Where I've Been for the Past Week...

I've been in the mountains of western North Carolina at the Wildacres Writers Retreat.  A beautiful place that looks like this...

In a bark-sided guest house, down a steep hill...

 

Staying in a sumptuous guest suite...

Which I'd leave to walk up long, stone steps

where I spent hours pondering the vagaries of Genre Fiction with these wonderful folks...

Writing and learning about writing is very stressful.  It's tiring and thankless work.  A week like this one can be downright traumatic and not just for the new author.  Even the strongest writer has broken under the intense scrutiny of their peers. 

By Thursday night, there wasn't a one of us who hadn't retreated into our "happy place," that fantasy world that so often soothes the frazzled mind.  We fled into our pasts, seeking out those easy, carefree days when all things were possible.  Those good old days of yore- when a man was a man...

a horse was well, a horse...

 

 

And the faculty...well, they still lost what faculties they had...

I'm telling you- This week was hard, especially on the younger ones...

 

 

But we all soldiered our loads and went on...The students wrote and read their works aloud...

 

              

Because if they knew what would happen if they didn't- If they whined or shirked their writerly responsibilities, or so much as forgot to wear their nametags, the Woman With The Whip would wipe the smiles right off their little,cherubic faces...

It's not easy being a writer...but then, I do suppose it beats the alternative...

 

It Could Always Be Worse...I Could Be in Arizona...

I am feeling sorry for myself and self-pity is soooo unattractive.

My latest book got a big, fat, thumbs down. In the non-writing world this is like somebody walking up to you in the mall and saying "You're fat and your Mama dresses you funny!" No- worse. It's like they said that about your kid. When you write a book, it's like one of your children. Having ten months worth of work rejected hurts.

So, I come home from a bad day in which my "stand-in" computer ate the six pages I wrote this morning, open my email and what happens? I get- rejected.

I immediately sought first aid for my bruised and bleeding ego- I ate the rest of Beloved's stale birthday cake.

Then I thought about how I'd never amount to anything-

Decided my life was almost over because now I'm old and a loser-

Served ground beef browned with onion, mixed with condensed chicken gumbo soup, ketchup, mustard and brown sugar on hamburger rolls and added highly-seasoned but still freezer-burned French fries to the plate and called the whole thing dinner.

Then I tore apart my home office and re-organized it, kind of, because I clean when I'm upset and re-organize when I figure I have nothing left to live for.

by the time I'd done that for 3 hours- I was over it.

Don't get me wrong- life still sucks, all is lost and I'm still a loser but-

Hey, come on-

Tomorrow's another day.

It could always be worse...I could be in Arizona...

Writing- Where Does It Come From Anyway?

My friend, Random Blogger, has written asking the following, very good questions:

"Ok, so how do you get to the point where you can write enough of anything to write book? I can never write more than a few pages on anything. How many irrelevant details do you add to build on the character and situation? Mentor me Nancy. If nothing else I want to tell the story behind my photos."

And just when I was wondering what to write today... ;-)

Sometimes I wonder myself where the ideas come from but I've learned to stop focusing on how the characters appear and let my mind roam along with them.

There are lots of "what ifs" in my head but few of them become novels. It seems to work like this- A thought occurs to me, or a character pops into my head. With my Sierra Lavotini books, Sierra herself appeared, fully formed and ready to tell her story. Sometimes it's an idea or a situation.

For the past few weeks, I've been thinking about the cabin and what it would be like to live there full time. Then I wonder how my boys would like me living there full-time. Would they come visit? What if it was Christmas time? Would they ever come for Christmas? I'm not so sure they would.

Then I started thinking about the characters I've met up there and how the locals say they don't like folks who "ask too many questions." I live in the heart of Moonshine country. What would I do if I met the Moonshiner? What would he be like?

