OK, that really has nothing to do with my post. It was just a random Seinfeld moment. (Mandelbaum!)

When all this book stuff start kicking off in Nov. 2007, I was so excited I couldn’t sleep for about three weeks. Sleep deprivation turned a minor cold into a nasty sinus infection, which in turn wreaked havoc on my head-innards, resulting in total blockage and a lot of misery. Last Wednesday, my doctor, a very lovely and conscientious woman and her stellar OR team broke apart the little eggshell thin bones in my sinuses and snipped out the offensive tissue. Now, a very small man could probably go spelunking in there. It was a roller coaster week of evaluating the possible complications and trying to make peace with the idea of waking up blind or not at all, brain fluid leaking from my head, mysterious, unstoppable geysers of blood…I could go on. I’ve quite the imagination for gore, you know. I came home, woozy from anesthesia and promptly went to bed, where I stayed for three days. How lovely to have a valid excuse to avoid domestic tedium! I read, watched many eps. of Bones and slept and dreamed.

Doing nothing is creatively fruitful. While I was too weary to write, I spent much time thinking, a highly underrated pastime. It is one of my favorite hobbies, second only to drinking whiskey and eating cookies. We are afforded precious little time to simply sit and mull. What fun it is!

I’m ready to get back to work and pin down some of those ideas before they’re gone. The blank spot that is the two hours of lost consciousness is like a demarcation line separating before and after. Whatever writing-related agonies that manifested in my tissues over the past 3 years have been excised. A loop is pulled closed. There is a sense of something having been taken from me, allowing me to move forward less burdened. I’m not prone to sentiment or applying meaning to random occurrences, but a part of me is convinced that there’s something terribly profound in choosing to face death (however likely or unlikely the possibility), and its silent black nothingness.

Worries about what would happen to my next book flitted nervously about. We haven’t even begun the line edit yet. What if something terrible happened to me? Would Tattoo die too? Could I assign its completion and editorial duties to a friend or team of friends? It would be like selecting a godparent for my child. Would anyone be willing to take the responsibility? In the end, I convinced myself there was no need to be extra-morbid and adopted a very que sera, sera attitude about the whole thing, and here I am, alive to write another day.

I can breathe easy now, literally and figuratively. Let the line edit commence!

I used to be a "discovery writer." Oddly enough, I didn't even know there was a name for my writing style until just a couple of years ago, so far into my rabbit hole was I. Back then, I began a book or story on the strength of a head full of images, voices, snippets of plot and conversation, and then proceeded to weave them together, if a bit clumsily. This method creates a manuscript which requires much refining and retooling. It's perfect for Joycean stream of consciousness stories, less so for those that become densely plotted or depend on a solidly built new world. I think I got (mostly) lucky with ICE SONG.

Oddly enough, I didn't even know there was a name for my writing style until just a couple of years ago, so far into my rabbit hole was I. Back then, I began a book or story on the strength of a head full of images, voices, snippets of plot and conversation, and then proceeded to weave them together, if a bit clumsily. This method creates a manuscript which requires much refining and retooling. It's perfect for Joycean stream of consciousness stories, less so for those that become densely plotted or depend on a solidly built new world. I think I got (mostly) lucky with Ice Song, because I was following the traditional format of a fairy tale. But as I begin my fourth novel Asta Requited, and the third in the saga of Sorykah, the gender-switching Trader, I'm taking a  new tack.

Deb Ayers introduced me to the Hero's Journey and Vogler's The Writer's Journey, which lit up my brain with a firecracker explosion of insight. Next, Claire Fadden shared Larry Brook's Storyfix concepts with the group. More light show displays. Then I really and truly understood the meaning, purpose and placement of the inciting incident, and plot and pinch points, hooks, archetypes, the classic conflicts and resolutions. As Eddie Murphy said, way back in '82, "You gotta have a hook!"  Suddenly, the big doors of the writing temple opened, and previously vexing koans revealed their glorious simplicity. It was thrilling.

