Words

We recently returned from Istanbul, Turkey, where I experience the most brilliant marketing I have ever seen. We were walking from the metro to a tram and my daughter desperately needed to use a restroom. Lo and behold, in a small shopping area under a bridge was a large sign in English that said:



Nearly every tourist in the area went into the restroom, happily paying their one Turkish Lira (about 75 cents.)

Now the fact that it was the most unmodern bathroom in all of Istanbul, and my daughter was in tears because she couldn't go (whereby I swore off that toilet for the rest of our lives) is irrelevant...because they already had our money.

The relevance is: words. They knew EXACTLY what to put on that sign to bring everyone through the door.

And. It. Worked.

Now if only I could figure out the right words to turn my mg novel into a million dollar bathroom sign idea.

Wishing

“Wishes aren’t that easy. No. They’re filled with pain and strife.
Real wishes have to be that. Or we’d wish away our life.”

When the Snake first said that to Abby in my 2nd middle grade novel, I hated him. Because I wanted life to be easier for her.

And because he was right.

I think of his words every time I'm stuck in a rewrite that’s going nowhere. Every time I receive another rejection letter from an agent or publisher. Every time another military move forces me to say goodbye to my friends, reminding me I’m an isolated writer in a foreign country… again.

Sometimes his words motivated me. Teach another writing workshop in the school. Seek out another critique group. Start a picture book… new play… YA novel. Scoop up letters, pour them into words and make nowhere become somewhere.

Other times his words made me wonder if I was wishing away my life.

So I make a choice every day. I sit at my computer, snap open the lid, and decide if I’m going to be a writer. And every day I resolve that, even if I am wishing away my life, I would rather be doing it by crafting stories than anything else.

I'm not naive enough to believe that, out of the millions of books, I'll write a story that no one has written before. But I am hopeful enough to believe no one has written it like me.

So I wish.

Going to the Grocery Store

I have a pretty embarrassing secret to tell. It's sort of pathetic. No, it's really pathetic. But I don't mind if you laugh at me because I frequently laugh at myself.

So here it is:

Sometimes I go to the grocery store so someone recognizes me.

We've lived in our new home for slightly less than four months, and I only know two people outside of my family: the neighbor next door, and the lady who carries out my groceries.

Now I could tell you all sorts of true facts about communication barriers since I don't speak German, record cold spells that kept everyone buried in their homes for months, and my own sort of pleasant but somewhat antisocial personality...but it would all ring like some lousy excuse. Because the truth is, I haven't tried very hard to meet anyone.

You can't make excuses like that about your writing. Not if you want to be good, anyway.

You have to do more than go to the grocery store. You might even have to attend a conference.

I don't usually enjoy conferences. I definitely cringe at the money it costs to attend. I'm really uncomfortable in forced social situations.

But I can honestly say I've learned something extremely valuable at every single conference I've attended, and I try to think of them as an investment toward the retirement of my label as un-agented, un-published author.

What are you doing to get past your excuses?

Something Amazing

Most of my life over the last 10 years has been hurry up and wait.

Hurry to finish my degree, but wait to get a job until we're settled. Hurry to move and settle, but wait to really settle because we're moving again in a year. Hurry to write something well, but wait while the queries decide your fate.

It feels like I'm the bike riding kid in The Incredibles. Mr. Incredible asks him what he's waiting for and the kid says...

"I don't know. Something amazing, I guess."

The kid is a waiter. A writer...is patient.

There is a difference between the two.

A waiter looks around waiting for something to happen. They are the secondary characters in our stories who are forgotten as soon as the page turns or the frame ends. They are the people who spend their lives watching everybody else do something amazing.

Patience has a point. It is selected work on our stories and targeted queries to the right agent or publisher. It is smart choices about our work and our lives. And sometimes it's drinking three cups of coffee and forcing myself to sit still, to test if I can really do it:)

But most of all: It. Is. Work.

So I am tossing out my hurry up and wait life, and I'm trading it for one that is patient.