I let my imagination noodle around with these thoughts. I throw in my fears, my wildest hopes and see what happens. If the idea sticks with me longer than a few days, I begin to think about how I would tell the story. Where would it start? Who would be the best one to tell the tale? What would keep the reader interested? What would keep me interested.

But I don't begin to write until I hear the main character give me the first line. So for a week I lay awake at night, waiting to hear the first line. I call it getting "creatively constipated." You can't tell the story until you're fairly bursting with it. You can't write until you absolutely have to or die. I wait until I see the opening scene as clearly as a movie and then I'm off and running.

Sometimes, like Random Blogger, despite my best intentions, I lose interest and walk away from the project. Sometimes I get excited and tell the story to a friend. That is the kiss of death for me. If I've already told the story, I see no reason to write it. It's just one of my quirks. I can't write something I've told out loud.

So, Random, if you're wanting to tell the story of your photographs- step inside them. Feel them with all of your senses. If you keep coming back to one particular picture, maybe sit down and promise yourself you'll only write about that picture for ten minutes, then you're free to let it go. If at the end of that time, you feel like continuing, go right ahead. But if not, ask yourself why. Then ask yourself what you really want to say and write that down.

Pretend you're describing your photo to someone you love with all your heart, only they're blind. Give them the gift of your words. Bring your picture to life. No detail that brings the picture to life for the reader can be called "irrelevant." To paraphrase Elmore Leonard, try not to write the parts you and your reader usually skip over in your search for the good stuff.

Or look at the picture and free associate...

"It was so cold that day, the frost clung to the pond behind my house, too shy to rise up into the gray, winter morning. It was the day after you left me and all the world was as still as death."

or

"The morning after the first night we made love, she baked cinnamon buns. I heard her downstairs in my kitchen, rattling pots and humming an old Allman Brothers song. The warm scent of yeast and coffee slipped inside the bedroom, crawled beneath my covers and reminded me of the way she'd looked in the summer moonlight. I closed my eyes and tried to pretend she wasn't leaving. But in my heart, I knew she was already gone."

I don't know the best or right way to do it other than to apply the seat of the pants to the seat of the chair and have at it.

Maybe one of my readers has some words of wisdom to offer here, Random. Maybe they'll send in a comment or two. Please....

Why I Ride With the Po-lice- Part 4 Overactive Imaginations

One of my patients was talking about the toll her aunt's death had taken on her mother. "It really aged her," she said.

Hmmm. I was wondering why it seems I look in the mirror and find a much older woman staring back at me. Now I know. Dad died and it aged me.

I feel frumpy. I've lost my saucy energy, my spirit of adventure...Well, maybe not so much my spirt of adventure as the actual energy and inventiveness to think up new trouble to get into.

I feel un-interesting and unattractive. And secretly I wonder, is this it? Am I old? Will I never again have a steamy, passionate affair or do anything I consider to be risky? Does life end at 50?

Or...

Maybe I just need to ride with the po-lice again- like I used to do. Riding along with them wasn't exactly "risky" but it sure seemed to peel away the Soccer Mom Blues.

Like the night in the cemetery...

I was riding along with an officer I'd never met before. Sam and I had already had one big adventure earlier in the evening and he'd told me quite a bit about himself but I soon realized, I didn't know Sam half as well as I thought I did. (I'll wait while you go read that first blog if you want. It's really Part A of this story so you should read it first.)

Overactive Imaginations-

It is after 2 a.m when Sam finishes the paperwork from his earlier arrest and we leave are free to leave the municipal jail. The rain has stopped. Steamy wisps of evaporating moisture rise eerily from the hot, black asphalt in front of the building and the entire town seems to be asleep.

Sam walks beside me to the squad car. He is tall and imposing in his black on black uniform. He turns suddenly chatty, filling the silence between us with superficial, police trivia. I don't say anything but I know why he's doing this. He's uncomfortable. He's spent six hours telling me about himself, exposing sensitive feelings and old baggage. Now, after two hours of adrenaline and paperwork, he feels vulnerable. He's sealing the door shut, closing me off from any further personal talk.

