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Dust, spiders, NINJA HIGH SCHOOL!

By Dana

I’m sitting here with a headache and scratchy throat.  It’s not from anything fun, like screaming my head off at a concert (who knew the Boston Symphony Orchestra doesn’t take requests?) or pounding the vodka back at the club (the Garden Club here in Beverly is smoking-hot situation).  I’ve been sorting out my library/guest room to get it ready for painting.  I try to keep the house tidy, but even when the books are stacked two deep on the shelves, and there doesn’t seem to be any space left, dust insinuates itself and coats everything.  And, in my efforts to cull the collection—culling books, how the hell are you supposed to do that?—I’ve rousted a few spiders.  I hate spiders, Jock, I hate ‘em!  So it’s been grim going, here at Casa Cameron.   

Sigh.  My office waits, when the library is done.  That’s going to be even worse.

But…wait!  A jewel amidst the rediscovered treasures!  Even better than finding books I acquired but have not yet read, even better than conquering the dust and the spiders (okay, there was just one, but I swear there was another lurking nearby…waiting), waaaay better than  a sense of accomplishment from cleaning…there was Ninja High School. 

I used to collect comics.  A lot of them.  My then-boyfriend-now-husband got me hooked.  I don’t know how we afforded them when we were so broke, but we did.  It was a habit that followed me to college, to study abroad, to graduate school.  I got friends hooked.  I stopped making fun of people who watched soap operas because, basically, I was also addicted to serialized, improbable fiction.  Most were Marvel (and, OMG, did you see Joe Quesada on Colbert last night?), many were indies, but none were more beloved by me than Ninja High School. 

Created by Ben Dunn and put out by Eternity, the plot of NHS went down traditional paths.  Jeremy is an ordinary sixteen-year old student at Quagmire High.  An alien princess Asrial, also attends; she needs to marry Jeremy in order to secure Earth as part of the Salusian Empire.  Another student, the ninja Ichi-Kun, must marry Jeremy in order to take over her clan.  Conflicts arise and high-jinks of the intergalactic and ninja variety ensue, complete with humanoid skunks, lasers, sailor-girl uniforms, and shuriken.  As you do. 

NHS started off as a parody of American comics and Japanese manga, and then became its own thing (remember, Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles started off as a parody, too, then became…something waaay else).  It struck a note with me and I followed it faithfully until I stopped buying comics. 

I stumbled upon NHS #15 yesterday, which wasn’t with the other comics because I’d pulled it (along with Lone Wolf and Cub #1) to show a friend.  I haven’t read it in years. 

I just re-read it. 

Not bad.  I want to go back and re-read them.  I see why I liked the series.  Girls mooning over frilly dresses and a nice boy; girls in battle-armor and ninja garb destroying everything.  It takes the best parts of comic books (plot complexity, serial adventure, imagination) and gently makes fun of other conventions while still doing its own thing.  And who can resist a line like “YOU SHALL FEEL THE WRATH OF A SALUSIAN OF IMPERIAL BIRTH UNLEASHED!”?

Cool!   I love rediscovering old favorites have stood the test of time.

Crap!  This means I have to clean the downstairs closet to find the rest of them.

P.S.  I just renovated my website.  And I've been blogging away.  Do swing by and have a look!

It's all fodder: Life with Wesley

by Donna

It's all fodder for the writing. That's what writers tell themselves when going through any difficult, dangerous, or trying experience. I have no desire to be mugged again, but the experience of being mugged many years ago is something I occasionally use. I've convinced my friends who go caving to take me along sometimes, because even though I'm mildly claustrophobic and acrophobic, I wanted to see what it was like. The Chinese are said to consider "May you live in interesting times" a curse rather than a blessing, but for a writer, interesting times are all grist for the mill.

This week's addition to my roster of interesting times: I'm dogsitting. I've done this before, of course, and I thought I knew what I was in for. But I didn't make enough allowance for the fact that the previous loaner dogs were all, now that I think of it, middle aged. Sometimes elderly.

