Influence this week:  The End is the Beginning is the End- Smashing Pumpkins

 

 

The sunshine was warm and a little blinding. It was the first thing you noticed when you stepped off the plane. You could feel the warmth of the sun even as you walked away from the airplane into the nicely air conditioned airport. I felt it haunting me like a bad stepchild, the sun dogged my every step until I stepped outside and faced it in all it's glory. Warmth on my face. The rays soaked into my skin and bounced off my sunglasses. It shines off your hair and windows and buildings and blindingly white teeth and fake tanned skin. It's everywhere.

 

And I hate it.

 

I tugged my sweatshirt sleeves down further and let my hair down from a messy ponytail.

 

"Are you coming or what?" She's very impatient with me. Even though I've been through this a million times, it's all new to her. The last time she arrived in the city that rose from its ashes, it wasn't the sun that was the concern. The shuttle bus was just ahead, into the blinding rays beating down onto the oceans of asphalt and smog. I could hear the constant drone of horns and tires waling on the freeway.

 

"Yeah, yeah. Watch the cars."

 

I ducked into the shuttle bus without much sun exposure. I felt it burning my neck and I reached up to pull up my hood.

 

"It's 80 degrees." He looked from one window to the next and tried to get a glimpse of the next airplane coming onto the runway. "It's nice."

 

I debated between shooting someone a nasty look from the top of my sunglasses or make like I was deaf.

 

I made like I was deaf.

 

I plugged my iPod into my ears and shuffled off the bus with the rest of the herd. Inside, more air conditioning, more people. More tourists with no idea of where they were going or what they were doing. More people going home to places with snow on the ground and their heat blowing at full blast. I couldn't wait to get out of here.

 

There was no wait in line. As soon as the keys hit my palm I was off running. I weaved and sped and with the windows down, enjoyed the jolt of adrenaline from rush hour traffic. It was nearly dark when we pulled into the driveway. It was peaceful, calm. The light shot over the mountains and made a halo around the mountain tops. The train was in the far distance and speeding our way. I had a seat on the sidewalk and looked up at the sky. It was too bad I needed the sun to survive because I really didn't enjoy being cooked up for dinner like an ant in the magnifying glass. It was beautiful blue with jet streaks of white. The moon full against the palm trees. Life was strange. How can something kill me and keep me alive?

 

__

 

We all hate something that's good for us. I'm not going to lie. The sun is good for me in ways I might never understand, and it keeps me happy and alive; but every time I step into it, I feel the heat burning into me, branding me. I try to liken it to that feeling of lactic acid burning in your muscles when you start working them. It's not something you're used to feeling and it feels wrong and your brain starts screaming for you to stop. But you have to keep going or the cycle won't break.

 

I love writing but it drives me crazy. Insane. I hear voices in my head. I have someone telling me what to write and when to write it and I sometimes find myself while typing reading what I'm writing and saying to myself that I've lost my mind. My characters often find themselves in situations they can't control, can't begin to understand or what to understand. It's because life is a paradox and we're all swept up in the drama of it. Writing about life and characters and plots, we're swept away in the grandeur of it all.

 

Don't get me wrong. Life is a wonderful thing; but confusing and difficult and one of those things that no matter what you do you're doing it right and wrong at the same time. Writing is this way. There is no wrong way to write. Writing is putting down words on a page for reading material. Even though we hear the little voices telling us what to do, and tell the story they way that they want it told, it doesn't mean it's the right way. It's just a means to an end.

 

Do you ever relay your vacation stories into your own writing? It's obvious that I couldn't find a real topic to spew about this week and it's now obvious that I didn't come back all mellow and relaxed. Anything that really drives you crazy that you give to your characters to drive them crazy?

In yoga, they have mantras that you’re supposed to chant to help you achieve no mind and become one with God. We have not practiced this in my bi-weekly yoga classes. I mostly concentrate on not falling down, falling over, or falling backward. I sometimes think about being on the beach with Jack Sparrow, but that’s at the end of class, when we’re in corpse pose and in absolutely no danger of falling.

