When You Hit a Wall, Embrace It!

I recently completed a middle grade (MG) light fantasy novel. It took about two years for me to get it right, and one and a half of those were a real struggle. So I thought I'd be glad to write "The End" and send the book out to dazzle the literary world.

Instead, I felt sad when I finished it. I was going to miss my protagonist. She and I had spent a long time together, and she'd become a real person to me. I also realized that while that particular part of her story had concluded, she wasn't done yet. Not a problem, I'd write a sequel.

"You're going to what?!?" asked my inner critic, in a tone that implied I was contemplating a faux pas of the worst kind. "I'm sorry, but a sequel is not a done thing."
"What about Harry Potter?" I asked.
"A mere quirk."
"How about Junie B. Jones?"
"The answer is, 'No!'"

Okay, so I'd write something else. Only I couldn't. The story that began with my first novel was incomplete, it needed to be followed through to the end. After much wringing of hands and gnashing of teeth, I decided to write the sequel. I wasn't going to let the "shoulds" interfere with what I wanted to do.

So, I started to write. It was a blast. I already knew the character. I totally knew what she was going to face, and some unexpected, interesting people showed up in her life. I was on a roll. Until...

My personal life intervened. I was dealing with a sticky emotional situation that threw me off track. Even if I had been able to write, which I couldn't, I didn't want to taint my book with the negative energy that was engulfing me at the moment. I came to a screeching halt. Then Eric Luper, one of my trusty and trusted writing group friends, challenged me to write something from the perspective of the person who was causing the problems for me.

IM-possible. That woman was down and dirty. Mean and evil. She didn't have a redeeming quality in her body. How could I, fine speciman of humanity that I am, ever get inside her head?

"Try," said Eric.

So I did. The character practically grabbed my computer off my desk, and started typing the story herself. She's not even close to the person who inspired the writing exercise, but she is still a real piece of work. She is definitely not MG material. In fact, I don't believe I can even pass the book off as edgy young adult (YA). She is a young adult, mind you, but the subject matter is pretty mature for those tender YA minds (Ha!).

So, now I'm also writing an adult novel with a protagonist who's negative, conniving, and has a vocabulary that would make the sailors blush! The fun part is keeping her true to who she is, while making her sympathetic enough for the reader to root for her.

It started as a wonderful outlet for my negative energy, and it's a good thing I grabbed the opportunity when I did. My life is back on an even keel, but my character is solid enough to keep moving on her own. Since things have settled down, I've been able to resume writing the sequel to my MG novel.

And the weird thing is, I don't have any problem shifting between the two books. I am amazed at how easy it is.

In a deeply philsophical moment, I likened a writer to a Shaman. Sometimes we need to be able to shapeshift to get the job done.

The Book Every Insomniac Should Have Read

“The Dullest Tale Ever Told” could have been the title of my first attempt at a middle grade novel. The point of view (POV) was limited third person, meaning the characters were referred to as him/her, he/she, and the reader only knew what went on inside the protagonist's head. Or so I thought until my writing group critiqued it.
"How does she feel?" "What's she thinking?" "Pick up the pace or lose the reader."
What didn't they get? I said the protagonist, "Felt bored." That was a feeling. She thought a house looked spooky. Wouldn’t the reader want to know why? So what was missing? A spark of life. The story had no soul. I knew the problem was fixable, only I didn’t know how to do it. I was stuck. Discouraged. Ready to throw in my pen.
Then fate led me into a tiny bookstore, its entire inventory barely filled two bookcases. In one of them I found, CONFLICT ACTION & SUSPENSE (ELEMENTS OF FICTION) by William Noble. After I read the book, I understood how to ignite the missing spark; anything at all that happened in the story must move the plot forward or be banished. I was ready to revise.
I reread my manuscript for the first time in months. It was terrible! It preached. It rambled. My protagonist was a drip. The voice was as exciting as a news anchor reading a list of school closings. I still thought the book had potential, but it was in need of an extreme makeover. I had no clue where to begin.
And then I had, The Dream:
I was in a classroom.
"What's your book about?" asked the teacher.
"A girl," I replied, "she goes here, and she does this, and...."
The teacher interrupted, "What's it about?"
"Well, uh..." I didn't know.
Fast forward to the next class.
"What’s the book about?" the teacher asked.
"It's about this girl. She’s a good speller and proud of it. When she looks
up to talk to her uncle, she can see the hair inside his nose."

