A Downward Spiral into a Blinding Sun

If anyone still bothers to read this blog you will note I have not posted in a very long time. In fact, the last time I possessed the courage to blog I had fewer lines engraved on my face and was a few pounds heavier.

I believe 2010 (the last half, at least) was a toxic time. I was a stranger in a strange land, alternately peering into a fishbowl at the rest of the world or peering out of it, my mermaid tail banging helplessly against the algae-covered glass. "Look at me," I pleaded. "Save me."

I am not the only one. I watched my friends face financial ruin, suffer broken hearts, and meet mortality face-to-face. Meanwhile we all went out to dinner, drank more wine, spent money on things we didn't want anyway. I spent my time being a social butterfly, a mediocre writer, a diffident lover, trying (and sometimes failing) to be a good friend. My writing partner patiently ripped chapters out of me while I kicked and screamed. I tentatively wrote embarrassingly bad articles and rejected creative opportunities because I had no faith in me.

My artist's well has been dry for much of the year. The well was poisoned, the water turned dark and stagnant, and eventually nothing was left but bone dry dust settling over my eyes, my ears, my heart.

There is something magical about the dawn of a new year. A rebirth, it gives hope, a second chance, a sense of unlimited opportunity. I pray this year will be kind to me, and to you as well.

What I Learned at Sleuthfest 2010

My good friend Jamie Morris from Woodstream Writers told me I "must" attend Sleuthfest 2010. We were sitting over a cup of coffee in Borders six months ago discussing my writing genre. At the time I knew what I wanted to write but had no idea what genre it fit into. I also had no idea what Sleuthfest was or why I "must" attend it.

Jamie sent me the link to Mystery Writers of America and after reading their website I knew Jamie was right; I "must" attend Sleuthfest 2010! I immediately began saving my pennies and reading books by the two keynote speakers, David Morrell and Stephen J. Cannell. After months of anticipation and preparation the day finally arrived. I packed my bags, loaded the van, and set out for Deerfield Beach.

Money is always an issue for me so I elected to stay in a nearby La Quinta on the first night. Thank God I had booked the Hilton for Friday and Saturday nights because I was not sure I would survive the night in the Bates Motel -- oh, excuse me, I meant La Quinta. The very first lesson I learned from Sleuthfest is do not pack a 900-pound suitcase if you're going to have to lug it up three flights of stairs. The second thing I learned is do not pack six pair of three-inch heels when you're going to be walking up and down an interminably long shiny marble hallway for three days.

Accomodations and apparel aside, here are a few (not all) of the valuable lessons I learned from Sleuthfest:

• CONTACTS I met so many authors and agents who all had a story to tell, and I gratefully listened to all of them. The friends I made the first night stuck with me throughout the weekend, and hopefully at least some of us will keep in touch. From mere conversation I learned valuable information about marketing, pitching to an agent, what's happening in the publishing industry, and about other events for mystery writers.
  
  
• PANELS If you're a writer like me who has attended writing workshops and devoured every book and blog on writing that's out there you may not get a whole lot out of structure and style panels. I found many of the panelists used the opportunity to pitch their own books rather than share their knowledge on writing. I veered from course after the third such panel and attended Point/Counterpoint with Paul Levine (author) and Paul Levine (agent). I learned how to get a previously self-published booked picked up by a publisher, how to buy and sell movie and television rights, and how to retain your rights if your work goes out of print. The next panel I attended was a CSI panel about recovering displaced caskets after Hurricane Katrina. I found the PowerPoint presentation fascinating and I now have three pages of notes about decomposing bodies.
  
  
• MARKETING A common myth is if you get a publisher to pick up your book your work is done. You can sit back, rake in the dough, and watch your book climb the ranks of the New York Times bestseller list. Unless you are James Patterson or Stephen King that is simply not going to happen. You have to think of yourself as a business: You have to market yourself if you want to sell your book. Every author should have a website, blog, and Facebook and Twitter accounts. You must take every opportunity to sell your product, which is you. A publisher is not going to do it for you. Ever.

Finally, the most valuable gem I learned at Sleuthfest 2010. It is deceptively simple but the most important thing you need to know. Write the book.

Inspiration Ink

I complained to my author friend that I have writer's block. He lives in Japan and we communicate primarily via email. We're writing a 100-chapter novel together and so far we have eight hilarious chapters. I have no problem meeting my weekly deadline for the collaboration project but the novel in my heart is sitting on my desktop staring at me. Every day the characters ask me questions to try and get the ball rolling. I hear their voices. Taylor: "What's my dog's name?" Phillip: "How many people am I supposed to kill?" Angie: "What do I look like?"