 

However, as a writer, I am chanting little mantras all the time. They’re over my desk, taped on my computer, written on post-its and napkins, and scribbled on the backs of receipts. Anything that might jolt me into a wave of brilliance when I sit down to write. Something to repeat to myself—bringing myself to a yoga state—so I can get out of my way long enough to write some pages. Any pages. Paragraphs would even work.

 

My two newest favorite mantras came from unlikely sources: a birthday e-card and a Christopher Moore novel.

 

Imagine more, think less. I mean that even sounds like something you’d hum in a yoga class, doesn’t it? Here I was reading this adorable e-card, and boom, right there in the middle: the perfect thing to repeat to yourself so you can get out of your own way and write. I spend an ungodly amount of time, staring at the last couple pages of my chapter, then skipping back to the beginning of the chapter. Hell, I might even go back another couple chapters to “catch up and get the rhythm” again, but invariably, I end up getting tired from all that reading and end up shutting down the computer and going to bed.

 

My problem isn’t so much going as it is getting started. Once I’m going, I can go for a long, long time; but it’s like I spend all my valuable time doing all these unnecessary things. Like I’ve started on a car trip, gotten to the end of my driveway, then remembered I needed my purse. I go back for it, get to the end of the street, then remember I need my lipstick. I go back, and by now I might check to see if I need anything else, leave again, and get a little further down the road before I remember I need the tickets which are on the dresser. It’s no wonder I’m out of gas before I’ve gotten to go on the trip.

 

Lately with this novel, when I start new scenes or start in someone else’s POV (since I’m a stickler for not head-hopping), I feel like I’m going nowhere fast. I’ll type, knowing the fits and starts I have on the page aren’t likely to be kept, but at the same time, I wonder, maybe I should have the scene start this way instead so my next character can act this way. I have a very vague notion of what I want to happen. I want Character A to fall down drunk at the end of this scene. Okay. Well, that leaves that scene wide open. You’d think with all the possible lead-ins and scenarios, I wouldn’t have a problem finishing a chapter. You’d be dead wrong. I have yet to finish that chapter.

 

I’m too busy thinking when I should be imagining. It’s enough to make a writer start drinking just to help this process along.

 

As for the second mantra, let me first say: Christopher Moore is brilliant. Absolutely flippin’ brilliant. Lamb is without a doubt my favorite; and if I recommend Moore to my friends (and I often do), it’s the first book I bring up. It had been a while since I’d read Lamb; and being it is almost Easter and all, it was a perfect time of year for it. You know, being the book is about the lost years of Jesus, as told by his best friend Biff.

 

So Jesus and Biff are on their way to Tibet (when they encounter the Great Wall of China), when Jesus says something so utterly profound, I almost drove off the road. (Not the Sermon on the Mount stuff; that’s later in the book.) Jesus says: There is no such thing as a conservative hero. Heroes always bring change.

 

It’s sort of a duh-epiphany, I admit. It’s a chicken and egg thing: you can’t have a hero without change or change without a hero. They go together like cocaine and waffles. That’s the fact, Jack. I know, I know.

 

But the reminder was nice. A little post-it of that my guy needs to be the most radical guy on the page, the one we can’t bear to take our attention off of to see what he’s going to do next—that’s a good reminder. Heroes are never boring. They always have something going on.

 

Which is my problem, I think. I have my heroes in the most happening city but they’re both more boring than an old married couple who’ve been married for the last few thousand years. Oh, wait, that is them. You know what I mean. I want them to do exciting, obnoxious things. I want them to taunt each other; I want them to look for other spouses with sincere singlemindedness.  I want sexual tension and people walking out of the shower naked.

 

Okay, admittedly the last has nothing to do with heroes who bring change, but I’m just tired of my story being so damned boring. I mean, I’m the writer here, you know; and if my story is this boring, it must mean I am…and if I’m this boring, then I need another can of frosting to stave off the depression. I also need a few ideas of what I can do to be less boring. Any takers? Ideas? Anything?