He drives me through the old section of downtown Greensboro, pointing out old homes and landmarks. "Sometimes, right before dawn, I'll just ride around here looking at the architecture," he says. "I've even researched the history of some of these buildings." He passes a huge, white wooden house. "That used to be a boarding house," he says.

I figure he's praying someone jaywalks in front of us, so he'll have a legitimate reason to get out of the car and divert my attention onto something or someone else. It is one of those few nights where the rain has made the city go quiet and the radio isn't jammed with excess calls.

I refuse to cooperate with idle chatter of my own, making Sam feel even more uncomfortable. This makes him talk more and I'm enjoying it because, after all, he did call me "Ma'am," a reference my mother taught me was reserved for older women.

I think Sam is no more than 5 years younger than I am so what's he doing calling me "Ma'am"? I am a writer. I am envisioning myself tonight as one of my spunky,sexy heroines. So I am not at all my usual soccer mom, "Ma'am" persona.

After awhile, closer to 4 a.m. I too, pray for a little action. I'm fighting to stay awake. I don't pay careful attention to where Sam is driving- until it's too late. We are on a road with very few streetlights. I think near Oka Hester Park. Sam, I suddenly realize, hasn't spoken for the past few minutes. Now he grips the wheel with a steely determination. When I glance over at him, he's frowning, his thick, bushy black eyebrows furrowed into a menacing, focused stare straight ahead.

The road is a dead end.

Sam pulls to the curb, removes the keys from the engine and opens his car door. "Bring the flashlight," he says, not even looking at me. "Don't turn it on." He takes off, disappearing into a stand of woods so thick I can only keep up with him by listening to the sounds of his body moving through the branches.

I look around. There is only one house on the street and it is more a shack than a home. I am not in a good neighborhood. I do not have a cell phone. So, I follow this cop into the woods, all the while berating myself.

"You idiot!" I swear silently. "Now look what you've gone and done! You know how cops are- they're just a hair's breath away from flipping to the other side. The man's obviously got personal problems and issues- which by the way, you've laid bare in your first hour talking with him. What if your stupid curiosity went too far? What if he's really a serial killer?"

Sam turns to look back at me, as if he can read my mind. His face is set and hard, gray in the pale moonlight that struggles to break through the clouds. If I die now, here, at the hands of this stranger, no one will ever find me.

Suddenly a huge wrought iron gate looms up out of the darkness. I swat at the overgrown vines and spider webs as I follow him through the opening. I have an overactive imagination, I tell myself. "This man is a police officer. He hasn't shown you any signs of psychosis. There's a good reason why he's brought you to the middle of this jungle."

But is there? Why would he take off like this without telling me what we're doing? Worse, why would I follow?

But I do, right behind him, almost bumping into his back when he does stop abruptly and drop to his knees.

"Look," he says.

I stoop down beside him, watching as he reaches to brush dead leaves from a gray stone. "It's a baby's tombstone."

He points to a few other gray stones, sitting at odd angles around the clearing. "This cemetery has Civil War era graves and it's just falling apart. I found it a couple of years ago. Kind of neat, huh?"

I am so relieved not to be joining them in a shallow grave, I gush "Wow! This is amazing!"

Which, of course, it really is.

When Sam drops me off at my car in the city lot, the sun is beginning to rise. Pink and purple streaks the early morning sky as I watch Sam pull away.

Much earlier in the evening, when I'd explained that I wasn't doing a ride-along in my capacity as a psychotherapist but rather as a published mystery author, Sam had nodded. "You know," he said. "I think I could write a book."

Maybe I was tired. Maybe the late hour diminished my ability to be tactful, but whatever the reason, I said the first thing that came into my head. "If I had a nickle for every fool who's told me that!" I scoffed. "Tell you what. If you think you're a writer, write something and email it to me, then we'll see who's got a book in them. It's not as easy as you think!"

