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Shirley In The Door

Several of our recent blogs talk about new beginnings. In real life, Julie enters a new phase with an empty nest. Toni's girls overcome a hurdle and find self-confidence through bike riding. As to writing, my fellow Femmes have given the best advice on getting through difficulties when beginning a project that I've seen. Most of us face one or more of the common roadblocks they describe on occasion. Thank you, ladies, for such clear, easy to understand examples of how to get on with it when we're having trouble.

In thinking about these, I keep remembering Shirley. Shirley is 59 years old. She is nine feet tall. She weighs 9200 pounds and lives in Tennessee at the Elephant Sanctuary, a 2,700 acre home for retired circus and zoo elephants.

Thirty years ago, one of Shirley's back legs was broken when another circus elephant attacked her. Her leg wasn't re-set properly, so it never healed properly. Still, she was made to do tricks for two more years before being moved to a zoo where she would spend the next twenty-three years, crippled and alone in a small enclosed space.

In 1999, she moved to her new home at the Sanctuary. She was first taken to the barn for a snack and a rest in an open-air stall next to another elephant, Tarra. The two became instant friends. Shirley showed Tarra all her scars from the attack and injuries from a terrible fire many years earlier. Tarra touched each one with her trunk, as if commiserating, and then the two caressed each other with their trunks.

What keeps coming back to me are photo images of Shirley at the door of the barn. When she saw she could walk outside if she wanted, she went to the door and stood there. And stood there. She looked out, took tentative steps near the threshold, hesitated, and stepped back. This routine went on for almost three hours. The caregivers at the sanctuary didn't pressure her, rather they wanted her to know she could decide for herself, to be where she liked when she liked. They waited, cameras in hand, to record the happy moment when Shirley realized the beautiful green valley before her was hers now, and that she was free.

What did she think as she hesitated all that time? Was she remembering the many other moves in her long life, being transferred from one cage to another? Had she dreamed of being free through the years, that maybe the next move would be to a happier place, only to find herself even more lonely and in more pain? Was she tired of hoping and being let down again?

This is where many writers find themselves when starting a new project. Yes, we're excited about the new ideas that make us want to create a story. But sometimes when we're about to begin, past hurts and disappointments come flooding in. They cause doubts that make us hesitate. Sometimes these are well-founded, from projects we worked ourselves silly over but didn't sell. It can be hard to work up the enthusiasm to try again. We know how difficult it is to get to 'The End' and that some rough times lie ahead. Sometimes personal hurts we thought no longer bothered us can come forward, maybe because of the particular story we have in mind. When we write, we stir up our insides. It's the blessing and the curse.

Shirley worked through her fears. She couldn't know that this time, she had no reason to be afraid or that on her first night, she would have a joyful reunion with an old friend. Jenny, another resident at the Sanctuary, was only a calf when she and Shirley were in the same circus one winter. It had been twenty-two years since they parted, yet when Jenny saw Shirley in the barn, she knew her right away. They roared with happiness at being together again and became inseparable.

We can't know what a writing adventure will bring when we first set out. We can only step forward in faith. It's hard sometimes, but we have to let go of whatever hinders our joy when we start. Doubts, disappointments, painful memories can loom large and overshadow our keyboards. If we can get those elephants out the door, we can be free and let our imaginations run wild again, far past the beginning to a happy ending.

For more about Shirley, Jenny, Tarra and the other girls in residence at the Sanctuary, click here.

Observations from Greece

by Toni L.P. Kelner

Last week, I returned from a trip to Athens, Greece with my husband Steve. The first few days were us playing tourist, while the last few were Steve attending his firm's tri-annual conference while I played corporate wife. So it was a mix of on-our-own wanderings, arranged tours, and meeting Steve's colleagues from all over the world. And like all tourists of all time, I made my share of observations, some of which are even applicable to the writing life.

Observation #1: People think being a writer is interesting.
I'm somewhat known within Steve's firm as being a mystery writer, and several people offered congratulations on my winning the Agatha award, even if they didn't quite get the significance. Then almost all of them said, "That's so interesting." A few upgraded it to "fascinating." This was frequently followed up with "I've been thinking of writing a book" or "Have you ever considered writing a children's book/nonfiction book/etc." I guess being a writer isn't quite interesting enough.

