Beyond the Comfort Zone

When I started writing my book I knew, on an intellectual level, it meant people would read it. What else is the point? I'm accustomed to strangers reading what I write; business writing has been my job for more than 15 years. I have many exciting writing credits, articles about new integrated circuits to improve computer processing time or the right tuxedo to wear for a summer wedding. I've written copy for hundreds of fact sheets, marketing brochures, and web sites. No big deal. People read what I write all the time.

So, imagine my surprise when I gave the 'Burban Babe manuscript to my sister and immediately had a nervous breakdown. She was reading my book. The book I had poured my heart and soul into writing for more than a year. Oh my God. What if she hated it? What if she hated me for writing it?

That was the first time I realized how brave writers are. Creating something is an emotionally brutal task. You give the story your all, nurturing it to life. And then people read it and form their own opinions about it and about the person who created it. Yikes. What have I signed up for? Maybe a pen name wouldn’t be such a bad idea.

Actually, I think it's good, and exciting, to be do something way outside my comfort zone. I hope it will make me a better writer. So, here I am world, and here is what goes on inside my head. Take it or leave it. That's my attitude, today anyway. My attitude could always change when the reviews come in. Or after my father finishes reading the draft I sent him yesterday.

Truth is Harder than Fiction

"Write what you know." That's the age-old advice given to novice writers. And it's good advice. So, I wrote what I know, and let me tell you, it was hard. I started 'Burban Babe in part because my friends thought my Christmas letter would make a funny book.

Since I was always intimidated by the thought of writing a whole book--one with a beginning, middle, end, and interesting stuff in between--I thought just chronicling the adventures of my life would be a way to ensure I had a story. (Non-writers take note: every writer reading that last sentence just choked on her grandeskimnofoamlatte.) It turns out it takes a little more than an amusing anecdote or two to tell a compelling story. Go figure.

I struggled through a very autobiographical first draft. The timeline was wrong, but most of the facts were right. Through that process, I discovered the story I wanted to tell and learned a lot about myself. Both good things. But, the characters weren't that interesting. Except...except for two characters who had popped up while I was writing. These two women had strong personalities and something to say, and neither was based on someone from my life. Huh. How interesting.

By the time I got to the fourth draft (yes, fourth), I had stepped back from the characters and let them form themselves. When I gave up control, they all became much more interesting. And once the characters asserted themselves, the story flowed (hence the rewrites...they kept arguing about who got to do what, when. Really girls.)

I enjoyed making the story up so much more than basing it on reality that my second book, the Ellie Holsinger mystery, is all new to me—nothing, so far, in that story resembles anything from my life. How cool.

Perhaps the notion that I enjoy making stuff up isn't so surprising to anyone who knows me. I live in a fantasy world. Now I've found a way to put the world in side my head down on paper. I can't wait to see what pops out next.

That Harry is Quite a Character

I admit it. I am a huge Harry Potter fan. I can't even tell you how many times I've read the series, or seen the movies. Two days after its release, I have read The Half Blood Prince. Did I like it? Absolutely. Will I read it again? You bet. Probably next week.

I've spent some amount of time over the last few years pondering why I am so taken with these books. After all, they are written for children. So why am I, a mature adult (she said wryly), so captivated?

I didn't have an answer to that question until I started seriously writing fiction. The act of developing interesting, honest characters provided me with a Eureka moment. Or rather, it was the act of struggling to develop those characters that provided the Eureka moment. I realized I love the Harry Potter series because the characters are so real. By that I mean they are flawed, they are moody, they are often inconsistent in their thoughts and actions. I always love the good guys, but sometimes I don't like them very much. I find that honesty so refreshing that I'm able to read the books over and over without getting bored. And in trying to create honest characters of my own, I appreciate what an incredible talent J.K. Rowling has and what gift she has given us.

Rebel Without a Book

I remember being about nine years old and my father telling me I was a good writer and would write the great American novel someday. Actually, my parents told me that all the time. I don't know where the idea came from. I have no memory of ever writing short stories, poems, or even to-do lists. I do remember drawing Tippy the Turtle and trying to get accepted to that art school advertised in magazines. (Now that I think about it, maybe my parents were subtly telling me I had no artistic talent. Hmm.)

I was not a particularly rebellious kid. But I rebelled against the writer thing. Everyone told me I should do it, so I'd be darned if I would. I always got A's on creative writing assignments, majored in journalism, and built a career around corporate writing of any sort. But I had a mental block against writing fiction, for many of the usual reasons: it's too hard, it's lonely, I will suck, every one will hate my stories.

Guess what? It's hard, it's lonely, I often suck, and people might hate my stories. But I got over my rebellion, and evicted the stubborn child living in my brain who told me not to write just because my family told me I should. And although I hate to say my parents and all those adults from childhood were right, I am a writer. I do love it. I'm not sure about writing the great American novel--I think that's been done already--but I will write novels. See. Sometimes your parents do know what they are talking about.

Welcome to my blog

It's official...my blog is up and running. My goal is to make this blog a place where friends--new and old--can come to learn (and laugh) about my journey as a writer. I'll share the trials and tribulations with writing a whole book (yep...something more than 100 pages) and then the real work...getting published. I've been on this journey a little more than a year, and it's been great. I hope you enjoy the ride as well.

If there is anything you want to know specifically, drop me a line or add a comment. Otherwise, I'll post something weekly.

Stay tuned.

Social Life?

Here it is, Friday night. What am I doing? Sitting in my room, futzing with my web site and trying to movitvate myself to write for awhile before I start my Friday night movie marathon. I ask you, is this any way for a single woman to spend her weekend night?

The thing is, I'm very content with this plan. That, I beleive, is the crux of why I don't have much of a social life these days. Or, rather, why my social life consists of visiting my various chat rooms to see what other writers are up to.

The thing I feared would happen if I ever started writing in earnest has, indeed, happened. I have become a virtual recluse. I knew I had these hermit tendencies, and that writing would likely exacerbate them. So I fought it. I just wasn't ready to spend every evening alone while I was in my twenties and early thirties. And I knew if I started writing I would. Yes, I am that self aware (ha).

What happened? It snuck up on me. I had an irrestible urge to tell a particular story. I spent six months writing when the muse struck, which was once every few weeks. Then I got a little more disciplined about. But I didn't become a virtual hermit until the first draft was done. Because that is when I went on-line searching for kindred spirits. And I found them. And am now perfectly happy spending Friday night reading blogs, seeing what other writers are up to, and letting them inspire me. Who has time to go out on the town?

I'm glad I finally let the writer out. It's very peaceful in my room right now, with my two cats asleep on the bed and the dog I'm babysitting this week laying at my feet. This is absolutely how I want to spend Friday night.