A month later, when I open my email box, I see Sam's return address. "Let me know what you think, Coach," is typed in the subject heading.

Life With Eddie and Marion...

My friend, Eddie, is afraid of the woods. They make him feel "claustrophobic," he told me. "All that nature," he whines, crinkling up his nose. "It's just a little bit, well, creepy crawly, don't you think?"

A chipmunk rustles around in the leaves below my friend, Marion's deck, and Eddie can't stand it. "Bears live in woods!" he screeches.

"Gee, Eddie, ya think? I thought only the Pope lived in the woods," Marion snipes.

That's, of course, before he smokes a joint and the two of them break out the Wild Turkey. After that, you could roll a tank through Marion's tee-ninesy back yard and Eddie wouldn't give a rat's tail about it.

Of course they get the giggles. I listen to them laughing about stupid stuff, thinking what a giant waste of my time! And how do you really spell the sound of a giggle? Hee-hee-hee, doesn't seem to really cover it, but I type it in anyway as I'm trying to transcribe their every syllable.

I'm about to reach into the book and steal a shot of their Wild Turkey when both of them get quiet. Marion's staring into the fire Eddie built in the chimenea, but Eddie, he's got tears streaming down his cheeks.

"Poor Nadean," he whispers.

Marion stops staring into the fire and looks at Eddie. She's got that "Mom" look Eddie's so fond of, but he doesn't see her. He's too messed up to see much of anything at the moment.

I sigh, put the Wild Turkey back on the picnic table behind them and dash back to the computer.

"Who's Nadean?" Marion and I ask him but he only hears her, because after all, I'm just the book's transcriptionist.

"My mom," Eddie whispers.

"Huh?" I say, sitting up and paging back through the neatly typed manuscript. "No, she's not your mom. You said your mom was Nora. It's right here on page 64!"

Marion's on it. "I thought Nora was your mom," she parrots.

Eddie shakes his head. "I said she was like a mom."

Marion shakes her head. "Nope, on page 71 you referred to her as your mom," she insists.

I check. Marion's right.

Eddie's still shaking his head. "I lied," he says. "Now I'm too high to lie."

"That's right," I tell them, disgusted. "Make me a poet now. I don't care!"

"Did you hear something?" Eddie asks Marion. "You think them bears are back?"

That is what it's like living inside this author's head today! So, it was pizza for supper, no lipstick and frizzy hair when I did go out, and all of the Eldest Unnamed One's dark clothes crammed into one load.

But hey, at least Eddie and Marion are happy!

If Your Phone Ain't Ringing, It's Only Me...

If your phone ain't ringing- it's only me.

It's been a little stressful around here. The house down the street, the one I've been working on getting rid of is set to close at noon on Friday- God willin' and the creek don't rise- literally.

There are all kinds of details to be taken care of and they're cropping up around here like mushrooms after rain. The place would've taken what sanity I have left but I'm afraid Marion and Eddie already got away with it.

It's bad enough around here to make a normal person long for the solace of a deserted island. Add Eddie and Marion into the mix and even an extrovert would head for the hills.

What's happening to me lately is exactly what we writers pray for.

We sit for years, waiting for our Muse to whisper sweet nothings in our ears.

Of course, noe of my Muses have never whispered. They burst through the door like the sheriff in a spaghetti western and the tone they take when they arrive would never be mistaken for sweet.

Sierra, my first, waited until I'd had way too much coffee, then spooked me by appearing to stand next to me in the basement. She was six feet tall, blonde, Italian and stacked. "Yo," she said. "Listen up! My boss is in the freezer in my trailer. Somebody shot him and stuffed him in there, so you'd better start typin'."

That's how real our characters are when things are going good, when we're in "The Zone."

The characters move in- taking over your home, your life, your schedule, everything, until they're finished telling you the whole story.

The trouble is- I find them fascinating.

Marion and Eddie crashed a seminar I was taking on Mindfulness.

