that float between the walls, unattached.  Maneuvering is tricky as you do not want to get too close to walls or corners or...plop!  I lost my ball that way and was very upset.

I'm thinking Dystopian? Global warming--ice caps melting--tsunamis?.....Take it away! 

2. I'm reading in the tub when the door to the bathroom opens.  My husband stands there, looking at me.  I smile but he doesn't smile back.  Without a word, he stumbles forward and falls.  Another man appears in the doorway behind him. 

This dream spooked me more than any I've ever had. I was happy when we moved away from the house with that bathroom and I could be assured that it would never come true.  

Do you have vivid dreams that linger?  Care to share?

Need a Late-Night Place to Write?

Last night I had a scene I was itching to write for my new novel.  I decided I'd be most successful if I got out of the house and away from domestic distractions.  Problem was that the library and all the coffee shops around me close at 9 pm and I didn't even leave the house until 7:30.  An hour and a half isn't nearly enough time for me to pound out a scene (is it for any writer?  Probably).

I was stumped and irritated, but after a little thought I ended up at the perfect writing place: the grocery store!  Seriously.  They have a cafe seating area.  They're open all night, there was a 75 cent cappuccino machine arms-length from my table, and there was no free wi-fi (that evil temptress) to distract me.  I bought a banana, some sushi, and a drink and I wrote for three blissful hours in complete solitude.  Seems it's not a popular hangout?  I'm completely serious when I say I cannot imagine why.  If you need a writing spot for a night owl, Marsh is the place!

Plus, I brought home groceries. Win-win....win.  :)

Playing with Words--Rhymes and Dual Meanings

I'm putting together a poetry collection right now and really enjoying it.  It feels like getting back to my roots.  I've been writing poetry far longer than prose, although I really don't consider myself a "poet".  My poems rhyme, they're usually playful and I know nothing about poetry forms save what I learned from "A Kick in the Head".  So I prefer to call myself a "poemist".

Most of my poetry has been written long-hand--in notebooks, late at night, without aide of a rhyming dictionary.  So I have my own method for rhyming that I came up with somewhere along the way.  It's pretty simple and perhaps everyone does it, but I'll share anyway.

I have a word I need to rhyme, say "ham".  I go through the alphabet in my mind replacing the first letter: "Am, bam, dam (damn)..."  Then I'll go through and add an "L" after each letter:  "blam, clam, glam..." Then I'll do the same with an "R":  "cram, dram, gram (graham)...."  Then I'll try a "CH" and an "Sh" in front: "Sham"  I keep a list as I go and sometimes the rhyme will lead me to multi-syllable words that might work as well, like "diagram".  Then I will examine my list and try out any promising ones.  If I can't make a word work perfectly I go at it from a new angle, perhaps replacing "ham" with "beef" to see if those rhymes might work better.  I make a new list and keep trying.  It's one of my favorite ways to play with words.

I also love to use dual meanings in poetry.  Dual purpose words pack such a punch, like "cleave" for example.  It can mean: "to split", or it can mean "to cling to".  Exact opposite definitions for the same word!  Use it in a poem the right way and it could give it two entirely different meanings depending on how a reader interprets that word--I love that!

Here's a poem I wrote that uses a word with a dual meaning.  It was accepted for publication by a fantasy magazine, but the mag tanked before it was published. :(

                                                                  Dragon's Brood

                                                                    Shall I be a fiery lizard? 

                                                                     Will my siblings all be beasts?

Will we pilfer farmer's livestock

And consume appalling feasts? 

Will we hole up in our caverns?

Will we sleep upon our hoards?

Will we guard abducted damsels,

Fighting heroes armed with swords?

Or

Will we be kind and noble?

Honest creatures strong and wise,

That improve the world around us

As we soar through azure skies?

Shall we lend our strength in battle

To the righteous and the just?

And defeat the realms of darkness

              With a last decisive thrust?

                                                                         Within my shell I'm brooding,

                                                                          Curled between my mother's legs,

                                                                         For here there will be dragons

                                                                          Where there now be dragon eggs.

"Brooding" can mean: "to sit on or hatch eggs" and "to be deep in thought".   What a great word! Words like this make me happy and get me thinking.   

