Think that female circumcision is a problem for other countries to handle? No, it happens right here at home.

Violence Against Women: Female Genital Mutilation

What is the root of this profoundly ancient twisted belief that women's sexuality, happiness and health is a darkly destructive force that will uproot and raze all that is "good and decent" in this world?

I read a ton of books when I was young. I would take my little red wagon to the library and load it up with as many books as I could pull home, 20, 30, 40 or more. As the librarian made her way through my towering stack of books, I always had a moment of panic that she might cut me off like a bartender, withhold my selections and tell me "Go home, you've had enough!" I think that the limit was 50 books, but vaguely recall the librarian telling that the limit was whatever I could read in two weeks. I stopped myself at 50. Taking any more would look downright greedy.

When I came home, I would sort through the books and stack them in "to be read" order. I still do this when I have a stash of new books and enjoy it just as much. It's like planning a meal. First, start off with an appetizer (humor, graphic novel, pulp), followed by the soup course (ghost story, fairy tale, fantasy), fish course (memoir, food, travel), entree (literary novel, biography, nonfiction) and dessert (romance, chick lit, guilty pleasures) etc., striving for a balanced reading experience the way a chef strives to create the perfect complement of flavors and textures, sweets and savories.

Reading, however, has always been a private experience. It's just me and the world inside the book (I know it's a good one if I stop seeing the text on the page and see the characters instead). When it was over, I'd pick up the next book and plow through that, unless I paused for a day or two to enjoy a particularly tasty story whose flavor still lingered. Today, I might pass a book along to a friend with a general recommendation that it was awesome, or more her style than mine or vice versa, but try it anyway. The discussion ends there. So I was quite surprised to discover the enormous community of online book bloggers and reviewers when Ice Song was published and began making its way around the blogosphere.

Shelfari, Goodreads, Living Social and the numerous book blogs loving maintained by avid readers -- who knew? Readers' devotion to their favorite genres and authors astounds me. The depth and care typical of their analysis demonstrates a whole new way of absorbing and digesting stories--reading as a communal exercise. The open forum for reviews and the comments they generate transform reading from a solitary activity to a shared one--a DIY instant book club.

Whether or not I'll join the discussion is yet undecided. Call me old school--a book is a personal thing. Maybe I'm selfish in not wanting to share my experience with other, break it down into components and analyze its parts. I fear the magic would be lost.But maybe I'll be brave and try it, and discover my enjoyment enhanced by a shared appreciation, rather than diminished by too-close scrutiny.

(Man, that was like drawing blood from a stone. Now I can chuck my literary voice and tell you that my head is foggy 'cause those little germ machines that live with me brought suitcases full of rhinovirus home from school. That the rain is beating down and I'm distracted by cloud patterns and long for bed and laptop and warm choco chippers. That I'm considering buying a pizza with next week's gas money so I don't have to cook tonight -- and will worry about how to get to work later, like next week when I don't have any gas money. That I really need a hot toddy with honey and lemon and that today is definitely a five cups of tea day.)

I have an addiction. I’m a story junkie.

I can get my fix from gossip sites, Facebook, blogs, video clips, monologues, comics, morning DJs, friends and family, comedy monologues, news items, NPR, magazines, podcasts, TV, movies, and, of course, books. I have an insatiable appetite. A day without as many stories as possible crammed into it is a wasted day. A story is not always beginning, middle and end. Sometimes it’s just the middle, or the ending, and the rest is up to my imagination.

A story doesn’t have to have the traditional elements, archetypes or forms. It just has to satisfy, whether it’s popcorn fare or a seven-courser, it’s all food for thought. But because I devour so many stories, and am so relentless in the pursuit of my next fix, maybe I’m not so choosy. I just enjoy them. I like to absorb them, digest them, take what I need and spit out the rest, just like sunflower seed hulls. There’s always something of value. An idea, an image, a character or experience, a good laugh or cry. Then it’s on to the next one.

Like a shark, always swimming, I cannot rest. I read everything at lightning speed, street signs, license plates, cereal boxes, advertisements, looking for some aspect of a tale. Actually, I wish I didn’t have this constant compulsion to read every single string of letters or words I see. It would be more restful, but there it is.