They didn't mind and neither did I. The presenter was about as interesting as watching paint dry.

Eddie had Marion standing naked at the edge of her diving board. He was holding a gun on her and demanding to know where Harry was.

I was suddenly very mindful...of Eddie and Marion.

They've been with me ever since.

They don't like housework- at least they don't like me to do any.

They deeply resent my nursing home obligations. "Where are you going?" Marion whines. "I was just going to tell you about Cyndal. She's dead you know." Marion's eyes well up. "She was my best friend."

Her lower lip trembles. She whips out the photographs of the two of them, side by side with Jimi Hendrix, and grabs my arm. "Surely the old people can wait just a little while longer..."

So I sink back into my chair and flip open the laptop. "Okay, shoot," I tell her.

"Speaking of shooting," Eddie cries, bursting through my office door. "There's cops at Marion's front door."

"What?" Marion's on her feet, ready to run. "You moron, why didn't you tell me?"

"What do you think I just did?" he shouts and they're off, arguing again.

I feel so...so taken for granted. They just expect me to type their every syllable as fast as they utter them. And there isn't a "thank you" between the two of them.

So, when I don't return your call, when I miss your poetry reading, or forget to bake cookies on Tuesdays, don't judge me too harshly. I really have very little control over my current conditions...I'm a hostage of my two Muse-lings...at least for now...

Don't worry. This sort of thing doesn't happen often. I sell my house what, once every twelve years? And the last time I got invaded by characters, the Youngest Unnamed One hadn't even started kindergarten.

Whoops, gotta go! Eddie just found the pot Cyndal hid in the kitchen...

One Week Without the Unnamed Ones- Day 5

The truth is, I get as much done when the Unnamed Ones are home as I do when they're away...The only difference is, I just plain miss my boys...and now, it's worse because I even miss the Witch!

But...I did finish cleaning out and putting back the office closet and its contents.

And I wrote about 11 pages. I'm trying a new way of writing for awhile. It's called the "Don't plot it- just put the people on the page and see what happens next."

Darlene, my Flea Sister, was with me up in D.C when the approach came to me. Of course, as you may remember, I was sick and stuck in amongst 3500 therapists at a psychotherapy conference. I think the therapists helped. For one thing, if one of the presenters hadn't bored the living poop out of me, I wouldn't have started writing- inventing 2 characters to entertain me as I went along.

Secondly, I think the influence of 3500 therapists shows very clearly in this new writing technique. I put the characters on the page and try to figure them out as I type along after them.

I know...get to the good stuff, Nance, you're boring us....




All right. I went to pick up my massive quantity of jelly beans, all tucked snug in their little beribboned jelly jars. Bessie was nowhere in sight but the rest of the crew was gathered in the activity room, waiting for the afternoon's storytelling session.

As near as I could tell, they all appeared to be sleeping, or at best in a post lunch stupor.

Milly, a white-haired lady with blood-thinner bruises all over her arms and a lap rug covering her legs rolled up and squinted up at me through her glasses.

Most days she smiles and says "There you are, honey! I've been looking everywhere for you!" But not today. Today Milly rolls up, raises one eyebrow and says acerbically, "Well, it's about time! I haven't seen you in forever!"

"Well, Milly," I said, "It was only yesterday, remember?"

Milly ignores this in order to get right down to what's on her mind.

"Are you gonna clip my toenails, or what?" she demands.

Now, usually I'll go along with whatever they throw at me but I have this thing about feet- I don't let people play with mine and in return, I won't play with theirs! So before I could stop myself, I'd said, "Heck no, I won't clip your toenails. I love you, Milly, but you'd better save that for the podiatrist."

"Humph!" Milly snorts, like "what good are you then, girl?!"

The activity assistant is sitting in her office, reading the paper, probably stalling story hour until she feels inspired.

"She knows you aren't the podiatrist," she says, never looking up from her paper.