Wesley's a puppy. Maybe two years old. Physically full grown, but I'm told he's the equivalent of a teenage boy. Yeah, that computes. His owners think he's probably a German shepherd/Norwegian elkhound mix. Pretty dog. And friendly. The only thing they knew about him before they took him in as a foster dog was that the shelter said "Wesley loves everybody." And he's definitely very affectionate.  So keeping him for a week should be easy, right?  Not to mention useful—I had every hope that while patrolling my back yard, he would leave traces of doggy scent that would discourage the deer from leaping in to ravage the shrubbery.

A friend who has several German shepherds tells me that they're prone to chewing on things. I knew this was a possibility—the first day he was with his new owners, he chewed a garden hose to bits. So I went around and did much the same things I used to do to childproof my house when my nephews were younger. Picking up. Putting dangerous things in the basement, in the garage, in the guest room, or just up on top of something. I got out the dog dish I keep around for visiting dogs, made sure the gates to my fenced-in back yard were closed, and thought I was ready. Then—but I'll tell the rest of the story by largely sharing excerpts from the emails I sent to a social listserv I belong to.

January 19, 2008, 1:14 p.m.
Kathy dropped off Wesley this morning, and a little while later I took them to the airport for their plane.  Wesley and I are now settling in for our week together.  He's currently vacuuming the floor of my office, which hasn't had a dog's attention for quite a few months.  I'm hoping he'll leave lot of nice, deer-repelling dog scent in my yard. 

January 20, 2008, 10:49 p.m.
Wesley is not going to be as easy a guest as Ulfus used to be.  I have been letting him in and shoving him back outside all morning.  Letting him in because it's damned cold outside--25--and I can see how even an elkhound might prefer to be inside.  And then shoving him outside if he misbehaves.  For example, if he won't stop jumping into my lap and trying to playfully grab my hand with his teeth.  Not an appropriate form of play.  And just now, I took pity on him and let him in.  Then I went upstairs to close the doors to the bathroom and bedroom, so I could control where he went and limit the damage.  When I came back downstairs, the slice of leftover pizza I was about to eat was missing from the counter. That merited exile outside.  Now he's back in and staring hopefully at the counter.....

January 20, 2008, 12:26 p.m.
I went to the grocery store and got him some chews. He's outside happily dismembering a peanut butter flavored rawhide bone. I feel reasonably sure that at least for a while, he won't be popping up asking to be let in until he's getting cold and wants to warm up.  At least that's the theory.

January 20, 2008, 12:32 p.m.
If it were warmer, I would simply shove him outside when he gets rambunctious, ignore his whining and scratching at the door and let him burn off energy running around outside.  But it's 24 degrees outside.  Even a full-blooded elkhound isn't necessarily happy staying out indefinitely in that, and he's only part elkhound.  If I had a better sense of when he's chilled and when he's merely bored and wanting to play with me, I would be more firm. But he gets shoved out, at least for a short while, whenever he does something bad, like starting to chew on the comforter that covers my futon bed/sofa.

January 21, 2008, 9:48 p.m.
Wesley has been pouncing on and chewing and batting about and otherwise torturing his squeaky toy most of the morning.  If I agree to capture it from him and let him pry it out from under my foot, he's in seventh heaven.

Is eating used Kleenex dangerous for dogs?  Wesley seems to have passion for them, and since I'm getting over the sinus infection that followed my cold, it's hard to keep them all out of his paws and jaws.

January 21, 2008, 7:05 p.m.
Life around here would be quieter if Wesley would lose interest in that other elkhound...the one who, after dark, always peers in the sliding glass doors just as Wesley is peering out.  Or if dogs could understand the concept of reflections...

January 22, 2008, 12:05 p.m.
My goal for today, now that it is above freezing, is to convince Wesley that he should spending a lot of his time outdoors, exploring the yard, chasing the squirrels, and generally doing things apartment-living dogs would kill to be able to do.  It's been working pretty well so far--he gets rambunctious, I send him outside before it gets to the point of being bad. And I've got my coat, hat, gloves, and boots handy so periodically I can go out and encourage him to run around.  Does my heart good to glance out the window and see him poking about in the woods or trotting purposefully across the yard.  And it's a lot closer to his normal routine, I suspect.