Moments that Bring Back the Happy

Writing is a necessary part of my life, but it doesn't recharge my batteries.  These are things that do:

Watching my baby walk a stone path I laid with my four-year-old:

Seeing green things poke from the dirt:

Spotting a group of unlikely friends sharing a mystery-snack:

Making something pretty and watching it take root: 

Watching my kids build something for themselves:

Getting outside and playing in the dirt is what fuels my writing fire, not vice versa. Sometimes I have to force myself to get out there, but I always come back refreshed and ready to make words.

Which Came First? The Kernel or the Cornstalk?

I was determined to write a "happy" post today.  I don't want this to be a dismal place to visit.  I mean, I'm wearing my party hat over there  (<-----) and I wanna bring the party!

But I suffer from this icky-blicky thing called "depression", maybe you've heard of it?  It's a little dark cloud that worms its way into your stomach, then seeps into your limbs and turns to lead--biologically speaking.  This isn't new.  I've had it for years.  It waxes and wanes, lurks like a bogeyman then tackles me after munching a large cheese pizza to get sufficiently waxed.   It hurts.

I take meds for it (up your nose with a rubber hose, Cruise).  I try to eat well and do all the things I should do to keep it under control.  But it's a wrestling match sometimes.

But perhaps this is what made me a writer?  Maybe all that time I spent depressed, alone, and turning to books to escape, was the kernel that grew into a cornstalk pen? (yes, a cornstalk pen).  I'm always amazed when speaking candidly to other writers how many of us suffer from this debilitating condition.  Which came first--the depression or the desire to write?  Are they linked?

If so, I'd rather battle depression than give up my cornstalk pen. You?

*cues crickets*

Muse-Flash! Bee venom, baby

I'm going to start a regular post called "Muse-Flash!" where I'll write about something interesting, unusual, and thought-provoking and hope you will do the same in the comments.  Maybe these little tidbits can provide some writing inspiration for all of us.

I had the idea for Muse-Flash! because I was once inspired by a blog post by Julia Karr where she linked to a video of a Mimic Octopus (watch it, it's amazing!).  Later, when I was revising and needed an animal for the younger sister in my story to discuss, I remembered that octopus and into the novel  it went!  I hope to do the same for someone else.

So, my first Muse-Flash! is about an alternative use for bee-venom (other than the one the bees themselves put it to, defending their hives). I have a friend--a fellow beekeeper--who stings herself intentionally with her bees because it minimizes her arthritis pain and reduces inflammation.

Here is a great video by National Geographic about bee sting therapy: 

I started keeping bees last year in a home-made (top-bar) hive with a captured swarm.  Bee swarms are supposed to be very docile to collect so I didn't bother buying a bee-suit.  My thought was: why waste money if I don't even know I'll get a swarm?  As it turned out my swarm wasn't docile--they stung me eleven times.  I later discovered that they'd clung to that tree for three days, through a major storm, and that the homeowner whacked them with a baseball bat to encourage them to leave (please--don't ever do that, people).  So, I think I got off easy.

Anyway, what did those eleven stings do for me?  First, they made my body vibrate.  I got a rush of adrenaline that gave me the strength of ten-men (you know, at least).  But--then they just hurt.  The bee that got me on a finger joint made my pinky look exactly like a sausage--a shiny, shiny sausage.  So, maybe you have to start with inflammation to lessen inflammation?

But, despite the pain, I think it's an intriguing and fascinating remedy (unless the patient is allergic and then they'd just die--so don't try this at home).  If I ever find a way to include it in a novel, I will!  But in the meantime, perhaps it will work its way into one of your manuscripts?  And if it does I wanna hear about it.

I'll leave you with a picture of me in the bee-suit I cobbled together to empty my captured swarm into their new hive.  One bee still managed to crawl up inside my pant leg and sting me on the thigh.  So I'm twelve bee-stings healthier, I suppose--and that'll do me for a while.

If you have any interesting tidbits, links or thoughts  to share, please do so in the comments.  We could all use a Muse-Flash! once in a while.

Welcome. You're Welcome.

Thanks for stopping by to see my beautiful, new site courtesy of Lori at Use Your Imagination Designs.  I'm so excited to have a lovely place like this to connect with writers, readers and friends.  Prepare to be arbitrarily updated! If you're so inclined.

Writing a first post on a blog is daunting.  It's like writing the first page of a novel.  Except with a blog it feels like posting rough drafts for all the world to see.  There's no benefit of time to allow for clarification and revision.  If I gave myself that kind of time, though, I would never post anything--so, rough drafts it shall be.

Next up: My First Step Toward the Fringe--or, How I Got a Book Contract the Wrong Way.