Baton Blog Hop

My plotting friend and partner-in-mischief, Rhenna Morgan, tapped me for what she calls a Baton Blog Hop: basically a game of tag for writers. The idea is to answer four questions about your writing, then tag another fool author to do the same.

But first you need to know about Rhenna Morgan and why you need to go--right this minute--to her blog and bookmark it as a must-read.

The first time I met Rhenna, she was fresh off a wild night with Nickelback. Since I have an honest-to-God picture of me with the band (fifteen seconds of ecstasy that cost more than I'll ever admit) I was sure I'd met a kindred spirit.

I'm certain the first words out of her mouth were irreverent and funny, though I don't recall what they were. I do remember hearing about the fantasy she was writing (her first) and thinking, "Damn, I wish my first story had been that good."

Turns out I have very good taste. Last week, Rhenna sold UNEXPECTED EDEN to a major freaking publisher--and they want to see the next two in the series. So if you're into fantasy with a hot streak of romance (you'll need a cigarette afterward, believe me) watch for the release of UNEXPECTED EDEN in December.

Now for the questions:

What am I working on?

Right now I'm finishing revisions (for the third time? Fourth?) on a Noir Mystery about a San Diego homicide detective who investigates the murder of a rock star she had a crush on as a teenager. Seventeen years ago my character's sister disappeared from a crowded beach, and the singer's voice was literally ringing through her speakers the moment she realized her sister was gone.

The working title is LIFE FOR A LIFE.

Next up is a thriller about a young man whose father died in prison after embezzling forty million dollars from the mob. The FBI thinks my character has the money. So does the mob...and they want it back.

How does my work differ from others in its genre?

Noir is making a comeback and there are some amazing writers out there right now. But if I had to point out differences, I'd say my work focuses on character more than some.

When I'm planning a story I imagine the protagonist first--who he is at his core, what emotional baggage he carries--then plunk him down in a terrible situation and see what happens.

That's why I loved HBO's TRUE DETECTIVE. Those guys would be interesting no matter what crime they solved.

Why do I write what I do?

Noir is all about redemption. Take the film Casablanca. Rick is a selfish, fucked-up drunk who gives up the only woman he's ever loved to help defeat the Nazis (and save her husband's life). Having more than a passing experience with those character defects, I'm drawn to the idea of using bad for good.

Also, I have weird ideas about what constitutes "Happily Ever After."

How does my writing process work?

I'm still refining it. My first book took foreeeeevvverrr. I knew if I wanted to do this for a living I needed a better protocol.

I tried Napoleon's strategy on the second (show up and see what happens--also known as 'pantsing') and still wasn't happy with the time from start to finish. I outlined my third, and the rough draft took about half as long as previous books. So I guess I'm a 'plotter,' though my characters like to deviate from the freakin' plan at the least convenient times.

That's the cool part, though--when you're writing according to your perfect little outline and your character does or says something you didn't expect.

Another neat addition this year is that I began working with Ed Stackler, editor for the incredible Greg Iles, whose book NATCHEZ BURNING is winning rave reviews. Ed has a way of drilling down to what's important. When you know your characters and the obstacles they're facing, writing what happens next is easy (Ha!)

Well, that's it. I'm going to tag two of my favorite writers, Mary McIntyre Coley and Jackie King. Hopefully next week you'll learn how these lovely ladies construct their novels of suspense!

Cheers...and Happy Writing!

-T

When You Say Yes to One Thing...

...You're saying no to something else.

Easy concept, right? So why has it taken me darned near fifty years to figure it out?

We're looking at moving to a better school district for our kids. Problem is, I really enjoy my corner of the planet: The Writer's Barn, my garden, my manicured horse pastures and lawn. Yes, we're fifteen miles from decent shopping and forty minutes away from my middle kid's school. But it's quiet out here. In the spring, we're visited by rabbits, bobcats, and the occasional deer. In Summer, we sit on our back patio every evening and watch fireflies while our kids prowl the woods behind our property. Every Fall, I mulch my garden and vow to do a better job pulling weeds next season.

So why do I bitch--daily--about the drive?

Maybe because I haven't truly grasped the concept that when I say yes to one thing, I'm voluntarily saying no to something else.