After a friend pointed out to me that I was now the leader of Wesley's temporary pack of two:

January 22, 2008, 8:41 p.m.
Yeah, I realize I'm pack.  I hope he realizes I am the leader!  I'm kidding about the food; I know that's not the ONLY reason he's following me around.

Does tail wagging always indicate happiness?  Or is it sometimes just a reflex, the way some people say cats' purring is?

I have to admit, the whole dance of pleading he does when he wants to be let in is rather endearing.  He puts his ears down in a what I have deduced is a submissive display, and literally dances from foot to foot with eagerness.  Awww.

January 23, 2008, 5:54 p.m.
In the past hour, Wesley has tried to eat a Zip-lock bag and a Sharpie.  I'm not sure whether he managed to swallow part of the bag.  Luckily he didn't try to bite me when I had to pin him down and pry a half-dollar sized chunk of plastic (the end of the Sharpie) out of his mouth....then again, maybe he had realized that it was likely to choke him.

Wesley-proofing my house is considerably harder than nephew-proofing was......

January 23, 2008, 8:03 p.m.
I'm getting better at Wesley-wrangling.  Got the ten dollar bill away from him without even tearing it.

January 24, 2008, 1:49 p.m.
Took Wesley for a long walk.  The idea was to see if I could wear him out.  Worked the other way around.  Ever seen those pictures of a bloodhound handler being nearly pulled over by the dog's enthusiasm for the chase?  That was us.  Since about half of our route was through the woods behind my house, he got to see lots of squirrels and smell the tracks of many people, dogs, and deer.

I'm ready for a nap after I bolt my lunch.  He's ready to play some more. (At right: the southbound end of a northbound elkhound.)

January 24, 2008, 5:06 p.m.
Last night, after he tried to eat another mechanical pencil, my doormat, and a gauze Indian print scarf, I shoved him outside to play. Part of the problem appears to be that he has taken his kong outside and lost or hidden it, leaving with no legitimate toys to play with inside.  Or at least none quite so absorbing as the kong, especially when there's peanut butter involved. I've looked, several times, but it's hard to find one small toy--even a bright red one--in the third of an acre that's fenced in.

This morning, he slipped out the door while I was trying to take the trash out, and got an unauthorized tour of the neighborhood.  Then, after the HVAC serviceman arrived to perform my twice yearly maintenance (which Wesley supervised from the yard), I took him out for a brisk 50 minute walk. Brisk as in two thirds of the time he was pulling as hard as he could, and the rest of the time he spent sniffing.  I found myself wishing he'd do a little more sniffing; at the pace he was keeping, I would be happy to stop to inspect anything that wasn't actually either dung or carrion.

Then, after I had theoretically exhausted him, or at least slowed him down a little, I crated him for a nap while I ran errands.  One of my errands was to the grocery store where I found....kongs!  So now he has two kongs, if either of us could find them both. 

January 26, 2008, 9:19 a.m.
Talked to Wesley's owners, who called last night to report that they would be arriving home today, as planned, and to see if my schedule still permitted picking them up.  They asked how it had gone, and I gently broke the news that his training still had a long way to go. 

While we were talking, I mentioned that Wesley was outside.  After we hung up, it occurred to me that he had been outside rather a long time.  Longer than usual.  Longer than he'd EVER been outside without at least a token scratch on the sliding glass door. I went out and called....no answer.  I called again, and heard the jingle of his tags going back and forth....pretty much along the fence line.  And there's only a light line of trees along the fence on the two sides; it's at the back that the yard becomes part of the woods.  So I should have seen him running.  Unless he'd escaped the fence and gotten into the neighbors' yard and was running along the fence, looking for a way in.

I kept calling, and moved to the gate at the front of the yard on that side of the house.  Sure enough, he eventually came scampering over.  From the neighbors' yard. I led him inside.

Where he proceeded to be bad, standing on his hind legs to get at stuff, jumping on me, running around wildly....I decided to try him outside again.  Maybe his getting out was a fluke.