Just feeding my habit the best way I can. Like a whale, straining plankton through its baleen, I sieve stories from the media world around us, and take nourishment from the tiniest snippets of information. Think about how many stories you hear in a day, where you hear them, how much of the story you need for it to be meaningful and how that story affects your outlook and emotions. Consider how empty, how absolutely null and void, our human existence would be without the powerful language of Story, shaping and cataloging our lives.  Think about the best and worst stories you’ve ever heard–the ones that stay with you, year after year. Can we have stories without words, images or sounds? If you can find a story even in silence, then you too are probably a story junkie.

Salut!

Friday is my day to post and I am woefully behind. I’ll blame it on the holiday haze. Now that the big day has passed and I’m looking forward to seven more days of vacation, hallelujah, I can start to catch up and get back to work on what really matters–storytelling.

As I write that, I’m again reminded that storytelling can be a pejorative meaning “to lie.” “Don’t tell stories,” I remember being warned as a child when my version of the truth was in doubt. Sometimes that pops into mind, especially when I’m manipulating and molding real-world situations into fantasy. Am I telling stories? Well, yes, I am, and getting paid for it, too, so there! Like a good lie, a good story is stronger and more believable when it incorporates as much truth as is possible without revealing a much less glamorous or interesting reality.

But being a glib, silver-tongued devil is not my topic for today, no. I’ve been quite vexed by a particular character’s refusal to show himself to me. This hardly ever happens. In fact, I can only recall a similar difficulty with the main character from my first novel “Flesh Hell” (distinction: first novel (unpublished/self-published) vs “First Novel” (published)). Joely was incredibly slippery and truculent. It took a lot of meditative visualization to get a fix on her, but once I did, she rooted quickly and blossomed like a strong, flowering tree.

Bodkin, you old devil. What are you hiding? I just want him to hold still long enough to study his face, but he’s pixellated himself into anonymity. Bodkin is Matuk the Collector’s former assistant, with designs of his own. Think of a devious, deceptive Benson. Robert Guillaume giving us his best evil I-will-take-over-the-world cackle. Mwa ha ha ha!

I was getting quite annoyed with him. Everytime I tried to describe Bodkin, I summoned an image of Alan Rickman in his Severus p costume. No, that would not do. Leonid Brezhnev got thrown in and stirred around a bit. Bodkin looks like a Yashimi diplomat, I thought. Apparently, Yashimi diplomats bear a striking resemblance to the former Communist leader. No, no, that wasn’t it. Was he tall, short, or somewhere in between? I began examining men on the street. Was his skin florid or sallow? Did he have a hunch, a gimpy leg, palsy? Was he strong? Talkative or quiet? Did he wear a particular fellow’s air of insignificance and neglect, or was he full of self-importance?

The more I pondered, the elusive he became. I could not describe him and stopped trying. I have read books where characters are never physically described, their every intimate detail left to the reader’s imagination. But that’s not my way. Finally, I let it go and trusted that it would work itself out. Then while writing about him, I typed something about “the inscrutable Bodkin, who had a face like a brick” and that was it. Maybe that’s all we need to know. I don’t really like him well enough to want to get to know him much better, to investigate how many dental fillings he has and start identifying moles and birth marks. Clearly, he is meant to be nondescript and pedestrian, which better serves his purpose. He is one of those people best described by his actions, rather than his looks, something which can be said for all of us.

Ice Song has been listed as the best sci-fi/fantasy for 2009 by Paul Goat Allen for Barnes & Noble and best adult book for high school students of 2009 by the School Library Journal. What a tremendous honor!

Last night I confessed my fear of the sophomore curse to my very lovely and wonderfully encouraging friend, Gayle. It’s a nagging little anxiety, about the size of dust bunny, that’s been blowing around in my brain for a while now.

OK, I get that that the sophomore curse/slump hinges on the precedent that your freshman effort was wildly successful. Still, the fear haunts nearly every artist. Can I do it again? Am I a one-hit wonder?

It typically applies to bands, sports rookies and sometimes movie sequels, but the follow up effort can carry with it potent ju-ju. Sure, we read “Cold Mountain” or “A Million Little Pieces” but can you name the books the authors wrote in the wake of their big, splashy debuts? Here’s Bee Season author Myla Goldberg talking about the sophomore slump.

Ice Song received some really wonderful praise, and some rather not-nice critiques, all par for the course, of course. But overall, I feel fairly happy with the outcome. I can only imagine that the next book, Tattoo, will do even better because it will incorporate all the lessons learned from my virgin foray into publishing.