My friend responded to my complaint with a quote from Robert Parker: "Writer's block is just another name for laziness." I fired back an indignant reply: I am not lazy; I sit on my fat ass in this chair all day long and proofread hundreds of pages, pore through reference books and obscure websites doing exhaustive research, and at the end of the day my brain is sad and it just wants a break. The last thing I feel like doing is staying another hour or two in front of the computer trying to peck out a scene through bleary eyes.

His reply: I never said you were lazy.

I thought about it. I get my best ideas during my nightly soak in the bathtub but I can't very well take pen and paper into steamy suds. I thought about it some more. I wrote another chapter for our book while eating lunch at my desk; no problem, done, spell check, save, send.

Then I decided to take a walk. Miraculously we were blessed with one good day of mild temperatures and sunshine. I put on my new space man shoes that are supposed to firm my butt, found my favorite Pandora station on my iPod, and set out into unfamiliar sunlight. After I convinced myself it would not be cool to bust out into random dance moves to Michael Jackson I found my stride and let the music take the back seat. I walked up a very steep hill to the lighthouse, huffing and puffing, thinking I never want to walk again and a split second later thinking I should walk more often. On more even terrain, I took a trail to the back of the neighborhood and walked along the edge of the orange grove, stopping to pet every dog that passed my way.

I saw the ghost of my husband's grandmother sitting in her rocking chair on a patio, her arthritic back hunched over the afghan she was crocheting. In another house someone was baking, the warm smell of cinnamon made me want to knock on their door and become their new best friend. An old man was mowing his lawn but the dead grass didn't have that wonderful fresh rain scent. Approaching the lake I saw the sun was just beginning to think about sinking into the water. I walked out onto the dock and gratefully sat down. I removed the little ear buds from my ears and the first sound I heard was the water making that gentle lapping sound beneath the boards. The birds were talking quietly like they gathered in this place every day to witness the sunset. The air smelled clean with the faintest undertone fish.

I sat there until the blue gave way to pink and reluctantly stuck the ear buds back in my ears -- Michael gave way to Barry White -- and I headed back to the trail. On either side of the trail sat moss-covered limerocks that resembled giant misshapen skulls. Trudging uphill again, the trail led me to the back of the clubhouse. Despite the cool temperatures there were several residents in the pool. I wondered if the Yankees thought when you move to Florida there's some kind of rule that says you have to be in a bathing suit every day.

Rounding the clubhouse I stopped to give love to a few more dogs, then turned in the general direction of home. I passed a house where someone had their fireplace going; the wood smoke evoked childhood memories of camping in the forest. I walked over the little footbridge and along the smaller lake. Like most evenings, a man was sitting on the back of his golf cart with a line in the water.

The sky was really glowing now and the temperature was dropping. Barry White had given way to Marvin Gaye and I made myself not sing along as I passed an elderly lady wearing bright turquoise pants and an orange shirt that said Nehi Cola. I wondered if she's been hit in the past by one of the drunken golf cart drivers.

Home. Finally. A jealous dog sniffed every inch of me and my husband asked if I was ready for dinner. Not quite yet, I told him, and I grabbed a pen and notebook and went out onto my back porch to write in the day's dying light.

New Year's Resolutions

I did not want to make New Year's resolutions this year. Why bother? Last year my resolutions were to lose weight, save money, blah blah blah. All the usual. Here I am without a pot to piss in and ten pounds heavier than I was this time last year. On the first day of the new year, putting away Christmas decorations, cleaning out a closet, and yes, even working, I thought long and hard about what I want to change about myself. I came up with one solid answer: Attitude. I can lose weight, get a second job, make new fascinating friends, and still be miserably unhappy. I have decided (and hereby declare!) that 2010 will be the year of ME.

This will be the year of Lisa. This is the year I will write, submit, and be published, the year I will believe I am worthy of being published. This is the year I will get into shape; physically and mentally. This is the year I will shed the sloth and allow a confident beautiful interesting woman to emerge. This is the year I will let my inner child come out and play - a lot. This is the year my stomach will be flat, my arms will be tone, my butt will be firm. This is the year I will slowly shed bad habits and slowly develop good ones (baby steps!). This is the year I will stop wasting precious life energy pining for love and attention; if I give myself love and attention it will follow from others. This is the year I stop worrying about things I have no control over. This is the year I will take long walks for the joy of it. This is the year I will have fewer headaches and less pain. This is the year of living simply because I want to rather than out of necessity.

This is the year of the blue moon, the year of the mermaid, the year of magic, the year of believing, the year of me.

I Won NaNoWriMo!

For those of you are wondering why I have not posted on my blog in over a month, the answer is NaNoWriMo. November is National Novel Writing Month, a/k/a NaNoWriMo. Most of you have probably never heard of it, some of you are intimately and painfully familiar with it. In 1999 some crazy writer challenged twenty friends to write a 50,000-word novel in the month of November. Ten years and thousands of novels later there are over 100,000 participants in NaNoWriMo from all over the world. Last year over 20,000 writers made the deadline and gave birth to the first draft of a novel. Maybe a bad novel, but still a novel.