For a control freak like me, taking ANY option off the table is the worst kind of torture. I hate to hear no, and my coping mechanism is to 'find a way,' which works about a well as you'd expect.

For example, when we built this house, I didn't want to waste money on rent. We sold our house in town, I found an RV, and for eight months we camped; me, my husband, our infant son, and our seventy-pound dog. But RVs decline in value. Propane is expensive. And weathering an Oklahoma storm season in a fifth-wheel trailer with a baby and a thunder-shy Doberman will cure you of the camping bug. Forever.

But I face the same problem with every situation. When I decide to write a thriller about the guy whose former girlfriend wants him to help find her low-life husband, I'm saying no the other dozen stories residing in my outlines folder.

When I say yes to being out of debt, I'm saying no to a new car, and when I say yes to a writing retreat, I'm saying no to being debt-free sooner. When I say yes to living in the country, I'm saying no to low gas bills and short drive times and great schools.

In the end, if I wind up saying yes to city living, it means saying no to The Writer's Barn, to my garden and visiting wildlife; saying no to my manicured horse pastures and lawns, to my fireflies and peaceful mornings. It means saying no to rototilling, to watching my tulips bloom, to harvesting peaches from the trees I've planted. And that makes me sad.

So, I suspect this will be a year of Trying to Find A Way. This time I plan to do better with praying for help, trusting the universe, and accepting the results.

Hopefully my solution won't involve anything that remotely resembles camping.

Cheers...and Happy Writing!

-T

Before We Get to the Good Stuff (or: Better Sex, Part 3)

Earlier (okay, much earlier) I talked about writing as a two-stage process--What to Write, and How to Write It--and whined about my personal struggles with story structure. Then I claimed that the second part comes easier for me, which, by extension, implies I think my prose is hot stuff.

Except, not so much.

In fact, I've spent the last several months (beginning, I'm pretty sure, the day after I said I think I'm an okay writer) wondering how my craft will ever rise to the level of my literary heroes. I'm currently drafting my next thriller, and while I adore the characters and story, some days the words splattered onto the page are mule excrement.

Moments of doubt? Yep. And the Grand Canyon is a nice little ditch.

The result: My usually measured-but-steady pace has slowed to what could be generously termed 'glacial'. I start a scene bursting with action, conflict, and--wonder of wonders--critical plot points. But then, like sand in the gears, doubts sift into my writing. My fingers slow. My mind drifts. My eye catches a clunky phrase and won't let go. It's not so much writer's block as writer's ooze.

So I devour articles that promise to unleash my creativity. Join groups that track my daily word count. And if (when) my internal editor whispers that my prose sucks, I bash her over the head with a coffee cup and keep writing, writing, writing.

But when I'm not writing, I think.

I think about the story, sure. About how my characters will react when I heave them off the next cliff. About clarifying murky plot points. About boiling down the story to essentials, then seasoning the soup with rich detail.

Mostly I've spent the last few months thinking about what kind of writer I want to be. Should I try to crank out 'online content' every two months, or toil away on a deep-bellied tome that takes a lifetime to perfect? Maybe there's a place I should aim for, somewhere in the infinite, always-shifting middle.

That's right. I'm trying to decide whether I want to be McDonald's, Mahogany Steakhouse, or heaven help me, The Olive Garden.

I mean, there are ten thousand writers out there, and probably many hundreds of types of writers. And while I can learn something from--and I mean this sincerely--every single author on the planet, there are a scant few who exemplify the artist/technician/professional I want to be someday.

But there are a few. Robert Crais, Don Winslow, Elmore Leonard (the grand master), and a brilliant new author named Steve Ulfelder. Then there's Dennis Lehane who, in my opinion, is the best noir writer of my generation.

And here's what Dennis Lehane says about self-doubt: 

"Catch me on a good day, I think half of my books aren’t too bad. Catch me on a bad day, I think I’ve never written a good line."

 

After subjecting himself to the unsparing critique of fellow writers in college, Dennis Lehane began his career cranking out a book a year writing traditional--if deeper than average--crime novels. After achieving some success, he took five years to write The Given Day, a seven-hundred-page literary treatise on civil unrest and the dawn of the American Labor movement that confused his fans and confounded his critics.

The Edgar-winning sequel, Live By Night, took him four months to write.