It wasn't.  But fortunately he's much more interested in being with me than in running away.  Again, he came when I called.  But I kept him in for the rest of the night, crated him a little earlier than usual, and went to bed early myself.  With some Advil.  What with the long walk and all, I was tired.

This morning I got up, let him out of the crate (which is a smallish crate, so the whole thing bumps slightly when the does the Dance of Pleading/Dance of Joy, as I call the excited movements he makes when he wants to get in/out, turning even more excited when he realizes that I'm actually going to let him in/out.), fed him, made sure he had fresh water, and then, when he'd finished eating, I went out into the yard with him.  I suspected he might be using a fallen tree to get up high enough to leap over one of the places where trees have fallen on my fence, breaking it or knocking the top rail askew. That's how he got over the childgate, by jumping up on the futon sofa and leaping from that.

But I was wrong.  I ambled along after him and he led me straight to the part of the fence where the mesh had come loose and he could wriggle under.  I was torn....chase Wesley or fix the hole?  He was exploring, not moving very fast, so I decided to start with a temporary hole fix.  I dragged logs to lie along the base of the fence on the inside and the outside, pinning the wire down as much as possible and blocking the space.  Then I went back to the house to fetch the leash and the squeaky toy, ready for the recapture mission.

When I turned around, he was at my heels.  He has since been out without managing to escape, so I have shut down that hole in the border perimeter.  But I'm sure that the active mind and busy paws of an elkhound will find other holes eventually.  Fortunately, his stay with me is coming to an end.

He's outside at the moment, torturing the squeaky toy.

January 26, 2008, 12:06 p.m.
Wesley's upcoming trip to the Orient
He's in the back yard, digging holes.  He still has a way to go before he reaches China but at the rate he's going, it shouldn't take long.  Going to find my passport now.

And after a friend told me I'd have to keep giving them updates on Wesley, even though he's now a neighbor, rather than a resident:

January 26 2008, 10:43 p.m.
Well, the updates will become less frequent, now that he is back with his family.  Before I took him back, I let him finish off the last of the jar of peanut butter....it was left over from my family's Christmas visit and would otherwise have gone to waste, since I only eat peanut butter in Reese's cups.  So he performed at least one useful task.  And he seemed happy when I took him down to his usual crate, so I feel relieved.

I failed to report that within three hours of Wesley's departure, I chase three deer out of my yard.  Are the damned things psychic?

And there you have it: my week with Wesley. People are always asking writers where they get their ideas.  Odds are some of Wesley's antics will turn into Spike's latest quirks in a future book. Or better yet: what if Meg and Michael are dogsitting this big, energetic puppy...?

It's all fodder.

Acceptances Trump Rejections, but...

By Kris

Acceptances rule, right? Well, sure — only a masochist would want her writing to be rejected. Acceptances make us dance on clouds, while rejections are like eating dirt. Having both danced and eaten lately has gotten me musing on the subject of acceptances and rejections.

Rejections are a necessary evil in most writers' lives, especially those who freelance lots of shorter works, and it's one we accept without question. Crazy, huh? While setbacks pop up in every walk of life, few face the level of rebuffs that writers do. Can you imagine anyone in a traditional job who not only settles for little pay, but who sometimes invests her own money to work there, who receives regular feedback that amounts to, "You're ugly and your mother dresses you funny," becoming grateful enough to weep if she receives an occasional, "Attagirl"? Writing obviously draws people of exceptional character, or those who are totally nuts. Maybe it's not either-or.

Do acceptances make rejections worthwhile? I've certainly pursued them with a maniacal vengeance. Back when I wrote a dizzying number of short stories, there was one publication whose editor stamped "acceptance enclosed" in red ink on the happy-making return envelopes. I submitted way too many stories to that publication, just to experience more of that instant mailbox thrill, even though tearing the envelope open only delayed that rush by seconds. That's how addicted I became to acceptances.

But while nobody should ever become comfortable with rejection, it can actually aid a writer's development.

A friend of mine recently received her first rejection on her first novel. Her agent marked it as a rite of passage, declaring that she was a true writer now that she'd received a rejection. Good spin, because while the rejection doubtless did disappoint my friend, I suspect that seeing herself at a new stage on the writing continuum also produced some pride.

