I HAD A VERY RELAXING DAY TOMORROW

By Stephen Jay Schwartz

I’ve been living for tomorrow since I was eight years old, when I wrote my first short story, Sammy the Dinosaur (Copyright 1972 All Rights Reserved No Persons Shall Use Any Portion of Sammy the Dinosaur Without Permission of Author or Author’s Estate. Sammy the Dinosaur is a Fictional Character and as such is not Liable for the Reckless or Irrational Behavior of his Creator).

Maybe I figured Sammy would lead to greater things. My mother sent the three-page story filled with typos and drawings of lopsided dinosaurs to Readers Digest where it was promptly rejected.

I started making Regular 8mm movies when I was in fourth grade, graduating to Super 8mm films after my bar mitzvah money bought me the new Chinon XL555 movie camera complete with slo mo, fast-mo, stop-frame, and various other special effects. In those days you could either get a camera that had sound, or a silent camera with effects. I went for the effects, since my friends and I had been shooting our own version of the James Bond films, and slow motion was essential for those scenes where Bond shot me with a plastic machine gun and I tumbled from a snowy mountain-top to my death. I always liked being the bad guy, the one who skied off a mogul and into a tree.

I figured those Super 8 movies would lead to a better tomorrow. They simply led me to more expensive movies that I made in 16mm or 35mm, after spending my future credit rating on the loans that would get me through film school.

In school I wrote screenplays that were sure to bring me millions. I felt comfortable maxing out my credit cards and taking out more student loans – it was all an investment into my future life, the great “tomorrow” I would soon be living. I mean, geez, ONE screenplay sale would wipe out my entire debt and put me in the black for years, right? One after the other, each “million dollar” screenplay became a door-stop. Became garden mulch.

I’ve suffered the American Dream a long time, friend.

When my agent went out with BOULEVARD he was certain we’d make a bundle. After a number of publishers rejected the book, my agent made that wonderful call to tell me it had sold. Before telling me the offer, he warned, “Listen, it ain’t life-changing money. Maybe we’ll sell Book Three for a million.”

It was a two-book deal, and fifteen years ago I could have lived on the advance for a year. But now I’ve got overhead and past-due bills and a family and all those student loans to pay back, with interest, with collection fees.

They say the economy needs to “adjust” before we can begin to see any improvement. Before banks begin to loan again, before new houses are built. We first need to work through our inventory of foreclosed properties. As I wait for my own house to foreclose or short-sell, the house I put all that refi money into when the prevailing thought was, “buy, remodel, add equity,” I think about this tomorrow I’ve been waiting for. I realize that I’ll have to “adjust,” I’ll have to lose all the overhead and settle into a realistic standard of living that I can afford.

In many ways “tomorrow” has arrived. My first book has been published and my career as a novelist has begun. But I still have that day job and come Monday morning I don’t feel so much like the hot-shot writer.

I imagine a tomorrow where I might wake up late with nowhere to go, with nothing to do but write the things I want to write, with plenty of time to do it in, without worrying about bills, or losing my home.

Tomorrow, maybe.

What were your dreams growing up, Murderati? Have they changed over the years? What have you sacrificed to get them? What are your dreams yet to come? And…can “tomorrow” really be attained?

AT PLAY IN THE FIELD OF THE WRITTEN WORD PART 3

by Brett Battles

I hadn’t actually intended to write a Part 3 of the saga, mainly because I thought the saga was all played out. But given what’s happened since posting Part 1 and Part 2 (and what’s happened is, well…just wait till you’ve read the whole post), I felt it was necessary. In fact, I think I might just continue this series until the book is done, reporting in every once in a while as to what has happened.

So, let’s begin. When I last talked to you about the stand alone I was writing, I said that I had written proposals for three different directions, and that my publisher had chosen one. With that I was off to the races!

And the races I hit. For the next two weeks I wrote my tail off.

(Aside: we all write at different speeds, and approach writing a book in different ways. My way is to write a first draft pretty much non-stop, warts and all, then go back and rewrite until it is presentable. What that translates into is that I plow through the pages. And given the fact that I’m doing this fulltime, it means I plow through A LOT of pages.)

At the end of this two-week period, I had a sizeable chunk of the draft done, and was excited about where things were going.

Then I did something we all do. I randomly visited a bookstore.

No. Wait. I need to back up a moment.

For my stand alone I chose a very specific location. One that was personally important to me, and one that has some very specific attributes. There is only one other writer I know who has written about the area in the past several years. Just to be safe, I read one of this person’s books to make sure we didn’t overlap. We didn’t. So I moved on, a happy camper.

Let’s flash back to that bookstore. While browsing around, I started looking around the thriller section, and came across more books by the author I mentioned above. (An excellent author, BTW, who writes equally excellent books.) On the shelf were four books from this person’s series, the first of which was the one I had already read. I was curious where she went with the series, so I picked up the other three books one-by-one to see what they were about. The first two were both set along the California coast, no where near where their first book and my new manuscript were located, and, even better, had nothing to do with the plot I was writing.

Then I picked up the last book. This one WAS set in same place as mine. Okay, no problem. Lots of books share similar locations.

Then I started reading the synopsis on the back.

“Uh-oh.” Though it was not entirely clear what the story was about, what was there sounded familiar. Immediately, I knew I needed to read the book. Still, I wasn’t too worried. I mean, how close could it be to what I was writing? When I got home that evening I started reading.

By 1 a.m., my eyes were wide, and my brain was reeling. What I discovered was that there WERE several things that were not just vaguely similar, but WAY too close to what I was working on. I got out of bed, and shot off a quick email to my agent saying I wanted to talk to her first thing in the morning New York time (I’m west coast.)