Observation #2: People haven't changed much.
Steve and I had noticed a lot of items for sale with eyes on them. Not gross, anatomically correct eyes, but designs that were clearly intended as eyes. While buying souvenirs, we asked the shop owner what was with the eyes, and she explained that they were a traditional form of protection, to watch out for evil. My first thought was that this would make a great bit of local color, especially for a historical story. Then, as I was on the way back to Boston, putting my eye drops and nose spray into a plastic bag to so that airport security could ensure that I wasn't going them to make a bomb, I was reminded that humans still do silly things to feel safe. The eyes probably do more good than most security blankets.

Observation #3: Tourists haven't changed much.
Maybe tourists of classical times didn't wear t-shirts from all the other attractions they've gone to, but they still want to prove they were somewhere famous. And since they didn't have digital cameras, or security guards watching them, this meant graffiti. Scores of inscriptions covered the hallowed marble of the temples of the Acropolis, including a a paean to beer on the Parthenon. Lord Byron himself, after being inspired by the Temple of Poseidon at Sounio to write some of his greatest work, scratched his name onto a column. Perhaps it's an early form of blogging.

Observation #4: People have always laid claim to those they admire.
In Athens, we heard about many local heroes, including Harry Truman, Lord Byron, Heinrich Schielmann, and Aristotle. True, Truman was American, Byron British, and Schielmann German. But Truman is revered for his role in the Marshall Plan, Byron for his poetry and dying fighting for Greek independence, and Schielmann for discovering that legendary Troy was real. (As for Aristotle, he really was Greek, but not a citizen of Athens and he was barred from many temples and courts as a result.) I'm not sure how this ties into being a writer, other than speculation that a fan's joy in claiming connection to a literary idol isn't that far off from putting a statue of Truman in Athens. Maybe I'll listen to some good old American rock-and-roll while I think about it. You know, the Beatles, the Stones, and the Kinks.

Observation #5: Remember your audience.
In 2004, Athens hosted the Summer Olympics, and all kinds of improvements were made to the city in preparation: the subway, the tram system, the new airport. If the enthusiasm of our tour guide was any indication, this was a BIG DEAL for the city. But to me, it was just something that happened three years ago. I was far more interested in the Temple of Olympian Zeus than I was the Temple of Olympics, and from the way the glazed eyes of the other people on the tour, I was not alone. The lesson I took from this was that just as the tour guide should have been more aware of her audience, it's important for a writer to remember what the reader will be interested in. (On a less lofty plain, an event that looms large to a local makes for a great way to hide a motive in plain sight.)

Observation #6: Truth can be stranger, and more powerful, than fiction.
The firm conference included a keynote speech, and spouses were invited to attend. The speaker was Nando Parrado, one of the survivors of the 1972 plane crash in the Andes, the one where sixteen men survived for seventy-two days on a glacier. And yes, this is the group that ate the bodies of those who died. I was taken aback that they chose this as a motivational speech, but I went in my role as corporate wife. And I was enthralled by Parrado's humbleness at having survived, his frankness about what they had to do, and his unwillingness to claim he was a hero. His final message to us was that we should never fail to tell others we love them, because you never know what will come. That's something that's been said so often that it's not profound enough for a Hallmark card, but when this man said that this was the most important thing he learned on that mountain, we listened. And immediately called home to talk to our children. I don't think I could ever write anything as moving as his story.

Observation #7: Fiction rocks, too.
Not only did a tour guide tell us where the first modern Olympics were held, but she also pointed out the spot from which Theseus's father Aegeus threw himself into the sea when he thought his son had been killed by the Minotaur in the labyrinth (giving his name to the Aegean Sea). Medusa, Zeus, Athena, Poseidon, and Hermes were all mentioned with the same seriousness as historical figures, and with assurance that the names would be known to us tourists. For us to recognize mythical characters from that long ago is a tribute to the power of fiction. I guess those muses are still in business.

Observation #8: There's no place like home.
I had a terrific time, but I missed my kids, my home, even the guinea pigs. And in the spirit of following Nando Parrado's advice to tell people how you feel, I offer my very warmest regards for the Femmes and to all of you people reading this post.

No Child Left Behind

Two weeks ago I joined that august group known as Empty Nesters. My daughter graduated from high school one week and left for college the next. My son graduated last year, so it was a back to back exodus. I've spent the last twenty years being Mom first and Julie second, so I expected to be disconsolate once the last child left the house.

