What's Your Pain Threshold?

 Criticism is something we can avoid simply by saying nothing, doing nothing, and being nothing. ~Aristotle

I was doing a little blog-hopping-- only a little because I've spent every ounce of energy I have and my bed is calling me... "Kristaaaaaa, Kristaaaaaa, I'm warm and deep with three inches of memory foam softnessssss..."
*sigh*
What was I doing? Oh yeah, the blog.

I saw the wonderful ladies at Writing on the Wall had a new post here. Julie Wright shared her thoughts on the pain of critique and bearing it better if we took some pain meds beforehand, or, actually, maybe we would submit more if we knew it wouldn't hurt so much. It's a sweet boost, so go read it. But come back here.

Because I was thinking about pain and what it can do. Paralyze us? Make us grit our teeth and bear it?

About 16 1/2 years ago a car going 65 mph hit my stopped car from behind. Didn't see us at all. Mine and my baby's survival was a miracle. Because of her car seat, my little girl was frightened, but perfect. I walked away, however, with severe muscle tissue damage in my lower back. I'm in some level of pain every hour of every day. People compliment me on my excellent posture. The truth is, if I slouch, the pain meter spikes quickly. I try to avoid that.

It's like walking around with a knife stuck in my back. When it gets worse, someone is twisting the knife. Every hour of every day. I fought depression. I won.

Then a few years later, my marriage nearly fell apart.

We sucked it up. We made it through. We fell in love again.

And then we lost a child. 

It's a risk, as writers, putting ourselves out there. It could hurt. It could help. Use what's given, find what works, make the changes, meet halfway, follow your gut, scrap the rest.

I keep submitting, because critiques and rejections are tough, but I know some things hurt more.

I can handle it. So can you.

Labor Day Weekend BBQ Blog Party

Welcome, Labor Day Weekend BBQ Blog Party visitors! As requested, I'm posting a link to my mom's famous New York Grilled Chicken recipe, and yes, though I grew up in the Northwest, my mom is a New Yorker with Vernor's Ginger Ale running through her veins.

Browse around and leave a comment, follow if you like, and I look forward to meeting you as I visit your blogs!

Thanks for throwing a party, Karen. Have a wonderful weekend!

Commandments for Writers Series: #8

Moving along with Sol Stein's Ten Commandments for Writers, from Stein on Writing...

8 Thou shalt have no rest on the sabbath, for thy characters shall live in thy mind and memory now and forever.

It's true, figuratively and literally. Giving life to characters is akin to creating family. That sounds insane. I don't think I'm insane. I do know that Alisen, Elizabeth, Amanda, Chloe, Jill, and Kirianah are like sisters to me. Okay, maybe I'm insane. The asylum's in my head. Shhh, don't tell anyone.

I know of writers who choose not to write on the Sabbath day. But I bet they think about it.

I have been jolted with inspiration for a plot line in the middle of Sunday School class. My jaw has dropped as I sing the words of an unfamiliar hymn, appropriately depicting my character's feelings. A comment, a quote, a scripture catches fire in my soul, burning to be written down as soon as I get home. A fix to a scene, a turn of dialogue, an expression of emotion. The rest comes after the words are down.

But yeah, I'm still thinking about them.

Mockingjay

I began waiting for Mockingjay, by Suzanne Collins, as soon as I finished Catching Fire, which I read immediately after reading Hunger Games. You can read my review of the first two books in this YA series here and here.
I stayed up until 4 a.m. reading, needing to see how Katniss was going to teach the Capitol a lesson. To see who would survive. To see the heart-stopping finish and declaration of a new day...
I knew characters would die.
I knew love would be defined.
I knew things would get violent.
The first two books taught me that. My expectations were in line with what had already been told. I wanted to be engulfed in flames and emerge triumphant.

I felt on the verge of that throughout the entire book. On the verge of ignition. I felt the story leading me, twisting, guessing, fulfilling its promises... despite the glaring amount of narrative.

At this point in the review, I originally aired opinions with spoilers galore. I've reluctantly chosen to save those for later, after more of you have had time to read it. I will just say that I thought some of it was brilliant, and some of it was a let-down, especially concerning the narrative of almost the entire last chapter. I couldn't help but feel that Collins had written a full-blown ending, and then had to rein it in for word count. Severely. On the verge of ignition, but not ignited.

But I did really like the last few lines before the epilogue. They brought me back to the beginning, which is a good thing, in my opinion. After all, the jaw-dropping roller-coaster of unbelievable reality that was Hunger Games made the reader ask, "Real? Or not real?"

Engulfed.