 

Your turn: what mantras have you discovered that help you write (or do anything) more? What do you like to do to help you be “less boring”? What card, email or book have you read lately that has inspired you?

 

 

I love stories with a deep point-of-view, stories where you really get deep into a character’s head.  By the end of those stories, I feel like I know that character.  I think about them afterwards, wonder about them.  Sometimes (can I admit this on the internet?) I even talk to them in my head after I finish reading.  There’s one hero, in particular, I talk to in my head on a regular basis (shut up, you know you do it too!)

 

I’ve been reading a wide variety of books recently.  Some have stuck out in my mind, and others I’ve read and set down without thinking about again.  One I read recently was brilliantly plotted, had a great theme, and excellent writing and pacing.  But I didn’t identify with the characters.  I kept thinking, this should be such a good book.  On paper, it had everything, but at no point, was I drawn into the story. 

 

Another book was less well-written from a technical standpoint.  There were plot holes and adverbs and sentences of telling.  Yet I couldn’t put it down for a second.  When I did have to put it down, my head was swimming with the characters – what were they thinking?  Feeling?  What would they do next?  Would they get their happy ending?

 

The difference was the characters – I knew them, I loved them, and I couldn’t rest until I knew how their story ended, and I couldn’t have cared less about the writing itself.

 

So as a writer, to get to that character depth, we have to know that character really well.  To other writers, getting to know a character sounds like a normal, necessary part of writing.  To non-writers, it sounds a little nut-so. 

 

For instance, last week, I was struggling with a character.  I probably had that squinty ‘what the hell am I doing?’ look on my face, because Mr. Coxswain politely said, “Everything going okay?”

 

“No,” I said.  “I don’t really have a handle on Naomi’s emotions right now.”

 

*weird look out of the corner of his eye*  “Oh yeah?”

 

“Yeah.  I just need to be her for a while today.”

 

*weird look takes on a distinct ‘am I going to have to commit her?’ flair*   “And, uh, how are you going to do that?”

 

“You know, just sit real still and be her.”  At this point, I ran off, upstairs.  Half an hour later, the hubs carefully stuck his head around the bedroom door, to find me lying on the bed, perfectly still, and staring at the ceiling.

 

“How’s it going?”

 

“Really good!  Naomi’s been numb for a long time.  And bam!  She’s pissed.  It’s a big shock to the senses.”

 

“Oh.  Well, then.  Good.”  *at this point, he began thumbing through the phone book for any ads that read, ‘Have a crazy wife?  Send her here!’

 

Luckily, he didn’t find any such ad (apparently mental health facilities use some other marketing strategy), and I’m writing away with Naomi’s emotions on a better track.

 

There are plenty of other ways to get in touch with a character’s emotions or stories.  So, let’s hear it!  Anybody else use my insane method?  How do you get to know your characters?  Which characters stand out in your mind, long after you set the book down?

Before I started writing with the intention of publishing, I don’t think I ever noticed writers.  I knew who wrote different stories, I had authors I liked, and I would buy their books.  I’d read the inside flap for blurbs from authors who liked the authors I liked and I’d use those as recommends for my next buys.  I got recommendations from my friends and my family. 

Now, I check out websites, look for blogs, and visit their biographies on their publishers’ websites.  Authors have forums, newsletters.  They’re on Facebook and Myspace. 

I can’t tell whether I do these things because that’s what we do in this technological age or if I do that because I’m a budding author and therefore more interested in author-ly things. 

But either way, I’ve found a plethora of information about authors and their work by visiting their media outlets.  This makes me wonder, what works?

One of my new favorite authors is Jessica Andersen.  She writes an exciting new paranormal series about the Mayan End Date.  Her website (www.jessicaandersen.com) is Mayan inspired as well and it piques my interest for her books.  Some authors don’t go to this kind of effort for their websites.  I don’t think that a less exciting website or no website would keep me from reading their stuff, but I think a really nice website can definitely help.