To my great surprise and delight, I've found it relatively easy to make the transition. Perhaps because both Paul and I were actively involved in the kid's lives right through the end of high school, we feel pretty good about their readiness to enter the world wihtout us with them on a daily basis. Besides that, both kids are just a couple, three hours away, and if I really need to see for myself how they are, I can call and make an appointment with them for lunch or dinner and drive over to make sure that they still look happy -- and check on their vegetable consumption.

The time I used to spend wondering what they were doing and with whom they were doing it? I can spend that time in my garden, with my horses, and oh yeah, writing!

I finished up a rough draft about two months ago and have been afraid to look at it again. If you wonder how that could be, look at Marlys's entry about pulling weeds. All rough drafts have them, and the author is usually the last one who can see them for what they are. So once I finish a manuscript, type The End, the first thing I like to do is to put it in the drawer for a month or so. That way I can fall out of love with the story I just finished -- let that high I get when I finish diminish.

I pulled Veil out of the drawer (or perhaps I should be more accurate and say file) and started back through it. I wrote this book over a five year period of time, so the concept changed pretty drastically as I wrote it. The whoops! moments in the first few chapters were really whoopsey. Interestingly enough though, it makes a lot more sense than I thought it would. Even as I worked along with the original concept in mind, my inner writing guru was hard at work trying to straighten my fingers out as they went flying over the keys. By the time I was able to finish it, I had started and stopped writing this book more than I had packed school lunches for my children. (OK, slight exaggeration, but it feels true.) Yet the pace is strong and sure throughout the manuscript.

I usually have to write at a constant and fairly rapid rate to get from one end of the book to the other. The first fifteen chapters are like the Little Engine That Could pulling steadily uphill. I have to remind myself that while I have no clue what is going on and truthfully, have no idea how to write a book and it takes my breath away just to think I can do this, I just need to keep typing while saying, "I think I can..." Usually, about five chapters from the end, an Aha moment occurs and I know that despite all the previous struggles, all this typing will become a book. This book never gave me that. Right up until the last chapter I was still trying to figure out -- everything.

Despite all that, or perhaps because of the differences between this book and all the others I've written, I dearly love it. This character got under my skin in ways that no character had ever done before. The frustration I felt at finding that one large puzzle piece I'd been working on for months didn't fit was almost as strong as the disappointment I felt when Anne announced she was going to summer school. Veil took on a life of its own as I worked on it over the years. Like my children's determination to be themselves, not neccessarily what others expected them to be, but truly themselves -- this book has a mind of its own.

So soon I'll finish putting all the polish on it that I have to give and this next child will leave home too. I can only hope it does half as well as my human children.

Happy Father's Day to all Dads, Uncles and Granddads.

Julie

The Scariest Part

by Kris

In a recent interview for an online magazine, the interviewer asked me which part of a novel I found the hardest to write. I could have interpreted that “hardest part” in a variety of ways. I could have defined it as elements found within a novel, such as pacing or planting clues. But I chose to take the phrase literally, since the hardest part of a novel for me is inevitably the first part.

I don’t mean the opening, since opening lines and scenes come pretty easily to me. I tend to divide my books into quarters, partly because I like the 3-act structure, but also because that’s a nice convenient story hunk. Excepting the immediate opening, the first quarter is the toughest part for me to write. Probably because there’s so much to introduce, because I need to be in my book’s rhythm from the start, but I haven’t really established it yet, and because, while some characters speak to me from the start in their true voices, others insist on being coy for a while.

In any case, once I’m approaching the end of that first quarter, the book becomes a lot more fun for me. Thereafter, each quarter flows better, and as I also told the interviewer, the last quarter is always the easiest for me, practically writing itself.

As a longtime writing instructor, I’ve noticed different writers find challenges in different parts. Some get sidelined by the middle of a book. That could be because we writers and our characters start liking the sounds of our own voices too much, and by the middle, we might be getting way too chatty. That slows it down. Besides watching how much my characters babble, I also like to have a big midpoint twist. Just knowing that twist is coming, causes me to keep the pace moving. Not that I’m a big outliner. At best I’m a loose planner, and the middle of a book is where I know the least. But I’ve thoroughly integrated into my thinking the need for a big midpoint twist, and somehow my brain always seems to provide one. For those writers among you, if middles are your problem, consider some of those ideas.

Given how well endings come together for me, the difficulty I find the hardest to relate to is when the ending won’t come. But I’ve known lots of writers who do struggle with finishing their books. I suspect in some cases it’s because they don’t consider the book’s conclusion at all during the writing process. Maybe they’ve also thrown in so many extraneous strands, but haven’t thought about how to tie them together.