But Milly's had enough of our foolishness. She starts rolling out of the room, headed down the hallway.

"Milly!" the assistant calls. "Milly, where you goin'?"

"I'll be back!" Milly calls over her shoulder...but the assistant knows better.

"Aw, she's goin' back to her room and gonna climb up in that easy chair of hers," she grouses. "She loves her some chair!"

But I know the real truth. I've let Milly down. Not only was I not the podiatrist, I didn't even have the sense to help her save face by pretending to be the podiatrist.

I walk back out to the car, put down the top and drive away with my jelly beans. I know Milly will have forgotten all about my betrayal by the next time she sees me, but I won't.

Getting old, losing bits and pieces of your memory and your life, is terribly hard. It's full of pain and misery and the grief of losing your future and your past.

Compared to that, becoming a podiatrist is the very least I can do.

Discount Shopping for Inspiration

Okay, I am still finding pennies. I went to this Google search that had brought someone to my blog: "finding pennies after a death." It is just amazing to me how common this phenomenon is! Pennies seem to be a sign of comfort. Some think the "spirits" find copper easier to manipulate than some other metals...that did spook me a little. I think if Dad wanted to move a mountain full of silver, he'd do it but then what do I know?

In the meantime, I am applying the seat of the pants to the seat of the chair in hopes that inspiration will strike. Do I seem inspired to you? Me either!

My new hobby is reading the message boards on www.thegrocerygame.com for undiscovered deals that I simply just "can't" live without. This leads to a lot of eye-rolling from the Unnamed Ones. They actually have the nerve to say things like "Yeah, but did we need another fondue pot?" or "So? Who cares if Staples has Sharpies for free after the rebate- who needs Sharpies?"

Hello? Sharpies? Who needs them?!

I also have a free year's subscription to Shape and Money magazine. Okay, so I don't normally read Shape- but Money? And for a year!

And the week's worth of dinners from Omaha Steaks for $99! Okay, so some Unnamed Ones won't enjoy the stuffed sole but hey...I do have friends!

The book, you say? Well, I've got two pages...again.

Procrastination in the Name of Research

Christmas Decoration Excuse # 50203

I was daydreaming...

Looking at lake property and thinking of what it would be like to live on the lake and see water gently lapping at my dock while I write the Great American Novel...which by the way I am also not doing!

While some, a lot even, progress has been made on dismantling Christmas, the house looks more like a war zone than ever! But this too shall pass.

I have written 54 first paragraphs of the Great American Novel, aka GAN, but to little avail. My characters just aren't talking to me yet.

I do have however, a cast of interesting folks to inhabit this novel, should it make it that far!

A mom not unlike me who's got 2 boys in college...She's also got an ex-husband named Kevin and found her neighbor, Heather's blue thong underwear in Kevin's briefcase...This precipitated their divorce...Well, duh!

An elderly great-aunt with early Alzheimer's and an old white Victorian in a little lake town in S. Virginia (That's how I can call browsing realtor.com for lake houses "research!")

And her youngest son has just called his mom unexpectedly because he and the mom's great aunt have just been arrested...Seems the aunt's running an adult toy store out of her home, without a permit. She thinks this is doing a public service to her fellow seniors and is incensed that the cops would think otherwise.

The youngest son is just mortified that the cops think he had anything to do with this, but on the other hand, it appeals to his revolutionary side to be in conflict with the authorities.

And our poor beleaguered mom is just looking for a simple life without complications...

Until she arrives in Snow Falls and walks smack into trouble...in the form of one deadly handsome sheriff and....well, who knows?!

What'dya think? Would you want to read about these guys?

Think of it as a bedtime story...What else would you like to see included in this tale I'm telling you? Of course, there's no guarantee it'll get in there once the characters take over!

And none of this is getting the Christmas decorations put up...But in the opening scene, that's what the main character is doing...So at least my chores get done vicariously!

Isn't it fun being a writer?