When I woke up…okay, I was already awake, unable to sleep for long…When 9 a.m. ET came around, I called. I explained to my agent what I discovered, and think I actually could hear the blood draining from her face. “Call your editor.”

That’s exactly what I did. Surprisingly, she was very calm about it. “Have you read the whole book?” “Not yet.” “Well, maybe it turns out that things are different.” “Maybe, but I doubt it.” “Read the book, then send me a short synopsis, and where the similarities are between the two.”

I spend the rest of the day (that would be two weeks ago last Monday), reading and doing a cross story analysis. And I came up with one very definitive truth – I could not write the book I’d been writing.

Similarity included: the triggering event, the fact that this event happened around 20 years in the past, the villain, deaths of old friends, and, of course, the location. I’m just being general here. Trust me, the core elements of the stories were very similar.

Granted, the way I was telling the story, and the way the other author told their story were different, but it didn’t hid the fact that there was too much the same.

I sent my notes off to my editor, and then realized I had a choice to make. I could just sit around and feel miserable, or I could be proactive and keep myself moving forward.

Those who know me know that being miserable is not a trait I know how to do well. I’m not of the “why-me?” variety, I’m of the “what-do-I-need-to-do-to-keep-moving-forward?” variety.

So in that vein, I took the finding of this book to be a fortuitous discovery. My God, how horrible would it have been if I hadn’t found it? The author had already agreed to read my book when it was done. Can you imagine if I had finished it and sent it off to them? (Rob suggested that if the author were to give me a blurb it may have been, “It’s was a great book…when I wrote it!” Hilarious, in a tragedy averted kind of way. But I have a feeling this author is too kind to ever write something like that. But they might have pointed out the similarities to me, and boy would that have been embarrassing!)

The next day (Tuesday), I returned to my favorite coffee shop determined to come up with an alternate plot that could save some of the elements from the original story. You might be wondering why I didn’t just suggest I do one of the other ideas I had proposed…well, my publisher really liked many aspects of the story they’d chosen, as did I, so I wanted to preserve what I could. Especially, for personal reasons, the location.

With the help of good friend and author Bill Cameron via iChat, I was able to brainstorm a new story. And guess what? It was even BETTER than the old one. Tons better. I wrote up a new synopsis and sent it off.

By Wednesday morning, I hadn’t heard back for my publisher. So, again, I had a choice. Sit around and wait, loosing time, or dive in and write like the new proposal was approved. The only downside there would be if it wasn’t approved I’d have to toss everything out, but if it was I’d be ahead of the game.

I’m not a sitter.

I wrote the opening two chapters that Wednesday, and sent those to my editor so she’d see the direction I was going. Then I wrote on Thursday and Friday. On the following Monday, I was expecting to hear from her, but she gotten busy so needed more time. I wrote on Monday, and Tuesday, and Wednesday, and Thursday, and Friday. I wrote like a madman, hitting daily word totals that I seldom ever hit.

The only other communication I had with my editor that week was an email apologizing for the delay, but would need more time. That was fine. I was in a groove, and I was afraid to push her in case it jinxed things. (Yes, sometimes I worry about that.)

When this past Monday morning came I was ready to dive in again. Then, before I even started, I received an email from my editor. I was nervous to open it, but did so.

She LOVED everything. She also thought it was better than what I had been working on. And the chapters I sent? “Powerful and horrifying.”

That big PHEW!!! you heard Monday around 8 a.m. PT was from me just in case you were wondering.

Now that I had closure, I emailed the author of the other book to let them know what had happened. And, as I would have expected, the response back was completely understanding and supportive.

So everything’s on track again. And, as I write this, I have already written more pages of the new direction than I had of the original one.

Can I say phew again? PHEW!!

Similar stories happen all the time. There is no getting around it. As writers we can’t worry if someone has told a story like the one we’re working on…most of the time. But there are instances when things get so specific that you might have to adjust. I ran into one of those instances, Big Time.

But the real lesson here is that no matter how small or large a problem is, you can either wallow in your own self-pity, or you can do something to put it behind you. If that means you have to throw away 150 pages, 250 page, or even a whole book, then that’s what you do. Because option two is ALWAYS the way to go if you want to succeed.

Okay, ‘rati. What kind of hiccups have you experienced in your life that have required a change in direction? What was your response?

Extra Pulp, Please

by Rob Gregory Browne

I grew up reading popular fiction. One of the first books I ever bought on my own was called The Living Shadow, and was a Bantam reprint of an old pulp novel by Walter Gibson (writing as Maxwell Grant) about The Shadow, a famous character from radio, but quite different in print. The writing in these books is serviceable at best, but I found myself drawn in immediately and hungrily bought every book in the series that was released.

Google.com – Google Products

Around the same time, I discovered the comedy mysteries of Donald Westlake and, later, his Richard Stark books. I was particularly in love with Stark’s Grofield character — who played second banana to Parker — and snatched up as many of the Grofield standalones as I could find.

I also loved reading Mickey Spillane and John MacDonald and many others of the era, most of them courtesy of a guy named Roscoe Fawcett.

Roscoe Fawcett was something of an innovator. Back in the fifties, he noticed how well paperback reprints of hardcover titles were selling, so he came up with an idea: what if he hired writers to create paperback originals? Shoot right past hardcover and take stories straight to the masses at a fraction of the cost, making a small fortune in the process.

Thus, Gold Medal Books was born.