Don’t get me wrong — I believe in tossing in those extraneous strands. To me that’s the subconscious mind at its best. If some idea comes to me, and I have no idea how it’ll fit in, I write it in anyway, trusting that its purpose will become evident eventually. For me, those off-the-wall elements mostly do fit in. Actually, I'm usually amazed at how well they come together, since I certainly don't plan them. But if they don’t, eventually it is necessary to address how to tie those strands together, or to question whether some of those strands benefit the book at all. 

But for too many new writers who struggle with endings, I believe their blocks have nothing to do with not knowing how to end their books. I suspect it’s fear that causes those books to sputter to a halt. Why? Because if they finish them, then they’ll have to do something with them. And publishing is a bigger, scarier monster than the ones that used to live under our beds when we were kids.

Publishing can be scary. But unfinished books are like babies who never leave the womb. Books, like babies, deserve to be born. They deserve their chance to tame the world, including the world of publishing.

For anyone stuck at the three-quarter point, why don’t you just forget about the future for now, and concentrate on the book. Let it show you the way it wants to end. Who knows? You might surprise yourself and find you like writing endings as much as I do.

GOT WEEDS

Marlys Millhiser

GOT WEEDS

I have finally finished the rough draft of a book manuscript I’ve been working on forever, put it away to cool, brought it out to revise, and discovered it’s got weeds.

After being shut in by one horrific winter with tons of snow spring has sprung and my yard and flower beds and trees are celebrating sun and tons of water left behind by blizzards followed by heavy spring rains. And so are the weeds. Their roots go to the center of the earth at least, bind weed to China. I yank and pull and dig and pry and end up on my tush so often the neighbors are taking pictures you don’t want to see.

I once had an editor demand I cut at least 30 pages from a book manuscript that had sold for an advance I’d never see again. All she wanted was that I clean it up pretty. Like Larry the Cable Guy, I knew it was unreasonable and ridiculous to even make such a request. I tend to offer manuscripts after I’ve finished them because I can’t plot. I can’t tell you how it ends until I get there. No way was I going to tear it up again and put it back together. So, I took out over thirty pages and it went hardback, book club, paperback, and is currently still in print in its edition in trade paperback. Maybe what I’m saying is what every writer knows but doesn’t want to admit to, nothing’s sacred and life’s a crap shoot, the writing life especially so. All that editor wanted was that I get rid of the weeds.

Remember my diatribe about Dell in my last blog and the answer I got from "Niel" in Austin? Well, I’ve just been informed by a local computer doctor that the Inspiron won’t take the Corel Word Perfect 12 software I ordered with it. My Del desktop upstairs has it and it works fine. Wonder if "Neil" in Austin has been laid off in the current downsizing. Hope not.

I write this on the old Pavilion now, the one whose lid will not close without ripping up some necessary connections or so my husband says. I tend to take his word for most things. He is focused, I am scattered. Engineers are infinitely resourceful and curious about what makes things tick. I don’t put up with as much as he does--I wouldn’t marry a writer if you paid me or even move in with one. Like Red Green, my guy can fix most anything–and his fixes tend to work better than Red’s but sometimes the appearance of the fix is similar. Duck tape and bailing wire do work.

You won’t believe what I read in the paper just now! Constantly breaking off bindweed at ground level weakens the root and the plant eventually dies. Clear down to China? Wow. Really?

The only time my husband and I went to a marriage counselor was when I insisted upon a new refrigerator because parts of its interior were held together with guess what? Looked awful but it worked.

I don’t know yet what I’m going to do with the soft ware and new computer, but I know I’m going to keep the husband and go out right now and tear bind weed off at the roots. Grrrrrrrr. Did I tell you we have a half acre? That’s a lotta bindweed.

How do we dance?

By Dana

I was sitting down to work on a short story yesterday, one I’ve been looking forward to working on for a while, just waiting for the time to get to the keyboard.  But time after time, I’d write a line (or a part of a line), and then find a reason to get up and flee.  I was getting far more solitaire played than I was generating pages and it was freaking me out.  I knew what I wanted to do, I knew I could have fun with this, where was my focus?

I kept thinking about writers famously resistant to writing (Dorothy Parker, for one) and giving myself the willies. 

I don’t believe in writer’s block.  I don’t believe in writer’s block. I don’t believe in writer’s block.