Lehane has taught creative writing, composed episodes for a couple of television series, and written short stories. I think there's a stage production in there, too. And a movie or four. Meanwhile, he's an active participant in the writing community, a trustee of his local library, and a fierce advocate for literacy.

This isn't a guy who serves up McNuggets, cashes the check, and retreats to his private island.

Maybe Live By Night came easy, but it also came eighteen years into his career. And in those eighteen years, I doubt there was a single moment he sat at the keyboard and tried to generate 'content'. Though I haven't met Dennis Lehane (yet), based on interviews--and the breathtaking precision of his prose--I'd wager he's sweated over every word. That he's paused. Cursed. Backspaced. Typed-and-retyped a sentence forty different ways until it felt right.

I'd guess he sees himself as inhabiting the trenches, fighting to make every word his best and pushing other writers to produce their best. In this interview, he said:

"It's good not only to realise that you can't please all of the people all of the time, but that you don't want to. There's a certain type of reader that you don't ever want to write for. And that really helps."

I'm a long way from being the writer I want to become. But in the last few weeks, I've settled into a quiet acceptance that the way I want to tell stories requires a deep commitment to word choice, to precision and cadence. I've accepted that my chosen course means any success will be at once ephemeral, singular, and hard-fought.

Click on the reviews for Lehane's best book, and you'll find one-star reviews. Check the sales for McNuggets, and you'll see they're selling like...well, McNuggets.

What kind of writer do I want to be? The kind who tells deep, thrilling stories with fine prose. With my best prose. And that takes more than word counts. That kind of work takes effort and thought and perseverance. It means honing my ear, reading other authors. It means writing and re-writing my sentences until they sound exactly, precisely right.

And creating fine prose requires something else--at least in the beginning: Time.

Cheers...and Happy Writing!

-T

source for photo: http://www.businessinsider.com/mcdonalds-four-shapes-of-chicken-mcnuggets-2013-2

The Professional Writer (or: Better Sex, Part 1)

How does one go from being a professional-something-else (in my case, a veterinarian) to becoming a professional writer?

The answer: It Depends.

On what, you ask?

The journey depends entirely on the type of writer you want to become.

If blogging is your thing, the path is simple: Study your target audience (a.k.a.-future revenue source), decide on the best topics to attract said audience, create a killer web platform, then compose-measure-refine your message based on the results.

Repeat until you're sick of blogging or have become the next Pioneer Woman.

If you're a left brain sort, maybe your future lies in non-fiction. Say you're an expert at growing garlic the size of baseballs or a whiz at organizing socks. Perhaps you've produced eleven children and delivered them into adulthood without so much as a single detention slip or snotty eye roll. If so, condense those wisdomy pearls into something called a book proposal, then query agents who represent your particular flavor of non-fiction. Based on what I'm seeing on the grocery store racks these days, you shouldn't have much trouble selling.

Kicked your embarrassing butternut squash addiction? Lost half your body weight on a diet comprised of dill pickles, kale, and Diet Mt. Dew? Tell us how you did it in 1200 words or less (don't forget the bullet points) and send it to Men's/Women's/Kid's Health magazine.

Want a sure thing? Use the words 'Better Sex' in the title, regardless of topic.

Don't get me wrong. I understand how difficult it is to blog regularly and successfully. How tough it is to write (and sell) non-fiction books or magazine articles. In my veterinary practice I devoted long hours to writing client brochures and how-to handouts. In deciding to sell my practice to write full-time, I considered writing articles for equine publications in order to pay the bills. (And even now haven't completely ruled it out.)

But if you really want a tear-your-still-beating-heart-out-of-your-chest thrill, try becoming a professional writer of fiction.

To start, you find--and fall hopelessly in love with--characters who exist solely in your imagination. Maybe (like me) your first book begins as a lovely, vivid dream you can't shake. Just to clear your head, you write the scene down in a ratty spiral notebook. When it's done you shove it under the bed, then get up the next day and go back to your real job.

But when you come home that night, you can't wait to dig out the notebook and see what happens next. Soon, you're stealing moments to work on your story: sick days, lunch hours, that magic time in the morning before the kids get up. Your characters feel real, as if they're telling you what to write.

Before you know it, you've bought two more spiral notebooks and a package of really good black pens. Then, like a junkie with an ever-worsening need, you spring for a used laptop and download Word or Scrivener to keep track of all your chapters, character descriptions, and plot points.