But the benefits of rejection aren't limited to the emotional arena. When I was a brand new writer, I wrote an overly-long story that broke countless writing conventions. Though I knew it was regarded as unprofessional to exceed a publication's stated guidelines, I took a chance and submitted that wordy story anyway, acknowledging its length, yet appealing to the editor to give it a chance.

Despite its flaws, that story must have contained some spark, because that editor sent me a detailed rejection with advice for improving it. That's when I learned, as all writers should, that rejections are not all the same. There is such a thing as a good rejection.

Onto the next... I took the same approach with another publication, and once again, I received considerable editorial assistance along with my thumbs-down. It pains me to admit how much must have been wrong with that story, because while I applied the first editor's suggestions, the next found a new laundry list of aspects that needed work. And sure, each rejection tore a hole in my heart, but I learned from those editors who were generous enough to aid a writer who didn't yet deserve publication.

That story went through more editorial hands and more rewrites than I care to admit. But those rejections taught me plenty. When acceptance finally came, the victory was extra-sweet for the journey that story took.

Sure, acceptances still make my spirits soar, and while rejections don't wound me as deeply anymore, they make me grumble and grouse. But I have to admit they've made me a better, more determined, writer than I would be without them. They've made me try harder.

So…yeah…acceptances trump rejections any day. But rejection still holds a useful place on the writing path.

SURGERY SUCKS

Marlys

warning--misspellinks intentional!

I write this with one foot propped high on pillows–supposed to be above my heart but I wouldn’t be able to write then, (meaning have use of my laptop or lap for that matter). I am sitting/reclining next to a large window framing snow and sky and the neighbor’s fence.

Some people are born with a silver spoon. Me? I was born with a typewriter replaced by a series of computers. I’ve had some surgery done on that foot on the pillows and there’s a pair of metal crutches leaning menacingly against the wall here, daring me to get up and get getting.

I don’t have access to my office files upstairs or my guy’s office in the basement which is great–can’t work on taxes yet.

My foot is in a cast of sorts that allows me to put only a small amount of weight on it. I have never had good balance and now it’s worse. I’m hoping the surgery will realign that as well. (Aren’t you dying to find out how I’m going to work this into femmesism? Or fatalesism or mysteryism? Me too.)

I’m assured that I’ll survive this experience but no one’s guaranteeing the man of the house will. With this huge, heavy boot thing on one foot there’s no walking unaided and no driving. And who knows when I’ll get back to the gym or even on my own stationary bike? The cat’s having a blast aligning her three foot puffy tail along the route of either one of the crutches, or the black evil appendage sliding across the floor which sends her shooting up the staircase without touching carpet to the tune of a bottle rocket sucking helium.

Meanwhile, the world outside our little prison-nest is going crazy too--realityors are desperate to sell our house which is not and never was for sale, the spell checker on this machine refuses to accept lower case for the first letter of realityors but presidents and lawyers and judges and congressmen and doctors don’t have to begin with a capital. Who the hey is running things around here? Most Real realityors I know, and they are legion, struggle in this scary economy. (The guy who runs this joint has informed me that they have such clout and wealth in this country their lobbyists bribed congress into not only legalizing the capitalization but making failing to do so punishable by legal and economic death. (So I went back and changed the spellings.)) How’s a poor fiction writer supposed to top the sheer gall of reality here?

We’re expecting our first grandchild in early summer and such disturbing thoughts seem to matter more now.

I should worry, I’ve got all these wonderful drugs to deal with the pain and help me sleep. But wouldn’t you know, I sleep fine and after the first 24 hours had little pain. It’s the shut-in slow-down disability, having to be waited on hand and foot that drives me nuts.

I figured as long as I was down I might as well have cataracts removed and get it over with before a planned trip to Tanzania. I should have a busy but blurry winter. I’m emotionally addicted to sunlight so developed cataracts early and that’s supposed to make the surgery work better or something.

I finally finished that short historical story and it sucks like surgery but with any luck I’ll be able to chase the damned beloved cat out of the bird nests by spring and take on revisions of that historical mystery novel too.