But what if this was the time that I learned there really was—?  Oh, great mother pus-buckets…

It was IM’ing my husband that sorted it out for me.  Having to type out why I thought I wasn’t getting the job done dragged the problem out of my subconscious.  Once I realized it, I sighed great, heaving sighs of relief and offered libations to my own personal pantheon.  Then I got down to work.  Five and a half pages, zip, boom, squish.

When I was four and going to ballet lessons for the first time, I’m told that I was more than resistant.  It turns out that, yes, I wanted to dance, but I didn’t want to go to classes because I didn’t know how to dance.  I didn’t want to look like a dope while I was learning.  A four-year-old’s logic, but apparently potent enough to stick around for the next forty years.  I went and I had fun (though the teacher had to remind me to keep my tongue inside my mouth; it kept peeking out at one side, I was concentrating so hard). 

I wasn’t writing the story because I was afraid I’d disappoint myself.  I was afraid there’d be goopy bits that didn’t belong or that would be embarrassing, or that I’d get off track.  And while I know that a writer has to get some stuff down—anything down—to be able  to edit it into something readable, I was jumping way ahead, letting the inner critic off her leash before time.  Paralyzing myself.  Typing out, “I don’t want to write it because it won’t be perfect” reminded me that it didn’t need to be perfect, no one was going to see the raw stuff right away, and that yeah, the early product might look precious or sloppy, but then came the glorious chance to improve it.  How many times in your life do you get retries on anything?  Glorious.

I remain a huge fan of the series Northern Exposure.  When the writing was good, it blew the doors off many, many shows before or since.  There’s an episode where Ed is trying to get a crane reintroduced into the wild.  He and Chris take her out to the lake at mating season and teach her to dance, so she can join up with the other cranes.  The last scene remains one of my favorites:  Ed asks Chris what they do next (I’m paraphrasing):

Chris:  We dance.

Ed:  Oh.  Well, how do we dance?

Chris:  With abandon.

Sit down.  Start typing that scene you really want to write.  With abandon.  Anything that doesn’t belong can come out (and may tell you back-story that you need, even if your reader doesn’t), anything that’s missing will be apparent once you have the whole to work with.  And if you’re stuck, type out why you don’t want to write.  Acknowledge it, figure out a way around it (just like Toni did when she was helping her daughter learn to ride a bike).  Then blow it off the road.

Some days I feel like brontosaurus. (Others, I'm definitely a T Rex, and those are days you better get out of my way.) Summers bring on a brontosaurus mood, by their very nature.

The changing way you look at summer dates you as surely as if you'd gotten your hand stamped at the cosmic library.

Remember when you were a kid? I can, vaguely. Remember how summer looked then? Like an endless corridor with lots of wonderful doors leading off of it, and each door led to a different opportunity to do something really neat.

That was the summer feeling that prevailed for the first twenty years of my life. So just the word "summer" conjured up pleasurable images, and it became a different way of life -- Summer, not summer. In Summer, you wore clothes that were cool, and you could get them dirty. In Summer, you didn't have to get up and get on the school bus. In Summer, you could have friends over in the middle of the week. In Summer, you could go to the movies any night. In Summer, you might even go on a vacation.

The season still had that feel until I got married and had a baby, and another baby, and then another. That was the screeching halt to Summer, and the beginnings of summer as Hell. Let me explain that though I think my children are the center of the universe and I love every molecule of their bodies, I am not (and never was and never will be) a "kid" person. I was never a mother who lined up arts and crafts for her children to do, and never a mother who loved to go out in the yard and play with her kids and their friends. I was also not a mom who could relax and let the house go into summer mode, whatever that might be.

I was an older, tenser, mom, who just wanted things to go smoothly with few arguments and no blood-letting.

Of course, it never worked out that way. Oh, I've played my share of Candyland, and I've filled my share of wading pools. I've had slumber parties and cooked hamburgers and hot dogs, and I've thrown plenty of birthday celebrations. But I was never a  good Summer mom.

Now that I only have one chick left in the next, and that chick can drive, I don't automatically tense up when someone says the "s" word in my ear. I know I'll get to work without the kids (or their sitter) interrupting me every ten minutes. I know I don't have to worry about Chick hitting her friends with a stick or not picking up her dolls and crayons. (Now she doesn't pick up much bigger items.)

And you know what? That makes me a brontosaurus. Actually, thinking back on it . . . I'm good with that.