This sounds like a no-brainer today, but Fawcett’s idea was unheard of back then and he pretty much revolutionized the publishing industry. And the writers he hired over the years to write for Gold Medal turned out to be some of the cream of the crop of mystery and thriller writers, including the aforementioned John MacDonald, as well as Westlake, Elmore Leonard, Donald Hamilton and Richard Prather.

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Gold Medal books always had slightly lurid covers. A half-dressed woman with a tough guy hovering over her was fairly standard. But inside, many of those books were short masterpieces of fiction.

I sometimes think I was born in the wrong era. How wonderful to be able to write these 40 – 50,000 word stories and see the public gobble them up like candy. I doubt if the monetary rewards were great, but I have a feeling these writers made a pretty decent living, many of them writing under multiple pen names. I think the closest thing we have today are the Harlequin Intrigue romances that are also a lot of fun to read. Crime stories with a romantic slant.

(Edit: Brett so kindly reminded me of Hard Case Crime, which has taken up the tradition and reprinted many of the old Gold Medal greats, as well as taking on new writers. My apologies to my friends who write for them!)

Recently, I began reading a Gold Medal author that I’ve seen over the years but never got around to reading. A guy by the name of Edward S. Aarons, who wrote forty or so books about a CIA operative named Sam Durrell. Think of Durrell as a more realistic version of James Bond.

Coverbrowser.com

Though few people have heard of him today, Aarons was very popular in his time and I can fully understand why. His books are really well written. He was a meat and potatoes stylist, but it’s some of the best meat and potatoes you’re likely to find.

Because I grew up reading these kinds of books, and still enjoy reading them, I find myself wanting to write them as well. I write popular fiction and make no apologies for that — although some people undoubtedly think I should. I think I mentioned before how a friend of mine wondered when I was going to start writing “serious” books, and I had to wonder, what about my books isn’t serious?

The literary fiction vs. popular fiction debate is a deep, dark hole, but I’ve found a blog post by Michael Blowhard (a very long blog post) from a few years ago that I think sums up my own feelings about the debate. I urge you to take a look at it:

Taking Jackie Collins Seriously

I am amazed by people who look down on popular writing. I’m not quite sure what their reasoning is. The subject matter is too disposable for them? The work isn’t worthy because too many people like to read it? Surely whatever the masses likes has to be mediocre at best.

Coverbrowser.comNo matter. I know what I like to read and I know what I like to write. And those old mass-produced Gold Medal authors — and many who have followed in their footsteps — have given me untold hours of pleasure. And if I can do the same for someone else, that’s all I ask.

So, again, no apologies. But please don’t ask me when I’m going to start writing serious novels. I’m very serious about what I do already.

Today’s question: Do you have an author you just love that your friends or family might consider a guilty pleasure? Who is he or she?

Will you read my manuscript?

by Tess Gerritsen

It finally happened to me. Last week, while my husband and I were dining out at a restaurant, a complete stranger approached and handed me his manuscript.

I should have known something was up when the chocolate cheesecake appeared at our table. I don’t normally eat sweets, yet here was this luscious dessert that neither of us had ordered. The waitress smiled and said, “That’s for you, courtesy of the gentleman at the bar.” Turning, I saw a man waving at me. About halfway through our meal, I had noticed him walk into the restaurant, carrying a briefcase, and had been vaguely aware that he’d been watching us. Since I have a horrible memory for faces, I assumed this was someone I knew — or at least should recognize — so I smiled as he came over to our table.

Then he pulled a manuscript out of his briefcase and said, “I know you’re probably really, really busy. But I was hoping I could give you my manuscript.”

At which point I glanced across at my husband, who had that oh-my-god-I-can’t-believe-the-nerve look on his face. But there was that chocolate cheesecake, already half-eaten on our table. And there was that hopeful smile on the man’s face. And then there’s me, Tess Gerritsen, the wuss, who always wants to be polite and cooperative.

So I took his manuscript.

As my husband said on the way home, “I guess this means you’ve really and truly made it.” And we came to the rather unsettling realization that the man had to know I was already there before he even walked into the place. Who walks around everywhere with a manuscript, expecting to run into some random writer? We had walked into that restaurant without reservations, so someone there must have spotted me, called the writer to tell him I was dining there that night, and he grabbed his manuscript and rushed over to find me. Does that sound paranoid? Okay, so it does. But I don’t know how else to explain it.

I’m sure other published authors have encountered similar situations. Most of the time it happens at book-signings, when some stranger approaches your table, and instead of wanting you to sign a copy of your latest book, he wants you to take his manuscript. I’m pretty good at saying no in that situation, because I’m ready for it. My guard is up. But other times, we’re just not expecting it. When a friend slips you his unpublished novel at a cocktail party, for instance. Or you get an email from an old classmate you haven’t heard from in years. Or your dentist says, while he’s drilling your root canal, “Would you mind looking at my novel?”

I’m reminded of one of the funniest scenes from the film “Shakespeare in Love,” where Will Shakespeare is being rowed across the river by a hired boatman. And as Will climbs out, the boatman calls out: “Will you read my manuscript?” There isn’t a writer alive who didn’t roar with laughter at that, because it probably happens to all of us.

And I understand why it happens. Breaking into this business is a tough, tough thing. Aspiring authors are desperate. They think that if they just knew the right person, got their work into just the right hands, success would smile upon them. And so they shove manuscripts at us in restaurants, under restroom stalls, toss them over our gates, slip them into our mailboxes.

The problem is, this almost never gets them any closer to success. I try to explain to them that I’m not being a meanie, it’s just that I’m not the one who makes the decision to publish a novel. I’m just a writer. I’m not an agent or editor. They’re the ones with the power.

