I am destined to sleep through this conference, I can tell. It's even later than it was last night and I almost slept through one of the lectures today. Honestly. It's hard being this pathetic. But I am, so this has to be quick.
Our assignment from yesterday was coming up with a one sentence pitch. Here goes.
Three siblings discover they are the lost heirs of a magical land.
Done before, yes, I know. But it's something, and something I haven't had before. I'm working on the paragraph pitch, and will hopefully have that tomorrow (later today). Also tomorrow (later today) I will be getting feedback on my prologue and first chapter. My nerves are jangling, to say the least. I am anticipating comments on prologues in general, and names (Liosalfar and probably Hiraeth). I intend to stick to my guns, siting Lloyd Alexander as the president for funky words in middle grade, and also Welsh.
In other 'news' Dave Wolverton's presentation was wonderful. However, I don't have enough brain cells awake right now to say how or why. Except that I will probably also be siting him too. I want that British contract too.
Tuesday, June 15, 2010
Monday, June 14, 2010
WIFYR day one
I have the best husband in the world. That's just the way things are, there's no reason to get upset and nothing to argue about. He signed me up for the Writing and Illustrating for Young Readers conference this year. I went last year and LOVED it and kind of wanted to live in an alternate writing-conference universe forever by the time I was done. I could really get into spending my day with adults talking about writing, and not doing laundry, dishes or dinner EVER AGAIN. However, I don't live in a world of alternate universes, so I've spent the last year with laundry, dishes and dinner. When I got the announcement about this year's conference I took a brief mental vacation to that universe and imagined spending a week with Brandon Mull as my mentor. An actual writer of middle-grade fantasy, just like me. (And a nice guy, if you can trust impressions from book signings, which I think I was safe to do on this one.) Then the vacation was over and reality came knocking, in the form of bills and expenses. I honestly didn't go back.
Then three weeks ago Matthew gave me my anniversary present (sixteen years!). He had signed me up for Brandon Mull's class (a miracle in itself, since it's been my observation that the fantasy ones are some of the first to fill up). So, today was my first day at the conference. I'm not as ready as I would like to be and I would like to blame that on Matthew for not telling me about this until three weeks ago. I didn't get over the whole school-stress until the actual last day of school, and then I had an Assassin's Creed costume to make for my son's birthday (thank you, Lis, for making all the parts that I couldn't) and then I had to get ready to have our niece and nephew come live with us for the summer. The 'getting ready' part still hasn't happened, even though the kids have been with us for a week and a half. I'll tackle that again this weekend.
It sounds like I'm making excuses, and I am, but not sincerely. The truth is, I could have submitted to the agent and editors who were at the conference last year, but I never had anything ready enough to do it. And that was a whole year, not just three weeks. So I am turning over a new leaf (pardon the cliche). I am not just going to attend this conference this year. I am going to participate, starting with blogging something that I've learned every day. Here goes.
I had an aha moment in Brandon Mull's breakout session this afternoon (it wasn't my only aha moment, but it's the one I'm picking on at the moment). He was quoting Orson Scott Card (basically): "What is in the story should be in the story for your character to react to." And I thought of the saying in mysteries (either books or movies, I'm not sure) that if there is a gun on table in the first chapter it had better go off by the end of the book (or something along those lines). Not that everything your character sees, hears or smells has to change the course of the story, but if it's in there, your character should be aware of it, it shouldn't just be there for the author. I don't know if Brandon or Scott would put it that way, or even agree with me, but it's a way of thinking about description that I think will help me decide what to put in and what to leave out. I think it was especially helpful coming after Alane Ferguson talked about description in her class right before Brandon's. Description is something I struggle with. Because I am so afraid of putting in too much, I usually start out not putting in enough and have to add more, which then becomes too much. Between the two of them I believe I have a better understanding.