At this point it hits: You don't want to just write this story. You want people to read it...and thinks it's good.

Problem is, you don't actually know how to write a book. Sure, you're a voracious reader, but appreciating a thing isn't the same as knowing how to do it. (Karaoke, anyone?)

Enter the next phase: Soaking-up-information-like-a-Brawny-towel-on-steroids.

(to be continued)

When the Dog (Barks), When the Bee Stings...

We still sit down and get to work.

But what glorious work; this all-consuming art, this heart-wrenching craft.

This writing!

Truth is, writing's a pretty good gig--with some noteworthy caveats: Isolation, lack of structure, frequent rejections, and an inward-looking, sedentary life; occupational hazards that led to the demise of gifted authors like Woolf and Hemingway.

In making the shift from veterinarian to writer, I wondered whether I'd wind up hunched over the keyboard, swearing at faceless agents blind to my talent, stuffing myself into the same sweats I'd worn all week, skipping showers and overeating my way to an early grave.

Happily, my experience has been just the opposite. I'm healthier--physically, emotionally, and spiritually--than when I devoted sixty hours a week to my veterinary practice.

Oddly, I've found spirituality is the area I can't afford to neglect.

I can skip my run, eat junk food, or stay up all night and still write fairly well (at least in the short-term).  But when I forget to be grateful, when I'm too busy to notice--and then express--my profound wonder at the rightness of the universe, my writing falters.

Maybe, as some have suggested, we need inner silence to hear our Muse.

I prefer to think of it as taking care of what's important--or as Dr. Covey puts it: Sharpening the Saw.

This used to seem backward to me. As someone driven to succeed, I used to make lists for myself, convinced I'd be happy once I crossed the last item off my agenda. For years it worked--sort of.

Attending college, earning my veterinary degree, owning a practice--even learning to write fiction-- became badges of honor; proof of my right to take up space in this world.

Problem is, there's always another list.

That's where sprituality comes in. When I put my focus on seeing--and appreciating--my tiny-but-significant place in the universe, I'm free to pursue the best course for me, regardless of whether that course leads to my old definition of success.

Do I want to see my work published? Heck yeah!

But far more important than selling books, I want my stories to move readers; to make them feel strongly--and maybe think differently--about the themes we explore together.

When I nurture my spiritual self, writing a beautiful story matters more than being recognized. And, strangely, it's also easier to write through distractions like a barking dog or blaring television.

But if I neglect spirituality, I forget how much I love writing. Soon, I'm focused on achieving the great prize--publication--and snap at my kids for interrupting me. "Be quiet," I say. "Mommie has work to do. Once I get an agent I need to finish the next book in the series...and the one after that. Then there's the blockbuster thriller sitting in my idea drawer. My God, that'll take a year to write, so I'd better hurry..."

Can you see the lists? I can.

Yes, it's a business. And I do take it seriously. Every day, rain or shine, good mood or bad--I sit down and write.

But when I take time to sharpen the saw, the work is effortless. The saw zips smoothly through the heart of the tree, chips pile up with amazing speed. I'm making real progress, and it feels good. I inhale deeply, smell the pines and the sharp tang of fresh sap, hear the birds in the trees above.

I close my eyes, feel the sun on my face, and think, "Man, I love this job!"

Cheers...and Happy Writing!

-T

What I've Learned About Critque (Part 2)

While writing my first book I had the good luck to meet an editor who--for a modest hourly fee--taught me the most important lesson of writing: Accept critique gracefully.

Easier said than done, believe me.

Her first email went something like this: "Nice job. I can see you've got talent, but you've taken eleven pages to tell what happened to the heroine years ago. Instead use dialogue, direct action, and internal thought on every page. Skip the back story (b.s.) and show us what happens--today."

I still remember thinking, "But this is how I write, and she wants me to change it. She's destroying my voice!" Yet I'd asked for her help--was paying for it. If I chose not to listen, who was I cheating?

So even though she hadn't fallen to the ground in awe of my writing ability, I followed her suggestions as best I could. Some lessons stung worse than others, like when she noted my story lacked something called Plot, and then said the conflict between hero and heroine could be resolved with a simple conversation.