Agents and editors don’t necessarily listen to our opinions anyway. There’ve been only two instances where I came across writers of real talent, whose work really impressed me. Both times, it happened at writing workshops. I loved what they’d done, and I asked my agent to give them a little attention.

She declined to represent either one of them. She just wasn’t excited about their manuscripts. (And that’s how much influence I have.)

Handing over your manuscript to a mere writer isn’t getting it into the hands of the people who really matter. It’s agents and editors who need to read and love your work. If you read the dedications in my books, you’ll know who my literary agent is. So submit your manuscript to her, not to me. (Sorry, Meg.)

As for that manuscript I got in the restaurant, it’s still sitting here in my office, on top of a stack of galleys. Will I read it? Maybe. But I’m already pretty sure it’s not going to float my boat. Whenever manuscripts come to me via some wacky, unofficial route, they are almost guaranteed to be unimpressive.

How to pick a writing workshop

By Pari

“Pari, in a future blog post, could you go through in a little detail how you happened to pick this particular workshop. Workshops aren’t cheap and your insights on separating the good from the bad would be really useful.” Chris Hamilton

Thanks for the idea, Chris. I’ve been thinking about it ever since my last post. Here are a few questions that should help you in the decision-making process. Ask them yourself when you’re looking at workshops.

What am I looking for?
Bingo. This is the biggie. Sure it’s obvious; it’s also neglected. Many writers have a weird “Do Me” attitude. These people abdicate responsibility for their learning at the same time they’re spending the money and time to do it.

Stop!

Ask yourself: Am I interested in general craft, dialog, networking (that might spur you to take a course/workshop from a “name” writer), plot structure, novel writing, bringing more emotion into my writing, or the business of writing?

Without a clear idea of what you hope to take away from the class, you can’t possibly narrow the field.

Do I really want to be in a student mindset?
Be honest. Do you really want to be a learner or do you think you know it all already?

Will you embrace comments, feedback and information on assignments and in lectures or will you spend your hard-earned money to fight everything and then bitch about the class afterward?

Related to this is the time factor: are you ready to jump in and attend the entire class, do all the exercises and other assignments, conduct the required research . . . or will you be pissed at the demands on your already busy schedule?

Whom do I respect?
This consideration is two fold.

Whom do I respect enough to ask for candid recommendations about the workshop/class?
Pick carefully. If possible, you want people that know your writing. I’ve had acquaintances tell me NOT to take a class because they believed I didn’t need it. I trusted them. Before I ever considered the Master Class, I asked around, talked to friends who’d gone through it. Believe me, I really thought I knew what I was getting into <g>.
Do I respect the instructors?
If you don’t know them already, contact them. Get to know them — at least a little — through emails and, if appropriate, conversations. Please . . . If you don’t feel like you can respect them, for heaven’s sake DON’T give them your time and money because you somehow feel they’d “be good for you.” Sheesh. I know people who’ve done this. Argh!

This also gets into the whole concern about teachers or classes compromising your “voice.” It’s a crucial consideration.

When I first started writing, I was very open and willing to take classes from all kinds of people. Luckily I didn’t have a lot of money or I probably would’ve ruined my writing for life.

Let’s face it. There are a lot of instructors out there that teach more from ego than from anything else.

The first part of the respect question has to do with “objective” input. That’s why you have to respect the sources.

The second part of the question has to do with your own gut. Pay attention to it! If something stinks like durian fruit, don’t just through your sweet-smelling time and money at it and expect it turn into a fresh gardenia.

How much money do I have to do this?
Obvious, hunh?

The master class cost a lot, but for what I wanted it was a bigger bargain than going to the myriad classes I’d need to attend to get half of the information.

So . . . some things aren’t quite so obvious after all.

What kind of a commitment am I – and my family – willing to make?
Time. Money. Emotion. Absence from home. Gas expenses. Hotel costs. Emotional focus.

There are classes that require a day, a few hours/week, weeks, months.

What is your learning style?

Do you want an immersion experience or a tidbit here and there?

Will this class impact your family, day job, other activities? Is that all right?
I can tell you that if you attend a class that takes you from home for an extended time – that requires sacrifices made on your behalf — you’re going to get push-back when you return. Be ready for it.

And THINK ABOUT IT.

Don’t skimp on this step because you intuitively feel everything is going to be copacetic.

Pari’s experience:

I did ask myself these questions before committing to the Master Class. I hadn’t been to a writing or craft or business workshop in years and years – except as an instructor. For me, the worries were time, money and my voice as a writer. I asked around and found writers/people I admire with all of my heart. And then asked them what they thought.

I thought I knew what I was getting into and it was far different than anyone could have ever told me; no one can totally predict how another will respond. Still, the Master Class was perfect for me and my requirements. I’m a better writer and business person as a result and know that this is only the beginning of the effects of those two incredible weeks.

But if many of my friends asked me if they should attend it, I’m not sure I’d say “yes.” It would depend tremendously on the person asking, on that person’s current career, and most definitely on what I knew about her or his homelife. (Because push-back can be a bitch; believe me.)

So, Chris, I hope this helped.

Everyone else: I hope it helps you too!

Questions for today’s discussion:

Did I miss anything?
If you’ve attended a professional workshop – writing or in another field – what questions did you ask yourself before picking it?

I’ve thought about this all week, after a few stressful events over the last couple of weeks. To get away from it all, my husband and I visited my oldest son and his wife and the four of us made a trek over to Moab, Utah where there are a couple of impressive national parks I had never heard about.

When you go into the visitor’s center of these parks, there are elaborate displays demonstrating the types of things you’re going to see on your travels through the park, with snippets of educational information that should prove useful. One of the standards in visitor centers of this sort is the big map—or model—of the area, with a star somewhere that indicates the location where you’re standing, with a big “You Are Here” note in bold red, just so you don’t miss it.