If you have to be a shut-in it’s good to have a big guy, a mischievous cat, manuscripts that need revisions, and a grandchild on the way. Oh, I think I’ve come up with a good fix for that short story.

But surgery still sucks.

They Are Full Of It!

by Toni L.P. Kelner

They say memory plays tricks on you. Then again, they say lots of things, and recently I've been thinking of some things they say that just aren't true.

Thing 1: They say that women forget the pain of childbirth immediately after the child is born, which is what enables us to face it again later on.

That's crap.

As I was lying in the hospital bed, about to give birth to my second child, I remembered. Distinctly. I even told my husband, "Wait! I hate labor!" But since we'd already picked out names and bought diapers without keeping the receipts, I figured I should go through with it. And I'm really glad I did. Having the first child around was fun, and having the second more than doubled the fun.

Thing 2: They say that writing a book is a lot like having a child. Research and brainstorming as the gestation, writing as the labor, rewriting... I don't know, changing diapers?

But like diapers, this thing is also full of crap.

If the comparison were valid, I would hate the process of writing, just like I hated the process of labor, and the finished product would be the reward, just as my children are the rewards of labor.

But writing is fun.

I'm not saying it's not work, too. After nine novels, two anthologies, and a slew of short stories, essays, limericks, and blog posts, I am fully aware that writing is work. Often hard work. Sometimes frustrating work. Occasionally painful work. Plus it's my career, with all the stresses and worries that go with any career.

But mostly, writing is fun. I enjoy the research, I adore the brainstorming, I find writing the first drafts terribly rewarding, I am delighted by rewriting and improving a draft, and I even like proofreading.

And don't think it's a backwards version of birth, in which I love the process and hate the result, because I enjoy having written, too. I grin like a fool when I see one of my finished books or one of my short stories in print.

It's all fun.

Thing 3: They also say that to write professionally, I must have discipline. I must force myself to write, and I must make writing the supreme priority in my life, and so on and on. Getting someone to handcuff me to a chair was never said explicitly, but it was definitely implied.

Crap again!

What I have to do to get myself going on a project is to remind myself that writing is fun. Because once I remember that, I'm ready and raring to go.

I don't know why I need to remind myself every time--you'd think I'd remember right off. But as they say, memory plays tricks on you.

Maybe they aren't always full of crap.

odd thoughts

When I was in college, mom and dad wrote me once a week, as did Grandma Wray. She also included a $5 bill, which I was callow enough to think was as important as the contact. I spent the money on Dominoes, but still have the letters. Her weekly routine included correspondence on Sunday afternoons. She would go to church in the morning, visit with friends, come home to a light lunch, which often included “copper pennies”, which are sliced pickled carrots, one of her particular favorites, and then write her letters. I suppose that e-mail and IMs have taken the burden off of Sunday afternoon for communication, but I suspect she enjoyed having the tactile feel of the letters that returned in a week plus a few days with answers to the ongoing conversations she had with her family and friends.

Grandma Wray was a tiny thing, only about 4’11”, shorter as she aged. Wiry grey hair had been red in her youth. Very no-nonsense, which I didn’t understand until I was older. Dad was always making those horrible jokes; I’d thought when I was younger and making faces at his humor that it was that which took it out of her. Once I heard about how dour and straight-laced her husband, Harold, had been, it made more sense. He died Christmas Eve when Dad was in the Navy, and Grandmom had to support herself for quite some time. It may have said something about their relationship that she never remarried. He was a bit of a tartar.
She was born in Virginia, to Georgiana and Edward Richardson. (Her mom went by Annie. Wray was her maiden name, which was passed first to Grandmom, then to me.) They had 5 children, all scamps. (Although not as much as Uncle Arthur, but that’s another family tale.) I don’t remember the order, but there were two boys and three girls. Rose, Elizabeth Wray, Virginia, Robert and Edward. Uncle Eddie was an amazing carpenter. (Again, another family story)

Great-Grandma Annie was out in the chicken coop one day and stepped up on a half-barrel to reach the eggs (the short gene must have been active even then.) She went into labor when she fell through the barrel’s lid. Little Elizabeth Wray arrived very early and weighed in at under two pounds. They put her in a shoebox and stuck her in the warming oven. She wasn’t expected to last the night.
When she was about eight, the doctor came around to take out all the kid’s tonsils. He put each of them in turn on the kitchen table, dosed them up with Chloroform and did the deed. I remember wondering when she told me this if he’d brought his own knives, or if he used the kitchen ones.