Ouch. (But I'm sorry to report she was also right.)

So I resolved to change how I view critique, whether from online sources, beta-readers, or contests. Here's what I've learned.

1) Classes that cost money make me a better listener. 

I traded hard-earned dollars for my editor friend's time and experience. I didn't always like what she said, and often had to let her advice soak in before I could apply it to the manuscript. But her guidance was sound, her suggestions delivered with kindness and encouragement. The money I spent with her made me a far better writer, and I'm grateful for her help.

Margie Lawson's online course has been a great investment. She provides a systematic approach for evaluating the story using colored highlighters, creating an objectivity I couldn't achieve on my own. With her system I've seen where my current ms falls short on emotion and internal thought--both critical elements to establishing an emotional connection with the reader.

And my first conference--Colorado Gold in Denver--had classes brimming with good advice. With online courses and conferences my biggest problem is discerning which technique (of a dozen good ones) will improve my story the most. So I pick one, give it a try (after saving the original in a separate document) and see if I like the results.

2) Beta-Readers: Big-Picture Gold (when you're lucky enough to find them).

I've been blessed to have some wonderful friends and acquaintances willing to read my works-in-progress. Here's what I've learned about beta-readers:

They're busy with their own lives, and every moment they give to your manuscript deserves thanks.

Beta-readers are great for spotting the holes in a mystery, for discovering where you failed to hold interest, for finding where emotion/motive/character development is lacking. Some bring outside knowledge (guns!) to the table. Some are brilliant proofreaders.

The key is to set your expectations at the proper level. My book is more important to me than to anyone else, and if a reader doesn't have the time/interest/inclination to read it I thank them anyway.

Beta-readers are bonus miles; sprinkles on a chocolate sundae; a twenty-dollar bill in the jeans you just took out of the dryer. They are an unexpected gift, and should be liberally praised for helping any way they can (then formally thanked on the first page of your bestseller!)

They are always a good thing, unlike my next subject.

3) Contests are a Roll of the Dice...

...Or a box of chocolates from Hogwarts' (earwax, anyone?)

I've entered contests; done well in a few--and not so well in others. The feedback is...shall we say...interesting. Sometimes it's wildly helpful--as in the case of the Colorado Gold, where the judges were published in my genre and gave kind but definite suggestions on improving the story. (You guessed it--more emotion!)

Other contests have been more confusing.

My favorite example is a contest where my entry scored close to perfect (123/125) for three judges, and the fourth gave it a 70! The judge who disliked the story didn't pull his/her punches, and by the time I finished reading the critique I was hopping mad. But I wrote a Thank You note, sent it, and took my wounded ego out for a Mocha Latte.

Six months later, I can still remember everything he/she said...and now I'm inclined to agree (though I still wish it had been delivered less acidly). While the suggestions may have been dead right, I nearly disregarded this judge's advice because of the tone, and I'm now very careful in how I make suggestions to other writers.

Critique is like a fine steak; it loses its appeal when served on a plate of garbage.

But if tough judges deliver acid, too-kind judges fool us into thinking we're better writers than we actually are. While I loved hearing how wonderful my story was, I knew it wasn't perfect...not by a long shot, and when a judge would say too many nice things I'd begin to doubt his/her credibility. If a judge became overly enthused, I'd think, "This is only my second book. It's not Hemingway, for cryin' out loud!"

Instead, it's better to hear the hard truth about our stories--hopefully delivered with tact and grace. But, like a box of Hogwarts' chocolates, with contests you never know what you're going to get.

One thing I'm sure of--winning a contest simply means you found a judge or judges who really liked your story. Unless those judges are agents or editors, winning doesn't mean you're ready to publish. Yet, as ego-bruising as contests can be, I'm entering two this December.

If you've had experience with contests, beta-readers, and writing courses I'd love to hear what you've learned.

Cheers...and Happy Writing!

-T

Fifty Shades of Envy

I may be the last American 'woman of a certain' age who hasn't read FIFTY SHADES OF GREY by E.L. James. Even with all the hype, I probably won't.

But every writer, agent, editor and blogger who discusses the blockbuster trilogy agrees it's not well-written. The funniest critiques are the word counts: Holy Crap--38, Mutter/muttered--63, Murmur/murmured--100, and perhaps tellingly, Inner Goddess (James' euphemism for lady bits)--57.