And most of the time, we barely reference the “You Are Here” sign.

YOU ARE HERE

We glance at it, note it in relation to the map, orienting ourselves for the journey outward, away. It’s simply a starting point, a place that is already boring for the very fact that it’s only the beginning. It’s where you are, not where you are going or where you want to be.

Lives can be like that. And careers. We’re so busy looking outward and onward, away from where we are, that we’re impatient with ourselves to just get over there. To that place. That place that is not here. We’re so focused on the end result, we forget that no end result happens without the journey.

There is always a journey.

On one of the treks in the Canyonlands park, the climb was fairly steep for someone like myself who has been sitting behind a desk for far far too long without enough exercise. For my 27-year-old very physically fit son, it was nothing. He kept saying, “It’s really not much farther, you’re almost there,” all along the way, which was, frankly, kinda annoying, because even as much as I’d like to have believed him, I could see with my own two eyes that there were a lot more steps above me than there were below. About halfway there, I had serious doubts about finishing the stupid climb. It really wasn’t that far, in actuality, but it felt like a zillion miles straight up at an altitude I wasn’t accustomed to, and I was wondering somewhere along the way how I managed to give birth to a drill sergeant who had this crazy notion that I should be up and moving instead of always sitting at my nice happy desk which required exactly 11 steps from my bed. All level steps, I might add. This whole outdoors thing was ridiculous, what with the fresh air and the beautiful scenery and the… hmmmm.

Then we finally got to the last part, a hard slope uphill with no actual steps, you just had to lean into it and use your legs to push on up and then bang, we were on top of the viewpoint where we could see this amazing Upheaval Canyon.

(A shot I took of Upheaval Mountain)

(And the 180 degree view)

The colors were stunning. The vastness of the canyon. The gorgeous sky above. The layers and layers of strata in the canyon that represented the hundreds of thousands (or millions?) of years that this particular canyon formed.

I loved this particular place because the beauty of it lies in the fact that it didn’t form quite like the many canyons around it. There are a couple of theories, but the prevailing one seems to be the idea that an ancient meteor struck the earth there, possibly collapsing a dome of salt. There are details here: http://www.utahtrails.com/UpheavalCan.html, but what struck me was that this thing of beauty was formed by great hardship and change.

I stood on top of that mountain and thought “You Are Here.”

Hardship and change are inevitable on our journeys. We can have a lot of signposts along the way, and educational snippets / suggestions from the best meaning sources, including friends, but nothing is going to substitute for us living and experiencing that journey.

When I looked back at that second view, I realized–that was my view on my way up. Those clouds, that sun, those colors, that world, and I’d barely seen it, because I wanted to be on top of the mountain already. I nearly missed the view, and only realized how far I’d come and how much I’d seen when I looked back and saw the whole picture.

The thing is, I had been mostly looking at my shoes on the way up that mountain, contemplating why on earth this had seemed like a good idea back at the hotel, grousing internally about the effort it was taking just to go see what amounted to a big hole in the ground. I think we do that a lot with our careers and our lives—we are so busy being frustrated with where we are, because we want to be over there, or there, or there. Somewhere not here, not in this particular hard place, because we want to have the end result.

Well, I could’ve looked at photos and had the end result, but it wouldn’t have meant as much. Until you stand there in that moment on the top of that hill that you had to climb, and experienced the vastness of the landscape, witnessed the brilliant hues in the earth, seen forever painted in the sky, you cannot really know the end result.

It’s always going to take work to get from here to there.

A few months ago, if you’d asked me if I’d be standing on top of a mountain, seeing something I’ve never seen, doing something I hadn’t done, I’d have told you no. It wasn’t a part of my plan, a part of what I thought my journey was. But I’d have missed something amazing and life has a way of giving you detours. It’s up to you if you learn from them or not. It’s up to you if you say, “Yes, I am here,” and appreciate where you are.

On my way back down that hill, I noticed the scenery. Little things I’d taken for granted or hadn’t bothered to experience on the way up, because they were just mere obstacles to my journey to get to the damned top already.

And I thought about that journey up. I had to rest a couple of times, whereas my son could’ve raced up the mountain without breaking a sweat. He has seen this site before and we were experiencing it for the first time. But there are things I’ve seen, hardships I’ve known, that he hasn’t had yet. Things he’s seen and known that I will never fully grasp.

But we both stood at the top, amazed. Speechless with the beauty.

(Another area of Canyonlands… what you cannot grasp from this photo is the vastness of the scale here. From where this shot was taken to the bottom of that canyon you see in the center of the photo is a 2000 ft. difference in elevation. There are canyon walls beyond that, levels upon levels, created hardship by hardship, over eons of time. Beautiful, sublime.)

You can’t compare your journey to someone else’s. Their journey is theirs. Yours is yours. Period. You cannot walk in their shoes. You cannot die their death. They cannot die yours. They may go farther than you, faster than you, but it doesn’t matter. What you can know, and the only thing you can know, is that You Are Here. You don’t know yet what you will be, when you’re done. You might have an inkling of what you’d like to be, where you’d like to be, but you cannot know if that is the best thing for you, when all is said and done. What you can only know is where you are and what your intention is. And all you can do is put one foot in front of the other, in good faith that you will eventually arrive at the right destination for you. Meanwhile, don’t miss the good things that surround you where you are because you’re so busy looking off to the horizon at that far away goal that you may obtain someday.