Which are you?

The Magic Pen

I would like to create a magic pen for every writer to help them understand the fine line between letting their story breathe and choking it to death. The pen would have a few special features:

Writers could flick it in quick, grandiose arcs to make the bad words fly off the page and dissipate into thin air, leaving only the good words behind.

The pen wouldn't allow them to write for at least a week...maybe two... following every feedback session.

The pen has a filter that allows a writer to absorb only questions which help them figure out their story.

The pen knows, instinctively, which people will provide feedback in a way that helps them grow as a writer.

But here's the thing...

Writers already have that pen. They just have to figure out how to use the darn thing while it's exploding huge ink splotches all over their faces. Because the fact is...those ink splotches and Lost Stories are what you need, or you will wrap yourself so tightly around your story it will suck in its last, gasping bit of air before you finish the first draft.

You have to give yourself permission to be messy. And fail. And take breaks. And say no. And listen.

So that your story can breathe.

What are you doing to help you figure out how to use your pen?

The Lost Story

Seven years ago I sat between my kids' beds and told them a very sweet story. A story that held the soft tha-thump, tha-thump of a beating heart ready to fall asleep.

That bedtime story became a play which won a developmental opportunity at a theatre. For anyone not familiar with new play development, that means I had a director, actors, theatre space, two dramaturgs, elementary student feedback, and theatre professionals feedback while I wrote and rewrote feverishly for a week, working the play on its feet. All expenses paid.

But when I was finished, I hated my play. It was...in a word...AWFUL.

Somewhere, in the middle of rewriting and advice and work and ideas, I lost my story.

Looking back now I can see multiple influences on my muck of a play, but the largest was a choice of my own. In my desire to perfect my play, I spent so much time listening to everyone else's feedback telling me how to do it I forgot to listen to my story. I twisted and turned it into something it was not and while, technically, it makes sense, the heart of the story is gone.

And here is a hard, honest truth: every writer loses one story. Maybe more.

They take in a comment, an idea, some advice...because conventional wisdom says that's what rewrites are about...and even though their instincts tell them not to listen, they ignore the warnings.

Don't think I'm not a rewrite person. I'm a ten-draft girl who works on computer and paper. I scribble and scrabble my ideas until I understand every choice each character makes. I read aloud and act out scenes. I try things on and take them off faster than clothes in a teen store dressing room.

I'm also a believer in holding the heart of your story close, because you are the one telling it.

I may never get my seven year old story back. I am extremely, rock in my stomach sad when I think about it.

But I still work on it. And when I do I go back to the beginning...because that's when it still had a beating heart.

What have you lost?

Are we there yet?

One of the hardest things about writing for writers at all stages is the discipline.

Yes, I said it. Discipline.

We are two year old children who want to play, play, play in the first draft, the sexy new idea stage, but when it comes to drafts two...four...ten...we stop listening to our stories, stare out the windows, and bemoan,

"Are we THERE yet?"

Well...I suppose that depends on where "there" is. If you mean that big final destination banner that says:




Then no.
You're not there.


And even if you are there and have something published, it all starts over with a new story.

If I learned anything as a ten year old on our extremely long drive from Nebraska to the keys in Florida, it was to celebrate along the way. After miles of hours with six people squished into an Oldsmobile, the games played out and too dark to see anything, we stopped.

Somewhere in Mississippi, standing alone by the road in the middle of the night, is a gas station that has the best strawberry soda. The BEST. Further along were boiled peanuts from a little stand run by people selling their special family recipe. And the beaches of Pensacola on Christmas day were as humbling and rewarding as any banner will ever be.

But I wouldn't have tasted those things if I wasn't looking out the window in the first place.

So discipline yourself. Draw out your first draft map so you have an idea where you're going and then swallow the steps along the way, like really great strawberry soda, because they are more important for your story and writing skills than any destination point.


Note: I will be attending the SCBWI Symposium in Bologna until Wednesday...my strawberry soda reward:) More to come...