So, like any writer seeking publication, I have to ask why this book is wildly popular, while others--and surely many with better prose--languish in some agent's slush pile.

The answer may be deceptively simple. What if the quality of writing is less important than the story?

To put it differently: Am I concentrating on the beauty and flow of my words, or am I doing my darnedest to tell a great story?

Think about it. What books have stuck in your mind over the years? Were they great literary tomes, or simple ideas that tugged at your emotions.

Take Wilson Rawls' WHERE THE RED FERN GROWS.

Writing from the viewpoint of an uneducated thirteen-year-old boy, Rawls uses common phrases and easy language to put us in the Ozark foothills, chasing raccoons with our beloved red hounds. And while the book may be considered Young Adult, I dare you to read it as a grownup without crying (or completely dissolving into sobs as I did a couple years ago trying to read aloud to my son. He actually took the book from me, saying, "Jeez, Mom. I'll finish this part if you want me to.")

Perhaps Ms. James effectively tapped into readers' emotions using simple (and often the same) words. Maybe the story is better than the writing...and readers made it clear which they prefer.

So, after all the fuss over Ms. James' poorly-constructed bestseller, I must admit I'm envious of her success. But envy won't help my career, and it won't make me a better writer.

Remembering that a good story trumps fancy prose will.

Me, Myself, and Muse

People ask: "How do you come up with ideas?"  I usually murmur something vague, hoping to sound brilliant, thoughtful, and perhaps a little mysterious.

The real answer: I have no clue.

I'd love to claim some genetic gift of imagination, but every afternoon at five o'clock I'm shocked by the arrival of dinnertime and find myself completely starved for ideas. (On any given week we have pancakes at least once. Frozen pizza is a staple.)

You'd think the brainstorming process would extend to meals: 'Let's see...Macaroni could meet Cheese in the pot. They'd mingle for a while, the heat would rise...then Bam; They're inseparable!'

Nope. If my imagination is in charge, we're having pancakes again.

But maybe, as Elizabeth Gilbert (Eat, Pray, Love) suggests, http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=86x-u-tz0MA&noredirect=1  creativity doesn't come from within. Maybe our stories select us, and our job is to sit down every day and do the hard work of writing what our Muse whispers--free of grammatical errors and jumping points of view.

This vision of creativity carries both a blessing and an obligation. The blessing is that it's no longer about my imagination, but listening with a willing heart. The obligation is that I'm duty-bound to perfect my skill. Beethoven gave us beautiful music, but the wonder is lost when it's played on a kazoo.

And I like Ms. Gilbert's vision because it helps me another way.

My muse doesn't do food.

-T

Picking up the thread...

Elmore Leonard says he can write anytime, anywhere--a skill I much admire but haven't yet mastered. (You're going to hear a lot of 'Elmore Leonard says' on this blog. Read one of his books or watch 'Justified' on FX to see why.)

Unlike Mr. Leonard, I have to concentrate--hard--when I write. A door slams, a child's voice rises a half-decibel, one of the dogs jumps off the couch, hackles raised, to announce that my neighbor's pickup needs a new muffler--and I'm no longer inside my character's head, seeing, feeling, and hearing events that exist solely in my imagination.

My worst distractions originate within. Worry, fear, anger, and feeling like I've left things undone can make it nearly impossible to sink into the story and write what I see--a process I call 'Picking up the Thread."

I've tried different strategies to combat interruption: Get up an hour early (better for planning than writing), escape to the makeshift office in the barn (great until it gets cold), noise-canceling headphones (weird).

But the best by far: Escape.

My favorite is a State Park cabin on a lake about an hour from my house. State Park accomodations verge on Spartan--no internet, no radio, rudimentary television. There's no gym or restaurant, and little interaction between guests. (Once, in December, I was the only person staying in the park, which was a tad spooky.)

That quiet simplicity creates room in my head for characters, plots, and emotion. When I 'Pick up the Thread,' the words appear on the page as if by magic and I struggle to type fast enough to capture them.

My latest project came to me during one of these escapes. I began writing at two am, hoping to catch the plot before it vanished. When the sun rose I'd finished chapter one and the outline. I didn't want to stop.

But it was time to go home and be distracted again.