The next day, as I pondered the dream, I realized the soul of a novel came from seeing the world through the eyes of the protagonist, then telling the story from her perspective, not mine. And just like that, my protagonist started talking to me. She was almost thirteen, friendless, judgmental, loved learning new words, had a quirky phobia, and, best of all, she had a tale to tell. I raced to my computer and let her loose. The POV changed from third to first person. She did the talking, I did the typing. I was ruthless with details, anything that didn’t propel the plot forward got the axe. When I’d finished the revision, an entirely new story had emerged. The characters were real, the story was fun, it moved, and it had spark and soul!
I recently completed the final revision, and the book is out looking for a home. Meanwhile I have two new novels in progress, well, the characters and I do. I now let the characters tell the tale, and I write it down for them. After all, it is their story, is it not?

Deep Thought for the Day

This morning, while making my bed, a random thought popped into my head. It has to do with the directions, North, South, East, and West.

Here's the thought: Wherever I go, I am the point at which all four directions meet.

Wow! That's deep.

But wait, if it's true for me, isn't it also true for everyone else? Deeper still.

Is it even important? Hmmm. Maybe not so deep.

Is it, perhaps, codswallop? Whatever.

Searching for a Match

Today I settled in for a day of Getting Down to Business. I have some information I need to document and I have been putting it off. I got a big glass of water, rolled up my shirt sleeves, and settled in to get the job done. Just as I got started I decided a scented candle would add to the ambiance of my home office and make the experience more tolerable.

I got the candle, set it up, and rummaged through a dresser drawer for some matches. It is one of those drawers that is rarely opened except to shove something inside, and slam it shut. This is the first time I've actually looked through it in years. Who would have thought that much stuff could fit into such a drawer that was probably designed to hold handkerchiefs?

I found yellow plastic "road sign" coasters from Australia advising travelers there might be Kangaroos, Koalas, or Emus crossing the road in the next few kilometers. One of the signs warns about shark infested waters. Better not swim there. There is a single kelly green sock, which I know is not mine. I wonder if the owner is still looking for it or has given up and thrown the mate away? There's a plastic belt clip in case I want to hook a phone to my jeans while I walk around my house. I never knew I had so many small change purses. I found phone jacks, electrical outlet jacks, a grip extender for my Glock pistol, a cigar with a pink band announcing, "It's a girl!" I could go on for days about this drawer but, lucky for all of us, I won't, because I found the matches. I lit the candle, and when I threw the match-box back in the drawer, I noticed a stack of photographs.

Ha! There I was with my family when I was three. My sister Kathy and I are wearing matching plaid dresses with starched, "Little Dutch Girl" pinafores, and white babushkas on our heads. My brother, Christopher, is clad only in diapers, and my parents look like they are eighteen years old. Another picture shows my sister-in-law, Jan, standing back with her arms raised in victory after she has successfully balanced a dyed Easter egg on top of an overturned funnel that's sitting atop the head of her friend, George.

There were many more such pictures, all classics. I needed to scan them immediately and email them to my family. After doing that, I decided I should send them an update on what's going on in my life (they are scattered all over the place, including Australia). I had so much fun talking about myself, I realized the time had come to start a blog. So, here it is, my very own blog.

And now, look at the time! I haven't even begun my project, and I need to get dinner going. I think I'll get up early and start that project first thing tomorrow. Right now I have to extinguish that candle, it's giving me a headache and making my eyes water. I wish I knew the proper spelling of P-U!

Well, here I am. Safely hidden behind a hat, some shades and a can of pop (soda to you folks outside the Midwest USA). I am a writer of books. I write for actual children, aging children (like moi), and for adults.

I do not watch television or go to movies. Many people consider this odd. I do not.

I read, read, read. And when I'm not doing that, I write. But I also do other things. I love to hike, preferably on moderately difficult mountain trails that lead to waterfalls. I garden in the spring but lose interest by mid-June and leave my plants to fend for themselves. I occasionally carve things out of tree branches and roots. I am a lousy guitar/mandolin/banjo player who loves to play the guitar/mandolin/banjo and sing along. Luckily, I live alone, well, except for my dog, Frannie .(Lest you think I'm a doggist, she tells other dogs she lives alone, well, except for her person, Liza). Thanks for visiting my site and welcome to my world.