2009 was my first year as a participant, and I am proud to say I crawled over the finish line this morning with 51,459 words. Now I am feeling a little lost and disoriented, like a bear emerging from the cave after a long winter hibernation. I am still stunned in disbelief that I actually did it. I actually wrote a first draft of a novel! I will let it lie for a few weeks, then see if it's worth dusting off for a rewrite.

I may cringe in horror at the garbage I wrote and hit delete faster than you can blink. Or there may be some good bones that I can salvage and fashion into another, better novel after several rewrites. It doesn't really matter how good or bad it is. What matters are the valuable lessons I learned from the process of writing it.

I learned that I don't really need to see friends or family or even talk to them for an entire month. I learned that I can eat pizza with one hand while hunting and pecking with the other. I learned that I don't really need to shower every single day - there's a water shortage, people! I learned that my dog can hold it for much longer than I ever thought possible. I learned that sleep is overrated. I learned that it's okay to describe what every single guest at a dinner party is wearing. I learned that it makes perfect sense for a sleuthing couple to crash a wedding reception and do the chicken dance.


Now for the most important thing I learned:
There is a common and recurring theme in every book on writing, every author interview, and every article on how to become a writer. "Just write." They all say it. Just write and the plot will unfold on its own; just write and characters will come alive and begin making their own decisions. Even though I've read "just write" over and over again I never really understood the purity of those words. I could never "just write," I don't have time, I have a job. I don't know what my story is about. I don't know how to describe a sunset. I don't know how to convey that my character is heartbroken. What NaNoWriMo taught me is how to just write. The goal is to achieve quantity, not quality. Let go of trying to write well and simply free your fingers to fly over the keyboard. The words will appear on the page in a long string of phrases, sentences, paragraphs, and chapters. It doesn't matter now if it's good. No first draft is good, unless maybe you're Stephen King. You're going to rewrite it. You're going to embellish, add details; you're going to delete big chunks; you're going to change names, locations, maybe even hairstyles. It truly doesn't matter. Don't worry about it. No one's going to see your first naked, cringing draft except you. No one, not even your dog.

Bottom line, you can't rewrite a blank page.

Thank you, NaNoWriMo, for teaching me to "just write."

"CARE FOR A SCARE?"

I was fortunate enough to be chosen to read my Halloween story at the Writers of One Flight Up Flights of Fantasy event in Mount Dora. Being a fledgeling writer, it was a nerve-wracking experience. Once I sat in the chair and faced the microphone, all worries faded away and I simply began to read. I am lost to the magic of writing and am looking forward with great excitement to the next contest, the next reading, the next short story, the first, second and third novels. My heartfelt thanks to the Writers at One Flight Up. Here is my story:

CARE FOR A SCARE?

BY

LISA RAST

I sat on the front porch with my arms wrapped around a big orange bowl filled with candy. It was that magical time between day and night when the sun and moon waved howdy to each other as one checked out and one checked in. October is my favorite time of year and I live for Halloween. The days may still be warm but the mugginess is creeping away, no more mold or mildew or pesky insects. The front walk all the way up to the porch glowed from the tea lights flickering inside orange paper sacks. I admired them warily – they were lovely and dangerous. Next to me a big ole jack-o-lantern rested on the worn wooden planks of the porch floor, watching the world with a crooked smile.

I stared at the walk, waiting for the first of the trick-or-treaters to come, begging for candy, or perhaps those awful teenagers who threw eggs at me last year. They had gotten egg on my favorite flannel shirt, a faint orange-yellow stain still apparent if you knew where to look for it. A very large lizard perched on the arm of the rocking chair next to mine and munched one-half of a love bug. The other half scurried in circles looking for its mate, or perhaps waiting its turn to be eaten.

“Mighty fine night,” I said to the lizard.

The lizard said nothing, just cocked its head at me as it continued to chew. The corner of a tiny black wing protruded from its mouth.

I checked the sidewalk again; I thought I could hear the distant laughter of children. Somewhere nearby a dog barked. The night grew darker; the lights along the walkway grew brighter. The gloaming was giving way to night. The darkness brought the promise of enchantment.

“Here come the bloody brats,” said the lizard. He had finished course one of his supper. He snatched the other half of the love bug and scampered up the wall, out of reach of juvenile hands.

Oh, she was adorable! The first trick-or-treater climbed the porch steps and gingerly lowered a tiny hand into my bowl. “Twickertweet,” she said softly. Wide blue eyes peered at me from behind a ladybug mask. She was dressed in red and black and when she turned to run down the steps her wings flew out behind her.