One of her favorite childhood memories was of an outing to a cousin’s home on the coast near Gloucester. They hitched up the wagon, piled in the hay and drove a day over, spent the night, then came home. There was an extended family reunion at that house when Grandmom was in her late 70s. The local college archeology class had been excavating the farm, looking for foundations of old outbuildings. They looked like they had died and gone to heaven when she was able to point them right to the spot where the barn, chicken coop, and corn bin had stood.

All You Need Is Love

John Lennon knew what he was talking about. He didn't just throw the word 'love' into his songs. He put the real thing in them and in more than just the lyrics. He knew how to infuse the non-verbal parts, melodies and chords, with love. Take his song Jealous Guy, for example. The words are plain. They express basic feelings of regular folks. But when he shares his own capacity for great love through the melody, the song becomes larger, something universal that connects with us through the music.

Composer Ralph Vaughan Williams does the same thing, sometimes without any words at all. His affection for the English landscape and its people can't help but come out in every musical line. His work lifts up an audience one second, then rip their hearts out and make them happy about it. Now, that is what I call talent. He uses simple melodies gathered from country folks and manages to convey their goodness through music. How? By channeling his love for them into the work.

Charlaine's post about counting the people she loves struck me as such a wonderful thing. She mentions it may not have much to do with writing, other than the way all things inform a writer's work. The more I think about it, the more I think she has hit on the fundamental ingredient of a great book. A good book entertains. A great book makes you love the main character.

I'm not talking about mushy-kissy love. I want to know who the people are that the protagonist counts. I want to see what he is made of, what he will endure to protect the people or the ideals he loves. When the character has character, upfront or built through his trials in the story, I'm going to go back for more, whether it's for other books in the series or another standalone by the same author. When I feel that connection from a master storyteller, when he taps into his own emotions and puts them out there to share through his characters, I will read more. That's why I read. I'm not doing it to exercise my eyes. I've gotta feel the love.

I saw a reader review a few days ago of The Black Echo by Michael Connelly. It was the first Connelly for the reader who said: "I think I'm in love." That was exactly what I thought when I finished it. Not because Connelly got all mushy or because Bosch is a hunky sex-god. He is an everyday guy. He wants to do the right thing even if it might be dangerous. Connelly channelled his own integrity into the character and everything combined into beautiful music. Harlan Coben does the same thing. James Lee Burke goes one better with setting. Not only does he make us love Robicheaux, a character who acts and speaks as if he grew straight out of the soil of New Iberia, Burke pours his own heart into unmatchable descriptions of place.

All of us build our lives around the people we love. Realistic characters will do this, too. From now on, when I'm working on a story, I'm going to keep that in mind. Who would they count and why?

So what do you think, is the main character the big draw for you when you read? Who are the mystery characters you love most?

   

"People I Love"

Let me delve into the personal for a moment to tell you that I seldom have trouble sleeping. I am one of those disgusting people who closes down the minute my head touches the pillow. But I do have trouble sleeping on nights when I wake up to visit the bathroom or hear some slight noise (people -- and dogs -- in my house tend to snore). The danger at such moments is thinking. If I start thinking, I'll wake up too much to go back to sleep. This happens a lot at the prime time of four thirty in the morning. It's happened a lot more since our second child joined the Army, by the way.

At those wakeful times, one thought leads to another until I'm much too alert to settle back into sleep. I might worry about my children for a few minutes, even though I realize there's nothing I can do to change their lives -- nothing I shouldn't already have done, if you can appreciate my point. Then, maybe, my worries degenerate into wondering if the roast is big enough and if I'll remember to put it in the crockpot in the morning, or if I'll have enough time to run to the post office in the afternoon.