This was supposed to be short and sweet but I got a bit carried away. (I had to sing Matthew's praises, especially because he took the whole week off work so I could go to this. Long before I had resigned myself to not going this year, my sister had agreed to watch my kids for me if I did go--to the extent of even having the three of them stay at her house all week so we wouldn't have to worry about ferrying them back and forth. (Not only do I have the best husband, but I also have the best sister.) Then we got two extra kids for the summer, and having her watch all five just wouldn't be right, especially since the two extras are from Matthew's side of the family, not mine. So Matthew took the week off to stay home and be Mr Mom to five kids, with no car to run errands in and a bathroom to finish putting together.) I need to get to bed and I still have homework for tomorrow. A one sentence pitch for my book, and a one paragraph pitch for my book. This is not something I am good at. In the many years I have been writing/revising/trying to hatch this book, I have never had a one sentence pitch for it. There is a reason for that. I am feeling stress. Pitches are for baseball, and I can't do that either. I am a non-pitch person. Except that come 8:30 in the morning, I won't get to be one any longer.
Then three weeks ago Matthew gave me my anniversary present (sixteen years!). He had signed me up for Brandon Mull's class (a miracle in itself, since it's been my observation that the fantasy ones are some of the first to fill up). So, today was my first day at the conference. I'm not as ready as I would like to be and I would like to blame that on Matthew for not telling me about this until three weeks ago. I didn't get over the whole school-stress until the actual last day of school, and then I had an Assassin's Creed costume to make for my son's birthday (thank you, Lis, for making all the parts that I couldn't) and then I had to get ready to have our niece and nephew come live with us for the summer. The 'getting ready' part still hasn't happened, even though the kids have been with us for a week and a half. I'll tackle that again this weekend.
It sounds like I'm making excuses, and I am, but not sincerely. The truth is, I could have submitted to the agent and editors who were at the conference last year, but I never had anything ready enough to do it. And that was a whole year, not just three weeks. So I am turning over a new leaf (pardon the cliche). I am not just going to attend this conference this year. I am going to participate, starting with blogging something that I've learned every day. Here goes.
I had an aha moment in Brandon Mull's breakout session this afternoon (it wasn't my only aha moment, but it's the one I'm picking on at the moment). He was quoting Orson Scott Card (basically): "What is in the story should be in the story for your character to react to." And I thought of the saying in mysteries (either books or movies, I'm not sure) that if there is a gun on table in the first chapter it had better go off by the end of the book (or something along those lines). Not that everything your character sees, hears or smells has to change the course of the story, but if it's in there, your character should be aware of it, it shouldn't just be there for the author. I don't know if Brandon or Scott would put it that way, or even agree with me, but it's a way of thinking about description that I think will help me decide what to put in and what to leave out. I think it was especially helpful coming after Alane Ferguson talked about description in her class right before Brandon's. Description is something I struggle with. Because I am so afraid of putting in too much, I usually start out not putting in enough and have to add more, which then becomes too much. Between the two of them I believe I have a better understanding.
This was supposed to be short and sweet but I got a bit carried away. (I had to sing Matthew's praises, especially because he took the whole week off work so I could go to this. Long before I had resigned myself to not going this year, my sister had agreed to watch my kids for me if I did go--to the extent of even having the three of them stay at her house all week so we wouldn't have to worry about ferrying them back and forth. (Not only do I have the best husband, but I also have the best sister.) Then we got two extra kids for the summer, and having her watch all five just wouldn't be right, especially since the two extras are from Matthew's side of the family, not mine. So Matthew took the week off to stay home and be Mr Mom to five kids, with no car to run errands in and a bathroom to finish putting together.) I need to get to bed and I still have homework for tomorrow. A one sentence pitch for my book, and a one paragraph pitch for my book. This is not something I am good at. In the many years I have been writing/revising/trying to hatch this book, I have never had a one sentence pitch for it. There is a reason for that. I am feeling stress. Pitches are for baseball, and I can't do that either. I am a non-pitch person. Except that come 8:30 in the morning, I won't get to be one any longer.