My Bat is a Pen

My contract came yesterday afternoon. I was cleaning up the kitchen and my husband walked in the front door and said my name. It must have been the way he said it combined with the fact that I had been wishing my contract would come, before the end of August, as promised by Covenant seven weeks ago. But who's counting?
Anyway, he only said, "Krista."
And I said, pulling in my breath, "It came."
He walked into the kitchen and held out the fat envelope with a postage due notice wrapped around it with a rubberband. "You owe the postal service forty-four cents."
I didn't care.
Dinner was late. And it was fish sticks.
Because I read and re-read and got on Twitter, and a friend said, "Take a deep breath before you sign anything." And others sent their congratulations. I posted on Facebook. Lots of "likes". After a couple emails with another friend allaying my concerns, or rather my naivete, I went to bed knowing I would sign my contract in the morning, and it would be marvelous. Gratitude hushed me to sleep.

Now, here I am, at my desk in my laundry room, listening to the first birds of morning, with the contract folded up and squashed firmly inside the almost too small return envelope, bearing my signature and initials where required.
As I signed, I thought of the movie Signs, and the part where the wife is dying after her car wreck. She says, fading, "Tell Morgan to swing away."

That's what I'm doing.
Swing away, Krista. Swing away.

And make something really yummy for breakfast.

Time, Time, Time, See What's Become of Me

So many pots on the fire.









My very good friend Andy, an immigration lawyer in Florida (yeah, he's not busy right now) asked me how I find time to write. How did I write a novel, and then another and...?

Time. I steal it. I manipulate it. I grab it, use it, shake it if my eyes are closing because I've kept promises, appointments, laundry going, kids from killing each other, floors swept, bathrooms clean, the pantry full, meals cooked, the dog walked, friends' books read, phone calls returned, church meetings, obligations, date night with a husband I know I have around here somewhere...

And sometimes time gets away from me and I run to catch up, or scrap it and pick up where I can, apologizing along the way.

But,

I'm fortunate to have all my kids in school full time. I'm very fortunate to be home during the day. It's quiet when school is in, or I'm not babysitting the Wondertwins or J-man. And they have naptime.

My oldest son says I could block out an earthquake if I'm writing. If I'm "in the zone". I'm not sure it's a compliment.

"Mom... MOM. I need a haircut. Mom. Okay, so I accidentally spilled my nachos on the couch and they were covered in salsa... and then this bird flew into the house and landed on my head because it mistook it for a NEST. MOM!"

*type type* "What?"

"I need a haircut."

*type type* "You spilled nachos on your head?"

*deep sigh*

My children have been very patient. Some more than others.

What I've learned is, if you don't dig out the time to write (or fish or run or learn that thing you've always wanted to learn), time WILL GO ON. Every space, every crack will fill; time you think you don't have.

It's funny, though, after you've wrenched it away for yourself? Things just sort of... make room.

Sometimes you do lose sleep. But if I could, right now, I'd choose writing over sleep. If it were possible, I'd write in the quiet all night long.

True story.

Time to put the kids to bed.

And find that man of mine.

Weaving time in a tapestry... won't you stop and remember me...

Commandments for Writers Series: #7

7 Thy language shall be precise, clear, and bear the wings of angels, for anything less is the province of businessmen and academics and not of writers.

No pressure, Mr. Stein.

I do love this about having a writing group: We let each other know when things are unclear. Who is talking? Where is so-n-so when all this is happening? Are they in a different room now? Does she want this to happen, or are we supposed to not know? Why would she still go there? I thought he left his pack back in the brush.

The details. A reader can be pulled out of a story so quickly if they are confused or stalled by mundane mistakes in the details.


As for bearing the wings of angels... have you come across any reading that does so? This one bears wings for me. Fly, little one.

And at night you will look up at the stars. Where I live everything is so small that I cannot show you where my star is to be found. It is better, like that. My star will just be one of the stars, for you. And so you will love to watch all the stars in the heavens . . . they will all be your friends. And, besides, I am going to make you a present . . .

In one of the stars I shall be living. In one of them I shall be laughing. And so it will be as if all the stars were laughing, when you look at the sky at night . . . You--only you--will have stars that can laugh!

And when your sorrow is comforted (time soothes all sorrows) you will be content that you have known me. You will always be my friend. You will want to laugh with me. And you will sometimes open your window, so, for that pleasure . . . And your friends will be properly astonished to see you laughing as you look up at the sky! Then you will say to them, 'Yes, the stars always make me laugh!' And they will think you are crazy. It will be a very shabby trick that I shall have played on you . . .

The Little Prince - Antoine de Saint-Exupéry

Glow

"The glory of friendship is not the outstretched hand, nor the kindly smile, nor the joy of companionship; it is the spiritual inspiration that comes to one when he discovers that someone else believes in him and is willing to trust him."

Ralph Waldo Emerson

This quote is stuck to the board above my desk with a thumbtack. I don't even know where I got it. But every time I glance up and read it, I am struck by its truth. When I think of my friends, the really true friends, and the kind of friend I wish to be, boiling it all down to its concentrated base, this is what I find.

There is something of the spirit, something instilled in us that ignites when someone believes in us, when someone is willing to trust us.

And it is so fragile.

A writer can't afford to be fragile. When we choose who will read and critique our drafts, we are trusting. When I attach a document in an email and press send, I don't wish for up and down praise and glorious exclamations (okay, a few), but I do wish for help. I do wish for direction.