Some publishers promote promote promote, others not so much.  Same for agents.  Personally, I love Kristin Nelson’s blog (www.pubrants.blogspot.com).  I feel like everyone checks it out.   Therefore, her authors get exposure in part because she seems so cool. 

But as a fledgling author, I feel a bit overwhelmed.  I haven’t sold anything yet so I’m not ready to start promoting.  However, forewarned is forearmed. 

So, what do you think are the best ways to promote?  Whose websites do you really admire?  Suggestions for marketing for the rest of us?

As you're reading this, I'm probably still sleeping in the crow's nest about to enjoy another day of rest and relaxation while the sun beats down on me warm and comforting. Nothing like a little Spring time in Phoenix to cheer up this ninja pirate. I'll be back next week with something boring to put you guys to sleep on hump day; but in the meantime, I've lined up one of the best to cover for me today. You all know her as that wonderful erotica writer, Dee S. Knight and her "sister" Anne writes the sweetest contemporary romance in the market today. Give it up for our guest pirate!

***

As writers, we're totally consumed with words-the style, the quality, the grammatical correctness, the tense, the appropriateness, the number, the... ACK!! Before you know it, you're curled up in a corner with a glazed look in your eyes, mumbling verses like:

I write them short
I write them long,
But still can't weave
An author's song.
My keyboard's hot
But still no words
That sound much more
Than worthless turds.

Been there, done that. No matter how hard it is to write and re-write, words are our business and their importance can't be overlooked. Here's an example of how vital communicating the right word can be.

The Lone Ranger was ambushed and captured by an enemy Indian war party.

The Indian Chief proclaims, "So, you are the great Lone Ranger. In honor of the Harvest Festival, you will be executed in three days. But, before I kill you, I will grant you three requests. What is your first?"

The Lone Ranger responds, "I'd like to speak to my horse."

The Chief nods and Silver is brought before the Lone Ranger, who whispers in Silver's ear. The horse listens, then gallops away.

Later that evening, Silver returns with a beautiful blonde woman on his back. As the Indian Chief watches, the blonde enters the Lone Ranger's tent and spends the night.

The next morning the Indian Chief admits he's impressed. "You have a very fine and loyal horse but I will still kill you in two days. What is your second request?"

The Lone Ranger again asks to speak to his horse. Silver is brought forward, and once more he whispers in the horse's ear. Silver takes off across the plains and disappears over the horizon.

Later that evening, to the Chief's surprise, Silver returns with a brunette, even more attractive than the blonde. She enters the Lone Ranger's tent and spends the night.

The following morning the Indian Chief says, "You are indeed a man of many talents but I still kill you tomorrow. What is your last request?"

The Lone Ranger responds, "I'd like to speak to my horse....alone." The Chief is curious but he agrees and Silver is brought to the Lone Ranger's tent.

Once they're alone, the Lone Ranger grabs Silver by both ears, looks him square in the eye and says, "Listen very carefully you dumb ass horse. For the last time, BRING POSSEEEE"

 

Poor Lone. So, how can we tell if we're communicating the right words? Well, there are a few of ways I use. I won't kid you, they're all difficult as heck, but they work most of the time.

 

1. Find overused words like really, that and just and only. I use two ways to do this and both are good.
   Use the Search feature. Each time one of those words is found, read the sentence and make sure the word is required for the meaning you're trying to convey. If not, cut!!
   Read your work out loud. Yes, all of your work, even those hotter than blazes sex scenes. If you have to take a flashlight into the closet to be alone, I can't emphasize enough how helpful this can be, and for more than finding unneeded words.


2. Reading aloud helps you notice words repeated in close proximity. *He wore a serious expression. "We're in serious trouble," she said. "Yes," he answered, "I've hardly ever been in such a serious position."* And that's before they got into bed.


3. Unneeded words bog down your writing. Pay particular attention to the ending of sentences and words immediately after verbs. *He shrugged his shoulders before answering.* What else would he shrug? his shoulders is not needed. *"Get out," she said to her.* If there're only two people present, leave off to her. *Her heart pounded in her chest.* Well, yeah. *I must get out, she thought to herself.* Yes, if she's thinking, she's doing it to herself, no need to say it.