Tuesday, April 20, 2010
Anne's birthday
Today is Anne's birthday. We met at Rick's College, the first week of Herr Schwartz's German class in September 1985. Any German I know, I learned in those two days of class before we started studying together. 'Studying' took the form of watching Starsky and Hutch, eating Wizard sandwiches (still the best subs ever, and so mystically named) and watching as many viewings of Ladyhawke as we possibly could (it was possible to watch it over a dozen times in those two semesters). Not only did we have the movie memorized word perfect, but we also had the audience reaction down. We knew when every sigh, every gasp, every groan would happen (never look up from putting your boots back on until after the groan so you don't have to see the blood dribble out of the Bishop's mouth).
And then there were the conversations about books. I think she won't disagree too strenuously when I say I had a longer list of books I thought she needed to read than she had for me. Of course, top of the list was getting her to read Lord of the Rings, which she didn't do until they made a movie of it. Somehow we stayed friends through all those years of her being uncultured and me being a nag.
There was Hal and Alan (thank you, Nancy Springer!), which to this day is code between us. If either of us finds a Hal and Alan book, movie or TV show, the other knows it will be good and can't wait to get her hands on it. Aragorn and Legolas had a Hal and Alan relationship (in the movies). Sam and Dean Winchester, Will and Jack, Frodo and Sam. You get the picture. Oh, and the biggest and most enduring, Duncan and Morgan, from Katherine Kurtz's Deryni books (and eventually Kelson and Dhugal, though how they could be blood brothers when Dhugal was never even mentioned in the entire first trilogy was always a bit of a concern). So many hours we spent talking about Duncan and Morgan. Which eventually gave way to David Eddings' Belgariad until Kathering Kurtz wrote some more. And then David Eddings. It went on like that for several years.
And we talked stories. At that point I wasn't yet a writer. Well, I wrote poetry, silly me, but I only talked stories. I had had other friends that I talked stories with when I was younger (I still remember some of those scenes so vividly it amazes me I wasn't watching them in a movie), but Anne was the first friend I ever had where the stories were fantasy (though the others were certainly not reality). To this day, we still have a group of characters stuck in a dungeon. We talk about them from time to time, but I'm afraid they are destined to live in limbo in a dungeon for all eternity. We've decided that though it may be mean and cruel to kill off your characters, truly, the worst thing you can do as a writer is to just abandon them in a dungeon and never tell the rest of their story.
Though I didn't become a writer until years after I met Anne, she is largely responsible for me being a writer today. (And when I say 'writer', I mean 'person who writes' (stories, specifically)). At some point, if/when I become an actual published writer (or 'author'), I have no doubt she will still be somebody I will be pointing a finger at for getting me there. Through the years of us writing our various stories (she's a little bit scifi, I'm a little bit fantasy) her brain has kept me going when my brain had thrown in the towel. Brainstorming with her is creative bliss. Even when I'm brainstorming her work, my work has benefited later. And she has talked me through more writer's blocks than I can begin to count. I can't imagine writing a book without using her brain along the way.
The only time we ever even went to the same school was that first year at Ricks. We've never been roommates. We often haven't even lived in the same state. Now she lives three houses down from me. It's almost as good as being roommates, but she doesn't have to live with my complete lack of motivation to dust. My kids call her Aunt Anne, and they adore her. My husband considers her part of the family (sometimes, I'm afraid, whether she wants to be or not). She's been my best friend and sister for going on twenty five years. I'm pretty darn lucky.
Happy birthday, Tarly
Love ya
Tawny
And then there were the conversations about books. I think she won't disagree too strenuously when I say I had a longer list of books I thought she needed to read than she had for me. Of course, top of the list was getting her to read Lord of the Rings, which she didn't do until they made a movie of it. Somehow we stayed friends through all those years of her being uncultured and me being a nag.