I don't wish to be placed on a pedestal. Or torn down from one.

I wish to be believed in.

Even when I suck.

I think I can speak for most writers.

Thank you, to all my friends.

You help me glow. I'll try to do the same.

Commandments for Writers Series: #6

*a continuing series based on Ten Commandments for Writers, found in Stein On Writing, by Sol Stein

6 Thou shalt infect thy reader with anxiety, stress, and tension, for those conditions that he deplores in life he relishes in fiction.

Hunger Games, Catching Fire, Mocking Jay, Suzanne Collins.
One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest, Ken Kesey.
Princess of the Midnight Ball, Jessica Day George.
The Last of the Mohicans, James Fenimore Cooper.
Jane Eyre, Charlotte Bronte.
It, Stephen King.

When I interview authors for this blog (Thursday Authorial, which will resume after my kids are back in lovely school) I always end with the same question:

If you could be a character in any book, who would you be?

Often, the person I'm interviewing hesitates, a few commenting that to put themselves in a book would mean exposing themselves to a whole lot of conflict. And yet, the favorite is chosen.

When I finished writing The Orchard, in the original ending, I left one of the characters, Elizabeth, standing on a dock, surrounded by family and strangers, utterly alone. Her character prodded and haunted my thoughts for days after and I realized I needed to give her a happy ending. I couldn't just leave her there on the dock.
So I scrawled out an outline for The Inn, punched out the story, and sighed. Then, I gave it to my writing group.

"Umm, where's the conflict? Good bones, but make me care."

Huh. Had I wanted Elizabeth's success so badly I handed it to her on a silver platter?
Practically. Which would also explain why the story was not only boring, but very short. However, short was a good thing.
Because I spent the next few weeks tearing her down, giving her choices, throwing doubt and fear and bears, yes, bears, in her path, adding another character to block her way and creating conflict and stress and tension. She had to fight for the ending I gave her, grasp for it, wrestle it from me.

It was better. I'm excited. Here's a teaser to The Inn:

The way back down was a little tricky, the trail wet in some places, clay hard in others. She was still taking in the view as she stepped, and stumbled, catching herself on Ryan’s back. He half turned and caught the rest of her with his arms.

“Sorry,” she mumbled, as she heard quiet laughter from the others. The laughter wasn’t at her fall, she knew, but at the way she and Ryan couldn’t seem to keep their hands off each other in a very accidental way. She’d never blushed so much in her life, and it was starting to irritate her.

He helped her steady herself. “It’s okay.” He placed his hands on her arms and looked up. “All right?” His eyes were steel marbles in this light.

She sucked in her lips and nodded. “Perfect.” She rolled her eyes as he turned away, bringing his hand up through his hair. They started walking again and from behind she saw him take a deep breath and blow it out. Ugh. Ugh.

Back in the inn's suburban, she listened to the hum of the engine and the quiet murmurs from the backseat. Everyone was both invigorated and tired. Ryan slowed the car and they stopped to watch a moose amble through the edge of the woods. It was some distance away, but the cameras clicked. A fox jumped and ran across the field, now empty of elk. Elizabeth looked behind her. Nancy had fallen asleep.

As the car sped up, Elizabeth’s arms pulled around her waist, and she remembered she still wore Ryan’s jacket. She leaned her head against the seat and watched the scenery fly past her window. Her eyes closed and she suppressed a smile, hearing him hum an unfamiliar tune. It faded.

She was falling, fast, and could hear voices laughing, mocking. Then Ryan caught her and she looked up, but it wasn’t Ryan and she cringed away, pulling back, only to lose her balance and start falling again. This time there was a ruckus below her and again, she felt arms grab her, pulling, then wrenching.

She woke up with a start.

“Elizabeth.” 

The voice soothed. She heard the sound of seatbelts unlatching. They were back at the inn. She furrowed her brow, stretching her shoulders. 

A bright-eyed Nancy met Elizabeth as she slid out the door. She linked her elbow through Elizabeth’s arm. “Have a good snooze?”

“I’m not sure.” It was the truth.

What are your feelings about reading or writing what you deplore in real life?

Commandments for Writers Series: #5

5 Thou shalt not mutter, whisper, blurt, bellow, or scream, for it is the words and not the characterization of the words that must carry their own decibels.

Continuing with Sol Stein's Ten Commanments for Writers, I cringe, and whisper, "I have trouble with this one." Not so much the other characterizations, but the whispering-- that's going to haunt me until I get my ms back from my editor with the question marked in large, red scrolling letters,   

        "What's with all the whispering?" 

(I really don't know what my editor's handwriting looks like yet, or even if it comes back to me hand or electronically marked... learning, learning, learning...)

I've read a dozen articles or tips about sticking to "he said" or "she said", or using no dialog tags at all (which I prefer if I can get away with it). So why is it so difficult to trust our readers to know that the character is whispering? Or SHOUTING, or blurting?

Any ideas?