11.25.13

Blew up the book this morning. This sounds terrible, I know, but what it really means is: I sat down to work, looked at the chapter I was writing, realized I had made a mistake, early on. That I wasn't happy with the flow, the pace, or the plot, so I decided to shake things up a bit. I moved two chapters up so they're near the beginning, combined two action scenes into one, and tomorrow, I'll go through from the beginning and start revising to make it all make sense. THEN I'll be able to start moving forward again. 

I hate having to do this. It seems to happen more often with my really intense action thrillers than it does with the slow burn suspense, but this isn't the first time I've been forced to throw a bomb in. The story demands what it demands. I am simply its caretaker. I do what it requires so it can sustain and grow.

Also had a meeting downtown with some fellow writers about a project we're thinking about. We went to lunch after - and lo and behold - SNOW! We joked that God was throwing confetti on our idea. But watching the fat flakes parade down from the sky, I was in heaven, and still am. You can take the girl out of Colorado, but you can't take the Colorado out of the girl.

Wish me luck for better words and flow tomorrow. And more snow!

Sweet dreams!

11.22.13

A measly 620 today. Just as I got my feet under me, I had to skedaddle to an appointment, and some grocery shopping. I've been out of apples all week, and feel all sorts of pale and squashy as a result. I know, I know, how hard is it to run to the store? It's only I like a certain kind of apples, from Trader Joe's, and it's a thirty minute drive to get them. I'm working this weekend, though, so I can hopefully make up some time.

There was a Somebody at Trader Joe's tonight. Skulking about, watching everyone watch him, a rocker of some sort, painfully thin and pale and jet black hair and sunglasses. All I could think was wow, that's a lot of effort to put in to hold forth at Trader Joe's. Hopefully he was dolled up for a show tonight and it wasn't for the organic masses. And I said a small prayer of thanks that my showmanship must be limited to the page, because it would be so exhausting to have to be Somebody all the time, even whilst grocery shopping.

Trader Joe's is one of my favorite people watching spots in Nashville. It attracts a massive cross-section of Nashvillians. I couldn't help but wonder what Taylor would make of it - TJs being a post-Taylor phenomenon. So yes, there I was, plotting the murder of a pale, aging rocker amongst the apples. I do so love being a crime fiction writer.

Sweet dream and happy weekend to you. 

11.21.13

Speaking of passion... there's a complementary action called being in the groove, when you let the words flow and don't check them, just let the story evolve from your fingers, with no idea of where you're headed, and where you may end up. I love days like this, when something happens you don't expect, and suddenly you're racing along, breath tight in your chest, fingers flying on the keys, and the story is unfurling before you. 

It might last five minutes, or five hours, or five days, but when it happens, it is a beautiful, beautiful thing.

I had one of those moments today. 2400 words total, which is good, but the last 1000 of them were in the last fifteen minutes of my writing day. It was an action scene, which are always fun to write, and something so unexpected happened it took MY breath away. Who knows if this will make the final book, but for the moment, I close my laptop with a feeling of exultation, my adrenaline still running high, my heartbeat racing. What will tomorrow bring?

Only the shadow knows...

Sweet dreams!

11.20.13

I want to talk about something a little touchy today. It's an issue I come across quite a bit, and an important one to keep in the back of you mind when you sit down to face the page.

I'm talking about writing with passion versus writing with precision.

There is more to writing well than being able to lay down the most perfectly constructed sentence in the world. Of course you must write well. That's not even up for debate. You must know the rules, understand grammar, punctuation, homonyms and possessives. You have to be literate, and glamorous in your prose.

But if you write without passion, without allowing your heart and soul into your words, your work will lay dully on the page. No sparkle. No excitement. And no connection to your reader.

Writing is hard. It's frightening at times, especially when you're doing work that's personal. Even fiction, especially fiction, in which you take a grain of sand from a situation or a memory and blow it up into a story. Fear is the number one reason you aren't writing with passion. Fear of being judged. Fear of someone seeing themselves in your work. Fear of (you fill in the blank.)

Fear. It is what holds us back, and what drives us forward.

Don't be afraid. Let it all hang out. Write with reckless abandon. Give your reader something to think about, something to chew on after they close the covers. Don't worry about offending people - and don't worry about upsetting them, either. And think of this when you put pen to page:

“You own everything that happend to you. Tell your stories. If people wanted you to write warmly about them, they should have behaved better." - Anne Lamott

This is one of the reasons I encourage writers to try NaNoWriMo. To give yourself permission to write, fast, unedited, uncriticized. To allow yourself to be unstoppable.

I'm still working, at 2200 right now. A good day, in which I've vowed to be fearless. Back to it.

Sweet Dreams!

11.19.13

A day of editing, with a net 500 new words. Started at the beginning and edited what was already there, plugging in a new plot point, taking another out. Putting flesh on the bone. This method of writing is slower than what I'd like, but it's richer, as well, more complete. Tomorrow will be even deeper, and even better. 

Randy requested chicken soup, so there's a pot now simmering on the stove. I've made analogies between writing and cooking before, but it strikes me that soup making in particular is nicely suited to the concept of editing. Especially veteran soup makers, who don't use recipes, and veteran writers, for whom editing is a joy as much as a chore.

Cutting up all the vegetables for the mire poix, making sure there's equal parts white, green and orange in the base of the pot, then adding more orange, because I'm a carrot fiend. Splashing in handfuls of spices (unmeasured, of course) the small decisions based on what it looks like after a good stir-- I think I'll add a bit of garlic, that bay leaf is too small, I'll balance it with this large one, I need a touch more thyme -- then the utilitarian parts:  searing the chicken breast to give it some texture, adding in the broth and setting it to simmer. Later I'll add the peas and the noodles, shred the chicken, and voila - soup's on. 

Writing down new words and cutting old, rearranging the sentences, moving a paragraph here, changing a pov there, adding in a layer of backstory, taking out a red herring, then the utilitarian parts: making sure the chapters are the right length, the endings of each compel the reader forward, the slow-burning fuse is laid in the proper spot. Later I'll go back through again, adding in the garnishes, the senses, the smells and sights and sounds that don't make it in until the last pass.

There's a similar rhythm to the acts that is never lost on me when I'm in creation mode. I've made soup a hundred times, I've edited my words a hundred times - it's all instinct at this point. Instinct and a moment of fervent prayer that I haven't cocked it up.

Reading Megan Abbott's DARE ME - think cheerleaders meet LORD OF THE FLIES. I'm enjoying it -- Abbott is one of our finest crime fiction writers: her phraseology, the way she draws the reading into her world, the dread that permeates the story -- she's a master, and each time I pick up her books I know I'm in good hands. So I'm off to finish, and stir the soup.

Sweet dreams!