Embrace where you are, right now. This is part of your journey. You’re not alone. We’re all here, signpost and snippets and educational babble along the way. We cheer each other, sometimes being that annoying supporter who says, “You’re almost there!” when you suspect it’s a lie, but nevertheless, applauding you for trying. But your journey is going to have its own hardships. You’re going to learn your own lessons, and those are good things, both the hardships and the lessons. Because without the hardships, there wouldn’t be anything to compare the beauty to, to recognize the beauty when you see it. To bask in where you’ve gone once you’ve gotten there.

You Are Here.

Every place you are is the place of your new beginning.

Enjoy.

(A shot I took of what seemed to me a most unlikely thing–a vineyard at the base of the mountains in Palisade, CO. A vineyard, in snow country surprised me. But their Reserve Riesling was one of the best I ever tasted. Surprises on the journey.)

So how about you, ‘Rati? What was a surprising turn in your life that brought you to a place you hadn’t expected, which you may never have planned, but for which now you are grateful? OR, if you’d rather, tell me something you appreciate about where you are in life right now.

Les Mots Justes

By Cornelia Read

I started keeping a book of quotations when I was about eighteen–just little snippets of things that were written so well, so exactly, that I wanted to somehow possess them outside the pages in which I’d initially read them. Most are a mere sentence long, and I return to my little egg-yolk yellow notebook weekly, at the very least, not for inspiration, per se, but to run my eyes lustfully over the lapidary specimens all gathered in one rich place.

A good sentence has cadence, poetry, and a little bite, in my estimation. It skitters across the surface of things, hinting at boundless depth with no obvious exertion. A perfect sentence suggests an entire world, sharply delineated in a few master strokes–its meaning as much to be found in what is not said as in what is.

Herewith, a few recent things I’ve added to my collection:

He is one of those people who would be enormously improved by death.

–Saki

The species are still so innocent that a person who is apt to be murdered believes that the murderer, just before he puts the final wrench on his throat, will have enough compassion to give him one sweet cup of water.

–Maya Angelou

And, of course, that is what all of this is – all of this: the one song, ever changing, ever reincarnated, that speaks somehow from and to and for that which is ineffable within us and without us, that is both prayer and deliverance, folly and wisdom, that inspires us to dance or smile or simply to go on, senselessly, incomprehensibly, beatifically, in the face of mortality and the truth that our lives are more ill-writ, ill-rhymed and fleeting than any song, except perhaps those songs – that song, endlesly reincarnated – born of that truth, be it the moon and June of that truth, or the wordless blue moan, or the rotgut or the elegant poetry of it. That nameless black-hulled ship of Ulysses, that long black train, that Terraplane, that mystery train, that Rocket ’88’, that Buick 6 – same journey, same miracle, same end and endlessness.

— Nick Tosches, Where Dead Voices Gather

Weren’t lovers interchangeable when you thought back about them? Maybe that was true in the future too…. I always loved odd things: the blue curacao bottle, the wet asphalt, my own insipid fear.

–Darcey Steinke

The writer who loses his self-doubt, who gives way as he grows old to a sudden euphoria, to prolixity, should stop writing immediately: the time has come for him to lay aside his pen.

–Colette

If you have any doubts that we live in a society controlled by men, try reading down the index of contributors to a volume of quotations, looking for women’s names.

–Elaine Gill

The establishment is made up of little men, very frightened.

–Bella Abzug

Imagine the brain, that shiny mound of being, that mouse-gray parliament of cells, that dream factory, that petit tyrant inside a ball of bone, that huddle of neurons calling all the plays, that little everywhere, that fickle pleasuredome, that wrinkled wardrobe of selves stuffed into the skull like too many clothes in a gym bag.

–Diane Ackerman

You tell me of degrees of perfection to which Humane Nature is capable of arriving, and I believe it, but at the same time lament that our admiration should arise from the scarcity of the instances.

–Abigail Adams (letter, 1775)

Most people go through life dreading they’ll have a traumatic experience. Freaks were born with their trauma. They’ve already passed their test in life. They’re aristocrats.

–Diane Arbus

I would be a socialist if I thought it would work.

–Nancy Astor

My father warned me about men and booze, but he never mentioned a word about women and cocaine.

–Tallulah Bankhead

I ask the support of no one, neither to kill someone for me, gather a bouquet, correct a proof, nor to go with me to the theater. I go there on my own, as a man, by choice; and when I want flowers, I go on foot, by myself, to the Alps.

–George Sand

And really, the reason we think of death in celestial terms is that the visible firmament, especially at night (above our blacked-out Paris with the gaunt arches of its Boulevard Exelmans and the ceaseless Alpine gurgle of desolate latrines), is the most adequate and ever-present symbol of that vast silent explosion.

–Vladimir Nabokov

I’m deeply suspicious of anything with a whiff of the New Age about it—not because of the practices themselves, which as far as I can tell from a safe distance may well have a lot to them, but because of the people who get involved who always seem to be the kind who corner you at parties to explain how they discovered that they are survivors and deserve to be happy. I worry that I might come out of hypnosis with that sugar-high glaze of self-satisfied enlightenment, like a seventeen-year-old who’s just discovered Kerouac, and start proselytizing strangers in pubs.

–Tana French

And then, of course, there are these guys:

How about you, sweet ‘Ratis? Have you read a perfect sentence lately?

You break it, You buy it.

JT Ellison

Revisions can be hell.

I’m currently working on a revision of book 5, THE IMMORTALS. When I started, it looked like it was going to be simple. I needed to add a subplot. No big. Move a few chapters around, dump the story in the appropriate spots, read through and voila! Revision done.

Yeah. Not so fast, there, Sparky.