There was Hal and Alan (thank you, Nancy Springer!), which to this day is code between us. If either of us finds a Hal and Alan book, movie or TV show, the other knows it will be good and can't wait to get her hands on it. Aragorn and Legolas had a Hal and Alan relationship (in the movies). Sam and Dean Winchester, Will and Jack, Frodo and Sam. You get the picture. Oh, and the biggest and most enduring, Duncan and Morgan, from Katherine Kurtz's Deryni books (and eventually Kelson and Dhugal, though how they could be blood brothers when Dhugal was never even mentioned in the entire first trilogy was always a bit of a concern). So many hours we spent talking about Duncan and Morgan. Which eventually gave way to David Eddings' Belgariad until Kathering Kurtz wrote some more. And then David Eddings. It went on like that for several years.
And we talked stories. At that point I wasn't yet a writer. Well, I wrote poetry, silly me, but I only talked stories. I had had other friends that I talked stories with when I was younger (I still remember some of those scenes so vividly it amazes me I wasn't watching them in a movie), but Anne was the first friend I ever had where the stories were fantasy (though the others were certainly not reality). To this day, we still have a group of characters stuck in a dungeon. We talk about them from time to time, but I'm afraid they are destined to live in limbo in a dungeon for all eternity. We've decided that though it may be mean and cruel to kill off your characters, truly, the worst thing you can do as a writer is to just abandon them in a dungeon and never tell the rest of their story.
Though I didn't become a writer until years after I met Anne, she is largely responsible for me being a writer today. (And when I say 'writer', I mean 'person who writes' (stories, specifically)). At some point, if/when I become an actual published writer (or 'author'), I have no doubt she will still be somebody I will be pointing a finger at for getting me there. Through the years of us writing our various stories (she's a little bit scifi, I'm a little bit fantasy) her brain has kept me going when my brain had thrown in the towel. Brainstorming with her is creative bliss. Even when I'm brainstorming her work, my work has benefited later. And she has talked me through more writer's blocks than I can begin to count. I can't imagine writing a book without using her brain along the way.
The only time we ever even went to the same school was that first year at Ricks. We've never been roommates. We often haven't even lived in the same state. Now she lives three houses down from me. It's almost as good as being roommates, but she doesn't have to live with my complete lack of motivation to dust. My kids call her Aunt Anne, and they adore her. My husband considers her part of the family (sometimes, I'm afraid, whether she wants to be or not). She's been my best friend and sister for going on twenty five years. I'm pretty darn lucky.
Happy birthday, Tarly
Love ya
Tawny
Monday, March 1, 2010
Saint David's Day
My neighbor is an artist. It's not just that she can paint and make pretty things. She actually sees things differently than anyone else I know. She's either an artist or an alien. Since I've never been inside the brain of either one, I'm going to stick with artist. It has nicer connotations. Last month she had an art show at a local theater. I didn't know about it until the last week of the show, and wasn't able to make it until the very last night. Unfortunately, when we got there we found that they were holding auditions for a play in the same room as the art show, and Penny was sneaking in between auditions to take out her pieces as she could. Darn actors (and I'm pretty certain they are aliens). However, being my neighbor, and a very nice lady (not an alien), Penny gave us our own personal show at her house yesterday before she finished putting all of her art away. A writer can learn a lot from an artist.
First I have to say that Penny is amazing. Her house, which has the exact same floor plan as ours, is as utterly different from ours as can be, and it doesn't even have that much to do with the fact that her children are grown and mine continue to trash the place. It is the home of an artist, and if you don't know what that means, then I can't help you. Her home itself is art.