Ladybug was followed by a parade of ghosts, goblins, princesses, pirates, superheroes, and witches. Parents pulled very little ones in Radio Flyer wagons. One fat little dinosaur, heavy with candy, wobbled and nearly toppled over. A little Elvis hopped onto the porch and began twirling in circles, chopping his little hands and yelling “I know karate!” Elvis spotted Lizard and made a valiant effort to claim his tail. Lizard cursed and disappeared through a crack in the porch floor.

The moon climbed higher and the steady stream of children grew thinner and finally dried out altogether. It was very dark now, and most of the candles in their paper sacks had burned down to their wicks and perished in a tiny puff of smoke. The moon was very high. A harvest moon, the color of the egg stain on my shirt.

The jack-o-lantern that glowed brightly all evening suddenly dimmed. “Look out,” said Jack-O-Lantern, “here come those egg-throwin’ hoodlums.” Jack-O-Lantern’s light blew out with a whoosh.

I braced myself. Four teenagers in dark clothes laughed softly and inched up the walkway. They hadn’t bothered to wear costumes – what a disgrace! I sat very still in the dark and waited.

“If there’s any candy left let’s just take the whole bowl.” I heard one of them say. Another said something that I couldn’t make out and they all laughed. One by one they ascended the steps and gathered at the end of the porch. Now silent, they came closer.

“AAAAHHHHHH!” I jumped up and threw the bowl at them, waving my arms in what I hoped was a menacing way. Pieces of candy and bits of straw flew through the air. Those troublemakers screamed and bolted, the four of them merging into one dark lump of frightened teenager.

“Good job, Scarecrow,” said Lizard, now back on the arm of the chair. “Look what you did!” I glanced at

Jack-O-Lantern, who had laughed so hard he’d fallen over and split clean down the middle.

I was thankful Jack-O-Lantern’s candle had gone out, the last thing I needed was to catch fire. My stuffing was very dry and my clothes were very old. I sat back down in my chair and once again felt the joy of this time of year. I couldn’t stop grinning if I wanted to. Tomorrow I would be sent back to the attic to await another year, but tonight I had Halloween.

* * * * *

Being Blocked

Artists and writers use the term "blocked" when they hit a brick wall with their creativity. And hitting a brick wall is exactly what it feels like; you might be merrily writing away, your characters coming to life, the plot thickening, and boom! For no apparent reason everything stops dead in its tracks.

I have been struggling, trying to wrench from my creativity a novel. I began with a short story that really needed to expand and grow. I was so excited in the beginning, setting scenes and getting to know my characters. Then one day I didn't know what the next scene was. My characters stood frozen in place, exceedingly patient, waiting for me to breathe life into them. I grew panicked, tried to write, struck too many false notes, and decided to set the work aside.

Since then I have been paralyzed with fear. From time to time I will click over to my "writing" file and read what I have already written, half hoping the characters woke up and went on without me. I have avoided reading my beloved Writer Magazine. The Bookbuilders meetings, which are the highlight of my month, have left me feeling fraudulent and way out of my league. I feel like a scrawny green worm, desperately clinging to the underside of a half-eaten leaf surrounded by luxuriantly furred caterpillars, too afraid to move lest I be trampled, knowing in my heart I will never become a butterfly. I alternately wish for the beak of a bird to end my misery and the translucent wings of a dragonfly to carry me to the wonderland Imagination.

I believe being blocked applies to life as well as art. I don't know if I'm stagnating, marinating, or just lying low waiting for joy to walk by so I can jump out and pounce on it. I want the world to stop so I can get off but I also want it to go faster, me clinging to it, squealing with delight with my hair flying in the wind. I do not wish to settle for mediocrity, what-ifs, procrastinating my life away. I do not want to hear "I'm too old," "I'm not smart enough," "I'm too busy," "If only I had more money," blah blah blah. I want to live, I want to write, I want to feel.

I had a conversation with my good friend Cheryl the other day about baby steps. We were talking about struggles with weight loss and I told her not to overwhelm herself by taking on a big plan she probably won't stick to. I told her every choice she makes is a baby step, either toward her goal or away from it. It's just as easy to step in the right direction as it is to walk backward. Easier, even. Making the choice to skip the french fries, making the choice to enjoy a sunset by taking an early evening walk, making the choice to drink an extra glass of water every day. All of those baby steps will eventually show results.

I am attempting to take baby steps in my life, in my writing, to try to "unblock" myself. Yesterday I wrote a paragraph in my story. Only a paragraph, but that baby step gave me the courage to open an unread two-month-old Writer Magazine. I sat on my back porch and read wonderful articles that gave me insight and made me laugh. I ended the day with a little bit of hope, feeling like I accomplished something, even if it was only a very tiny step. I will try to take at least one baby step every day and I will note it, make a big deal out of it, if only to myself. My baby step today is writing this blog. I think I will reward myself with a cup of coffee and a big smile.