After staring at the computer for three days trying to decide just exactly how I wanted to do this, I realized it wasn’t going to be the snap I first thought. If I wanted to do it right, I needed to do things a little differently.

I write in a very linear fashion. There are a few times when I’ll jot notes toward the end of the manuscript of what the next chapter is about, or throw down some words to describe my climax. But for the most part, I start at the beginning and write sequentially, allowing the story to unfold as I go instead of jumping around from scene to scene.

I had a great opportunity a few months back—I was the media escort for Diana Gabaldon when she came to Nashville. Now that’s not a job I’d ever want again, because I was a stress monkey the whole day, worrying about getting her to the right place on time (you’d think since I live here I wouldn’t be so damn worried, but I was.) One of her talks, she mentioned how she builds a book. I’d heard this before, but I paid special attention this time, to see if it was something I could do.

Diana writes scenes. Separate, living, breathing entities. When she has enough of them, she starts stitching the book together. Sometimes she’ll find that the season is wrong, or the time of day, and rewrite it to match, but for the most part, the way she puts it together sounded absolutely seamless.

Now, I’m a realist. Of course it isn’t seamless. Proper chapter and scene arrangement is vital to the story – you can’t have things out of order, your readers will get confused.

So when I realized I needed to do this subplot, I decided to try it her way.

Surprisingly, it’s sort of working.

But here’s where I got stuck. The subplot revolves around a situation that happed six years earlier. You know what’s coming next. Yep, I have to write in the dreaded of all forms – the flashback.

Stop your groaning.

I’ve never written in flashback before, not extensively like I’m doing now. It’s not the easiest endeavor. Which is fine, I’m always up for a challenge. But I don’t know what the standards are. As the story unfolds, I’m seeing two things: one, it could be a book of its own, and two, I might be better served if I have a second POV. But you’re not allowed a second point of view when you’re flashing back in someone’s head, are you?

I spent a day fretting about this, then finally called New York.

My brilliant editor scoffed slightly and said, “Write it and see if it works. If it doesn’t, you’ve cost yourself nothing.” Which of course is the right answer.

It’s not the easy answer, though. No one wants to spend time exploring when they’re on deadline. I immediately mentally resisted, listing out all the reasons why I shouldn’t try – time being one of the biggest ones. I’m not much for throwing work away—when I write it, it goes in. The idea of writing scenes basically on spec to see if they might work is an anathema to me.

But in the course of all this angst, I suddenly realized what I was really asking. I wasn’t worried so much about the dual POVs in the flashback. I was asking if I could break the rules.

And since when do I ever worry about the rules?????

Happily, when I went to my office, this was the first thing I saw. It’s on my door.

“There are no rules except those you create, page by page.” ~ Stuart Woods

You can imagine the chagrin I felt. Permission? This is writing, damn it. We’re writers. We are the all-powerful creators of universes. We do what we want, when we want. We defy gravity, boundaries, planes of existence. We bring the dead to life. Yes, there are rules, but it’s our job, our mission, to break them. That’s what we do. All successful writers thumb their nose at the rules. Even Stephen King says, “Know the rules so you know when to break them.”

Ah. There’s the rub. We’re allowed to break the rules, but we have to know them first. Okay. Consider this your hall pass.

Here’s the rallying cry. Go forth, and break all the rules. Write something today that’s been eating at you, something that you’re worried about. Something your mind says won’t work. Maybe it won’t. But until you get it on paper, who knows???

When’s the last time YOU broke the rules?

Wine of the Week: 2007 Primaterra Primitivo

PS: Happy Friday the 13th!! Unlike Halloween, good things usually happen in the Ellison household on these days. I hope something good happens for you too!

All Things Remembered

by Zoë Sharp

As I write this, today is Wednesday, November 11th – the eleventh day of the eleventh month. Armistice Day. Remembrance Day. This morning I was in my local supermarket, in a hurry, a thousand things on my mind, buying some flowers for my mother’s birthday. And just as I reached the head of the queue, there was an announcement.

“It’s coming up to eleven o’clock on November eleventh,” said the voice over the Tannoy. “We will now have two minutes’ silence.”

At the Cenotaph, one would expect that. The Menin Gate, definitely. But Sainsbury’s?

The checkout staff stopped scanning items. The customers stopped wandering the aisles. We stood in companionable quiet, without impatience, without agitation, for two minutes.

And then the checkouts lit up again. The murmur of conversations restarted, the rattle of the trolley with the squeaky wheel that I always seem to pick, the mewling of a small child who’d been, until then, strangely silent. (I understand that holding tight onto their nose often has that effect.)

I suddenly remembered a chain email I received from a friend last week. Confession time. I hate those chain emails. I mean, really hate them. They’re usually so full of saccharine sweetness that I go into a diabetic coma just reading the subject line, never mind the contents. Bah, humbug, yes indeed. I don’t respond well to emotional blackmail.

But this one was different.

These are not my words. I don’t claim them to be. I don’t even vouch for their accuracy, only their sentiment. And if anyone knows to whom they should be credited, I’ll gladly add their name into this post.

“The annual Poppy Appeal commenced on October 28th.

“The average British soldier is 19 years old … he is a short-haired, well built lad who, under normal circumstances is considered by society as half man, half boy. Not yet dry behind the ears and just old enough to buy a round of drinks but old enough to die for his country – and for you. He’s not particularly keen on hard work but he’d rather be grafting in Afghanistan than unemployed in the UK . He recently left comprehensive school where he was probably an average student, played some form of sport, drove a ten year old rust bucket, and knew a girl that either broke up with him when he left, or swore to be waiting when he returns home. He moves easily to rock and roll or hip-hop or to the rattle of a 7.62mm machine gun.