I've been combatting this unwanted wakefulness a lot lately, because the holiday season arrives with as many stresses and strains as it brings joys. Will both sons make it home for Christmas? (No, but one did.) Will our Army son get his package in time? (Yes.) Will third child do well on her ACT scores? (Yes, thank you, well enough.)

I've tried many methods to combat this problem. Sometimes I lie in bed and toss and turn, and sometimes I resign myself to getting up and putting the coffee pot on. The dogs are always glad to see me, no matter what time it is.

I'm tired of the sleeplessness, though, and I'm going to try something new the next time I'm staring into the darkness. I'm going to count people I love. And every time I remember a worry, old or new, I'm going to make myself think of another person who's touched my life in a happy way. Do you think it'll work? I hope so, and it's definitely worth a try.

What does this have to do with writing? I can't find a direct tie-in, but there must be one. Our personal lives inform our work, I believe, even more than we can discern. Like everyone else, I have down days, when no amount of self-boosting will buoy my spirits. On days like that, if I get one email from someone saying, "Boy, I loved your last book, and it helped me through a hard time," or simply, "What a good couple of hours I had reading your book," I'm pumped for the day or even the week. I am willing to believe that thinking of people I love will have the same effect.

Hey, it's worth a try.

Bibble

by Dana

Remember when you were a kid and you’d say a word over and over until it was meaningless?   “Bubble gum” is a good example; after a dozen repetitions, you could barely put the syllables in the right order, much less remember that they were representative of anything. 

There comes a point in the editorial process when your vision blurs, your brain shuts down, and every line of prose you’ve been shaping for days, months, years looks like “bibbble-bibble-bibble.”  The more you try to fix it, the more you’re convinced you’re unstitching everything that was ever good about the project, and things you were amused by or pleased with look grotesque and out of place. 

It’s not a good place to be. 

It comes with the territory.  It happens at least once a project for me, and in this case, size doesn’t matter:  short stories are just as vulnerable to this plague as novels.  I bet poems are even worse. 

What can you do?  If you’re not on deadline, the best thing to do is set it aside for a week.  And—or—get someone else to read it and give you some feedback.  I advise you to say something like “Can you look at this and tell me whether I should set the whole thing on fire and then, with its ashes still smoking, go walk the earth?”  That should let the friend (and in this particular situation, you should always call on friendly writing support) know exactly where you are and that you lack that most crucial of all a writer’s tools, perspective. 

If you are on deadline, or if everyone you would call on is up to their hipboots fighting their own deadlines and demons, it’s much worse.  You have to cowgirl up and take drastic action to get past this.  Here are a couple of suggestions:

1.  If you can’t set it aside for a week, set it aside for an hour, and then DO something.  Not just watch television or take a nap; you really need to actively distract yourself with something not writing.  Clean the bathroom.  Go to the gym.  Do the food shopping.  Chop wood.  Board a small pirate vessel.  Sometimes you can reboot your brain by using another part of it.

2.  Change the music you’re listening to.  Or if you work in silence, try taking your manuscript to a coffee shop or on the train or to the beach, some place where there will be some background noise.  Again, the idea is the same, to get your brain out of the rut it’s found its way into.  When it’s differently occupied, it has to work harder to do the editing, and hopefully, there’ll be less bandwidth for the self-doubt and bewilderment to creep in.

3.  Go to Imagination Land.  By which I don’t mean fantasize that Buffy or D’artagnan or Bullwinkle will swoop in with the cure for the mysterious ailment that is clouding your judgment or slay the evil wizard who has you under a spell, although…that’s not a bad idea, really.   What I was thinking of was to try and separate yourself from the emotional content of what you’ve put into the work:  Pretend you’re the editor of a fragile and promising writer whose work needs a tweak.  Nothing drastic.  Nothing vicious.  Just that judicious nudge.  This is hard to do, but sometimes, you can trick yourself into it. 

The important thing to remember is that this will pass, and in less time than you think possible, you’ll probably be friends with your story/novel/poem again.  And with a little more distance, you’ll remember why you fell in love in the first place.