Instead of riding the downward slope from a glorious pinnacle of success, I’m still making the trek upwards to the top, so the pressure is much less than it would be had my first book been a bestseller. Mostly I’m just trying not to think about it. All those outside voices simply obscure the ones that really matter, the voices of my characters, and the gentle guidance of my muse.

At my editor's suggestion, I've bumped a scene from way back around chapter 20 to the very front of the book. She's right, it is a stellar opening line and much more effectively sets the scope for the entire adventure in Tattoo. But that leaves me with scads of cutting, pasting, rewriting and reimagining to do. I've so far managed to condense about 5 chapters into two, heeding my keywords "short, sharp and brutal."  I want to incite to leave readers feel strung out and remembering their own very awkward and heartwrenching breakups but plunging immediately into an emotional maelstrom doesn't work in the opening position. More shuffling and sorting required.

On top of it all, I'm juggling two main storylines for one character. Because Soryk/ah is a Trader and spends time as both a woman and a man (neither of whom has much awareness of the other), each has her/his own life with its own complications and confusions. Getting confused? So am I.

I've gone round and round, looking at it from all angles to pinpoint the inciting incident for each of Soryk/ah's genders. What specific event sets the story in motion? Do they have the same motivations, the same goals and desires? Do those feelings and ambitions counter or support the other gender? All of which leaves me feeling like I'm juggling a big ball of snakes.

Years of writing has taught me one vital lesson, and that's the importance of brooding. Stewing, fermenting, bubbling, gestating. You get the idea. I see my creative mind as a deluxe stovetop with six flaring gas burners. Some of the pots and pans are filled with rich, creamy succulence, boiling and steaming, carmelizing and crackling away. Those are the stories I'm most excited about. There's always a giant soup pot or two on the back burner, simmering over a low flame, it's flavors and elements breaking down, interacting, creating new flavors and textures. When I feel stuck, I turn down the flame, pop a lid over the whole kit and caboodle and let it work itself out. This means working on other, less troublesome parts of the story, all the while, the soup pot bubbles.

Ultimately, I trust that my brain's conduits to these characters' lives will untangle themselves and by some mysterious alchemy, the mishmash of ingredients I've thrown together will be transformed into something so ultimately delicious, it leaves us all begging for another helping.

I think you may have to let this entry simmer in your own pot until my ramblings begin to make sense. I've been writing in between bubble-blowing breaks for the boy in the bath, who has informed me that he's going to stay in the tub until midnight.

Anyway, here are two extremely helpful links to discussion about the inciting incident and writing gotcha-grabber opening scenes/chapters.

http://www.floggingthequill.com/flogging_the_quill/2006/02/your_inciting_i.html

http://www.writersdigest.com/article/hooked-excerpt

Yesterday, as my family gathered around the Thanksgiving table to count our blessings, each of us took a moment to express what we were most grateful for: Good health, employment, the overcoming of difficult trials and the recognition of accomplishments large and small.

My husband and I had something new to add to our lists this year. He offered his thanks to all the wonderful people who have helped usher my novel into the world, and I gave my thanks to every person who has bought the book.

Whether you loved it, hated it or simply shrugged and said, "meh!" after reading Ice Song, I am deeply grateful and honored that you chose my book. Every sale is valuable and meaningful to me. It is a recognition of my years of struggle, striving and survival. I am honored that you, dear reader, have taken the time to sit with me and invest your precious hours to hear my tale, and for that I thank you.

Blessings to you and yours as we move into the season of short days and long nights. I hope that your winter is chock-full of good stories, loving friends and family, and pie, glorious pie.

Recently received the editorial letter for "Tattoo." Six pages of insightful comments and suggestions for sharpening, shaping and clarifying my story.

Since speaking with my editor last week, I've been thinking a lot about Tattoo and how to strengthen it.

I used Vogler's "Writer's Journey" to create a 4 page plotting/character worksheet. Filling it out helped me identify the main plotlines and crises, pinpoint which elements are wrong or misplaced, and create an internal structure for the story. It seems that the novel was supported by scaffolding before. Now I must dismantle and rebuild it from the inside out, starting with the skeleton and fleshing it out with characters, details and subplots.

After completing the worksheet, I diagrammed the story for the third time and now have a clear idea of what needs to be done. No sorrow about deleting superfluous scenes, or surgically restructuring the novel, rather I'm excited to have created a workable method for envisioning my story in a new way.

The cut file (orphaned sections of excised text) grows.