You want foreshadowing? Bam! You got it!
You want structure? Bah da bing! You got it, baby!

Asta Requited is going to be different. I'm a more confident mother/creator/writer now. I understand all the parts and their placement and will lay out my foundation in advance, rather than building the house first and then having to shore up sagging supports. It feels like more work to begin with a Hero's Journey worksheet and Story Structure worksheet (cheat sheets I made for myself), to outline and really peg out the high points, but, it's work I'd have to do anyway. This time, I'm mapping out the book. I know that my hook and foreshadowing go in the first few pages, if not paragraphs. I know (roughly) which chapters contain plot points, and the essential info needed there.

There's still plenty of freedom allotted for discovery-writing. I depend on and look forward to my characters taking charge of their own stories and surprising me. They just won't be running the show this time. It's a bit more challenging, since I'm not a terribly organized thinker and resistant to routine, but I have a new sense of comfort and certainty as I go forth. I may wander through imaginary foreign lands, but I don't need to get lost there. Sometimes, it's nice to have a map.

The nights feel weirdly empty without a novel to work on. It’s just this long strange stretch of time. Of course, I have plenty of work, but there’s still a hollowness, an echoing silence. The room is quiet, I’ve got a couple of beers in me (Newcastle, if you must know) and New Young Pony Club on the headphones. Music doesn’t drown out those blaring alarm clocks though. You know the ones. The Other Projects.  As soon as I type “The End” (rather literally or figuratively), and set a finished manuscript aside, the alarms spring to life, each one ringing more loudly, shrilly and more insistently than the others, wanting to be heard.

Each story elects one character as its representative, and they stream forward like supplicants approaching the queen upon her throne, their arms piled high with offerings. We’ll let you talk about cannibalism & leeches, says one. Remember that scene in the country, those bare backs splayed across hot, sun-soaked boulders, prods another. Choose me, cries the memoir. I’ll hold your hair back while you purge.

How do I want to feel for the next year? What squirrelly set of emotions shall I choose to immerse myself in? Which sensations do I crave? What do I have the stamina for? Should I reward myself by writing something light and fun, or dive into the abyss and swim for the bottom?

Being between projects–it’s like being a spirit in limbo.I have to find my way back to the land of the living and shut off those damned clocks. To get there, I have to listen and answer the call of the story that most needs telling. Once I’m committed to the project, the hours will again have purpose. But until then, ice cream.

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.

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

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.

If I may ask (and you can decline from answering if it steals too much from the storyline), why did you decide to create the characters Sorykah and Soryk with no consciousness of each other’s actions?  

Each of us has a shadow side, and we embrace or recoil from it in varying degrees. Life is a journey to wholeness, understanding and integrating all the disparate aspects of self into a strong, unified being. It's this pursuit that is best characterized by "the perilous curse," Sorykah's disease of forgetting. If she retained all her memories through the changes, she would be someone else entirely. She'd be some sort of new century superhero, which is its own compelling story, just not hers, sadly!

Read the rest...

Lit agent Nathan Bransford posited an interesting question on his blog: "When is writing unhealthy?

If writing makes you miserable, it's time to take a break from it, whether a short sabbatical or permanently abandoning the pen. However, asking writers to evaluate their own mental health is like asking the emperor to show you his new duds. Here are two takes on compulsory writing:

Listen to an NPR podcast about hypergraphia by the author of "The Midnight Disease."

From the Electronic Book Review:
"Kundera has the perfect term for this sort of writing - Graphomania. As Kundera describes it, graphomania is not "the mania to create a form," that is, not a mania to create challenging new aesthetic forms and media, but rather a mania "to impose one's self on others" through already established modes of "received ideas" and pervasive non-thought [ idées reçues  ]. Graphomania reflects a singular neurosis common to modernity: namely, the need to have an audience, "a public audience of unknown readers." Graphomaniacs aspire to make stories out of their lives and thus presume to do a lot of people good. Writing four love letters a day is not graphomania; xeroxing your love letters so that they may be published one day is."
Read the complete article