I would be hard pressed to say which of her art I like the best. Her paintings are beautiful, some of them based on other, famous paintings, but somehow they are more vibrant and alive than the originals (she is particularly fond of van Gogh and his Starry Night, which never touched me as much as it does now, seeing her affection for it). She also makes . . . statues? Object? Things? Out of . . . stuff. I might love those the best. She has a series of people made out of cork screws that I dearly love. Those . . . statues are what make me think she's an alien. I flatly don't have the ability to draw or paint, and I don't know how other people do it, but I 'get' that they do. You look at something and you recreate it in a picture. That makes sense, even if the thing you see is only in your head. But taking wing nuts and steamers and funnels and spoons and circuit boards and cheese graters and . . . stuff I don't even know the name or function of and turning them into things . . . That's magic. That's creativity I can't comprehend. That's alien and beautiful and makes a little ache inside of me that I'm not like that too.
When I was young I wanted to be a poet. Truth to tell, I wanted to be Robert Frost reincarnated. His words make pictures in my head and those pictures take my breath away. I wanted to do that for other people. I wanted to make pictures with words that would make people see what I see, because what I saw was so amazingly beautiful (it was western Oregon, of course it was beautiful). I did poetry for a while, and I really enjoyed it (though I don't know that I was ever Robert Frost reincarnated). Then I took a class in college that wanted me to write a story along with all the poetry we wrote. I've written very little poetry since, but I write a lot of stories (or at least I start them . . .) I've told myself stories my whole life, and goodness knows I've read them, I just never really wrote them down before. Now I do. And when I was looking at Penny's people, that little voice that seldom leaves me alone said "There are stories here."
That is how I see the world. Where artists see form and color, I see characters and settings. Penny has boxes and drawers of 'stuff' she has collected, just waiting to be turned into something else. I have snatches of conversations, news articles, pictures somebody else took, waiting to be turned into something else, but something made out of words.
Penny showed us a series of paintings she did of the creation. They are beautiful and inspiring and made out of cardboard. One of them had a foot right in the middle of it, a cardboard foot right at the center of creation. It was perfect. As Penny was talking, she pointed to it and said that a friend of hers pointed out that the piece of cardboard looked just like a foot. Penny had never noticed it. She certainly hadn't done it on purpose. I got all excited inside. That happens to me all the time. I'll write something, only to find out later how vital and important it was to the story. I don't know if that makes me completely incompetent or utterly brilliant, but I think I'm sticking with brilliant for now. Penny certainly is, and it works for her.
Penny sold some of her pieces at the show, which is both good and confusing. I don't know how she had anything left to come back with. If I had the money and the room to put it, I would clean her out and she'd have to start all over again. She was both happy and sad to have sold her stuff, and some of her pieces weren't for sale at all. That's when I had another heart-pounding moment, and really the reason I had to write this today. She said she hates working for money. She has to do it for love, and if somebody buys it later, that's okay, but she has to create because she loves what she's creating. And it all made sense to me. I have been struggling for weeks--for months, really--trying to get my book ready to submit. Ready to sell. I have been to conferences, workshops, classes, read blogs and web sites. Only submit your best stuff (even though we all know once an editor gets hold of it there are going to be changes). My sister gave me until Valentine's Day to submit, because it's written isn't it, and all you have to do is send it in. I've wondered how on earth a story about three siblings and their dragons is ever going to sell. Sell. I got hung up on that word. I love my story, but I've been focusing on selling it, not loving it more. When Penny sells her work, it's gone from her. I assume she's taken pictures or something, but she's only got the one, and when it's gone, it's gone. She loves it until somebody else comes along and loves it. I've been trying to make my story good enough for somebody else to love it, which is silly when you think about it. Once my story is published, and it's out there in the world, if I don't love it, I'll still have it on my computer where I can change it if I want to, even if it is only for me. I need to make my story what I love now, and then we'll see what happens. Changes will come again later, I'm certain, but I have to love it first, the best I can, and when I'm doing it just for me, it takes so much pressure off.
First I have to say that Penny is amazing. Her house, which has the exact same floor plan as ours, is as utterly different from ours as can be, and it doesn't even have that much to do with the fact that her children are grown and mine continue to trash the place. It is the home of an artist, and if you don't know what that means, then I can't help you. Her home itself is art.