“He is about a stone lighter than when he left home because he is working or fighting from dawn to dusk and well beyond. He has trouble spelling, so letter writing is a pain for him, but he can strip a rifle in 25 seconds and reassemble it in the dark. He can recite every detail of a machine gun or grenade launcher and use either effectively if he has to. He digs trenches and latrines without the aid of machines and can apply first aid like a professional paramedic. He can march until he is told to stop, or stay dead still until he is told to move.

“He obeys orders instantly and without hesitation but he is not without a rebellious spirit or a sense of personal dignity. He is confidently self-sufficient. He has two sets of uniform with him: he washes one and wears the other. He keeps his water bottle full and his feet dry. He sometimes forgets to brush his teeth, but never forgets to clean his rifle. He can cook his own meals, mend his own clothes and fix his own hurts. If you are thirsty, he’ll share his water with you; if you are hungry, his food is your food. He’ll even share his lifesaving ammunition with you in the heat of a firefight if you run low.

“He has learned to use his hands like weapons and regards his weapon as an extension of his own hands. He can save your life or he can take it, because that is his job – it’s what a soldier does. He often works twice as long and hard as a civilian, draws half the pay and has nowhere to spend it, and can still find black ironic humour in it all. There’s an old saying in the British Army: ‘If you can’t take a joke, you shouldn’t have joined!’

“He has seen more suffering and death than he should have in his short lifetime. He has wept in public and in private, for friends who have fallen in combat and he is unashamed to show it or admit it. He feels every bugle note of the ‘Last Post’ or ‘Sunset’ vibrate through his body while standing rigidly to attention. He’s not afraid to ‘Curse and Create’ anyone who shows disrespect when the Regimental Colours are on display or the National Anthem is played; yet in an odd twist, he would defend anyone’s right to be an individual. Just as with generations of young people before him, he is paying the price for our freedom. Clean shaven and baby faced he may be, but be prepared to defend yourself if you treat him like a kid.

“He is the latest in a long thin line of British Fighting Men that have kept this country free for hundreds of years. He asks for nothing from us except our respect, friendship and understanding. We may not like what he does, but sometimes he doesn’t like it either – he just has it to do. Remember him always, for he has earned our respect and admiration with his blood.

“And now we have brave young women putting themselves in harm’s way, doing their part in this tradition of going to war when our nation’s politicians call on us to do so.

“We will remember them.”

And at the bottom of the email were these final words:

“I wouldn’t dream of breaking this chain. Would you?”

So, although I know my day to post this week is a day late for the eleventh day of the eleventh month, but how could I not put these words out there, in the best way I know how, when called upon to do so? Especially as my own main protagonist is ex-British Army, and military or former military characters litter the pages of our novels.

So, ’Rati – this day or any day – who do you want to remember?

Rust Never Sleeps

I am supposed to be a writer, and unless I do a little writing everyday it’s hard to tell that’s what I am.

-Otis Twelve

I turned my latest work in to my agent a couple of weeks ago. And then I did…nothing.

Oh, I still did the newspaper column and the Murderati posts as they came due. Those tend to take about an evening to write and edit.

But the thing is, I’m what I optimistically call “between publishers” right now. I don’t have editor’s notes to pore over, or copy edits, or promo stuff to do. I’m waiting to see what happens next. While I wait, I haven’t been doing any fiction writing. I’ve been reading, hanging out, playing with the new puppy, picking up the guitar again…that’s the good stuff. But I’m also watching a lot more TV and drinking a bit more than is really good for me.

After a week or so, I began feeling restless, like there was a tickle in the back of my brain. I know that feeling well…that’s stories and ideas in the back of my head, scratching to get out.

And I’ve written…nothing.

Because I’m waiting to see what happens next. Or so I tell myself. Sometimes I tell myself I’m just “recharging the batteries”, which I suppose is at least partially true. However I rationalize it, I haven’t been working on a fiction project for the first time in five or six years. Even during the times I was goofing off and feeling guilty about not working on a project, I was goofing off FROM something, if that makes sense.

It’s ironic, because during this short hiatus, I’d done a couple of appearances and classes in which I solemnly told aspiring authors that in order to consider yourself a real writer, you have to write every day. And I meant it, too. Every time I said it, though. those little mocking voices in the back of my head went “so what does that say about you, you fraud?”

Finally, the other day, I sat down and started to try to write a scene in a book I’d been sort of desultorily outlining while I was finishing up the last one. It’s quite different from what I have out on submission, which in its turn was quite different from anything I’d done before. But I could see it, I could hear it, I could feel it. And if I could do those things, I could get it written down.

Except I couldn’t. Nothing came. I wrote a bit. I deleted it. I wrote a bit more. I checked my e-mail. I checked Twitter and Facebook. I went back to what I’d written. It sucked. I deleted it.

I was rusty. After two friggin’ weeks, I was rusty. I’d lost the rhythm of working every day. It reminded me of picking up the guitar again after a long layoff. When you do that, all the calluses on your fretting hand get soft and the fingers don’t leap right to the notes with the assurance you only get when the memories are engraved into the nerves and muscles through practice. What I was putting down on the page was the literary equivalent of buzzing notes and blown chords.

I’m not worried. Not much. I’m keeping at it, because this new book can be really good. I know, just like the guitar, I’ll get it back. It’ll start flowing again. But I’m here to warn you:

Rust never sleeps.

So…what’s your longest layoff from writing, and what was the effect? How long did it take you to get your groove back? Readers, have you ever picked a skill up after a long layoff? How did it go?