4. Turn your work over to someone else to read. The trick here is to find someone you trust. It's okay if they like you, but it's not a necessity. J As long as they'll be honest about what they read and help you make your work as powerful as possible-meaning with the right words used in the right way-you're okay. The sad truth is, the same way you easily see errors in someone else's work, your critique partner will see them in yours. Damn it.


5. Think about what you want each scene to mean. Does each sentence, each paragraph help you accomplish your goal? I can't tell you the number of times I've had to cut words I really, really love because they don't help the scene get where it needs to go. The same goes for scenes within chapters. This is tough to get used to, but if you read your work and you're going through 2-3 pages of narrative, take a step back and make sure you can't turn that into dialogue or action. Readers have short attention spans and often don't appreciate your genius in narrative. What's a writer to do? Cut!


6. And of course (which are unnecessary words, but hey...), make sure the word you've used is the word you meant to use. As shown above, there's a big difference between posse and uh, you know, the other word. But if you need another reminder, here you go.

 

It was a hot Saturday evening in the summer of 1964 and Fred had a date with Peggy Sue. He arrived at her house and rang the bell.

 

"Oh, come on in!" Peggy Sue's mother said as she welcomed Fred in. "Would you like something to drink? Lemonade? Iced tea?"

 

"Iced tea, please," Fred said.

 

"So, what are you and Peggy planning to do tonight?" Peggy Sue's mom asked when she brought the drinks.

 

"Oh, probably catch a movie, and then maybe grab a bite to eat at the malt shop, maybe take a walk on the beach..."

 

"Peggy likes to screw, you know," Mom confided.

 

"Really?" Fred raised his eyebrows.

 

"Oh yes," she continued. "When she goes out with her friends, that's all they do!"

 

"Is that so?" asked Fred, incredulously.

 

"Yes. As a matter of fact, she'd screw all night if we let her!"

 

"Well, thanks for the tip!" Fred said as he began thinking about alternate plans for the evening.

 

A moment later, Peggy Sue came down the stairs looking pretty as a picture, wearing a pink sweater set and a pleated skirt, and with her hair tied back in a bouncy ponytail. She greeted Fred.

 

"Have fun, kids!" her mother said as they left.

 

Half an hour later, a completely disheveled Peggy Sue burst into the house and slammed the front door. "The Twist, Mom!" she angrily yelled to her mother in the kitchen. "The damn dance is called the Twist!"

 

Thanks for letting me sub today-I feel so like a Pirate! Also, heaven knows, I don't have all the secrets about word hunting. Please share your techniques, problems or questions.

There’s a picture I adore, that pretty much every time I see it on something: a purse, an art print, an ashtray, whatever—I buy it. It’s the TIME photo of the sailor kissing the nurse in Time Square, V-J Day, 1945. (I know, what is it with me and guys with ships, right?)

 

My admiration for this moment in time baffles my honey, who says completely straight-faced: “It’s billed as romantic, but it’s not. He didn’t even know her.” This from an ex-Navy guy who I’m sure kissed plenty of women he didn’t know. “They didn’t even end up together.” Again, said without irony. This from a man who thinks the Lancelot-Gwenivere-Arthur triangle is romantic. I mean, those two don’t end up together either. But whatever. I love this picture. It’s not romance I see in that photo.

 

After all, take a good look at this kiss. He’s got her locked in a half-nelson and it looks like one bruising kiss. (He probably could have used some tips from my honey about kissing. Like, “Yeah, girls like it when you frame their face with your hands, not perform a wrestling move.”) So no, I don’t look at the photo and sigh, “Isn’t it romantic?” I look at it and think, “Yeah, I’ve been that relieved before.”

 

Let me explain.

 

Math is not my strong suit. There are days when simple addition is a victory to me. I blame my English degree, but it’s really because I just don’t care. In college, I needed 8 hours of math and science to fulfill my general education requirements. I found in my senior year, I was deficient one semester hour. Of course, classes run in threes; and so the choice was: do you want a science or a math course? It was rather like being given the choice to ingest arsenic or cyanide. Either way, I’m dead at the end, which is not a preferred outcome. I went with math, since I’m even worse at science…and am even more apathetic. I chose a Finite Mathematics course. My other option was College Algebra; but strangely, although Algebra features the alphabet, at no point am I able to understand the language. Finite at least gave the impression there would be an end to the torture.

 

I flunked three of the four tests. I was lazy—and also godawful at the homework. However, I needed to pass the final or I wouldn’t graduate; and failure of this magnitude was not an option. I mean, I wasn’t going to graduate because I was deficient one hour of math? Please. The professor told me how many points I needed to make on the final exam in order to pass the class with a C-. And I think I got the points needed, plus maybe one or two to spare. I got my C-. I passed. I would graduate. I was ecstatic, like in a pure King of the World moment.

 

I barely remember getting back to my dorm, but I do remember I smiled at everyone and greeted everyone I met with “I got a C!” as if this were the best news anyone could have ever gotten. I would like it pointed out here that I graduated magna cum laude. I had never gotten a C in my life, in high school or college. (Plenty of B-‘s but no actual C’s. Except perhaps once in driver’s ed, well, never mind.) I danced up the stairs to my dorm room and as I’m tra-la-laing down the hall, singing about my C, I spotted the guy I’d had a horrible crush on for at least three years. He knows, of course. Everyone knows.

 

“I got a C!” I say, and in a moment of blazing clarity, I strode into the room where he sat, framed his face with my hands, and kissed him. Then to explain this assault, I said again in pure glee: “I got a C!” My best friend Mac stared at me like I’d grown two heads. I kissed him on both cheeks, bouncing and bright-eyed. “I got a C, Mac! I passed! Isn’t that wonderful?”

 

My crush gaped at me in horror. I danced back out of the room, carrying my message of triumph to the rest of the floor. We, of course, never discussed this breech of conduct ever again. (Oh, he bitched about it for a while until Mac pointed out that it sounded like he was protesting too much—and thus he had to shut up or be accused of wanting me to lay another one on him.)

 

But let me point out: that kiss wasn’t a bit romantic. Not a spark, not a toe curl. It was just pure, blessed, unadulterated relief.

 

Now I don’t look at that V-J picture and think of my college crush. (I mean, I haven’t thought of him, since, well, college.) I see TRIUMPH OVER DEFEAT. That’s all. I see a time period where we’d spent the last fifteen years trying to recover from the Great Depression and the last five trying to beat a two-front war. I see scrimping and sacrifice; I feel the worry of people who wonder if things will ever get better, if they will ever win. And in that picture, I see people who do know things will be better. That all their hard work, sacrifice and fervent prayers to heaven were not for naught. Here’s the proof at last. Finally, finally, a reason to celebrate. It’s America’s Happily Ever After epilogue after a long, awful Black Moment that seems to take up three-fourths of the book.

 

I’ve entertained the notion of writing a WWII set novel—I love reading novels in that setting. Dad shares really great stories (after I bother him enough) about his time in the Navy during this period; and I even know the hero I’d want to write about. (No, not my dad, though he would make a great hero too.) Dad has a group photo of the guys who worked in the boiler room. (I mean, he had photos from everywhere on this ship.) And one young man positioned in the middle is pure hero material: passionate dark eyes, the Mr. Darcy hair on his brow, the lean figure and prominent cheekbones. W.T. Griffith was his name—but the boys just called him Watertight. And of course, he was girl crazy, but tended to aim out of his league. (Some things never change.) However, Watertight died in the boiler room when one of the kamikaze planes hit the ship. He never did get his girl. I always thought he should. Maybe even kiss a girl on the street in relief and end up with a happily ever after instead.

 

All right. Anyone ever been struck by a story that came from a simple picture? Anyone got any pictures to share that simply move you? Anyone ever feel that sense of overwhelming relief after something—and did something crazy after?