I would be hard pressed to say which of her art I like the best. Her paintings are beautiful, some of them based on other, famous paintings, but somehow they are more vibrant and alive than the originals (she is particularly fond of van Gogh and his Starry Night, which never touched me as much as it does now, seeing her affection for it). She also makes . . . statues? Object? Things? Out of . . . stuff. I might love those the best. She has a series of people made out of cork screws that I dearly love. Those . . . statues are what make me think she's an alien. I flatly don't have the ability to draw or paint, and I don't know how other people do it, but I 'get' that they do. You look at something and you recreate it in a picture. That makes sense, even if the thing you see is only in your head. But taking wing nuts and steamers and funnels and spoons and circuit boards and cheese graters and . . . stuff I don't even know the name or function of and turning them into things . . . That's magic. That's creativity I can't comprehend. That's alien and beautiful and makes a little ache inside of me that I'm not like that too.
When I was young I wanted to be a poet. Truth to tell, I wanted to be Robert Frost reincarnated. His words make pictures in my head and those pictures take my breath away. I wanted to do that for other people. I wanted to make pictures with words that would make people see what I see, because what I saw was so amazingly beautiful (it was western Oregon, of course it was beautiful). I did poetry for a while, and I really enjoyed it (though I don't know that I was ever Robert Frost reincarnated). Then I took a class in college that wanted me to write a story along with all the poetry we wrote. I've written very little poetry since, but I write a lot of stories (or at least I start them . . .) I've told myself stories my whole life, and goodness knows I've read them, I just never really wrote them down before. Now I do. And when I was looking at Penny's people, that little voice that seldom leaves me alone said "There are stories here."
That is how I see the world. Where artists see form and color, I see characters and settings. Penny has boxes and drawers of 'stuff' she has collected, just waiting to be turned into something else. I have snatches of conversations, news articles, pictures somebody else took, waiting to be turned into something else, but something made out of words.
Penny showed us a series of paintings she did of the creation. They are beautiful and inspiring and made out of cardboard. One of them had a foot right in the middle of it, a cardboard foot right at the center of creation. It was perfect. As Penny was talking, she pointed to it and said that a friend of hers pointed out that the piece of cardboard looked just like a foot. Penny had never noticed it. She certainly hadn't done it on purpose. I got all excited inside. That happens to me all the time. I'll write something, only to find out later how vital and important it was to the story. I don't know if that makes me completely incompetent or utterly brilliant, but I think I'm sticking with brilliant for now. Penny certainly is, and it works for her.
Penny sold some of her pieces at the show, which is both good and confusing. I don't know how she had anything left to come back with. If I had the money and the room to put it, I would clean her out and she'd have to start all over again. She was both happy and sad to have sold her stuff, and some of her pieces weren't for sale at all. That's when I had another heart-pounding moment, and really the reason I had to write this today. She said she hates working for money. She has to do it for love, and if somebody buys it later, that's okay, but she has to create because she loves what she's creating. And it all made sense to me. I have been struggling for weeks--for months, really--trying to get my book ready to submit. Ready to sell. I have been to conferences, workshops, classes, read blogs and web sites. Only submit your best stuff (even though we all know once an editor gets hold of it there are going to be changes). My sister gave me until Valentine's Day to submit, because it's written isn't it, and all you have to do is send it in. I've wondered how on earth a story about three siblings and their dragons is ever going to sell. Sell. I got hung up on that word. I love my story, but I've been focusing on selling it, not loving it more. When Penny sells her work, it's gone from her. I assume she's taken pictures or something, but she's only got the one, and when it's gone, it's gone. She loves it until somebody else comes along and loves it. I've been trying to make my story good enough for somebody else to love it, which is silly when you think about it. Once my story is published, and it's out there in the world, if I don't love it, I'll still have it on my computer where I can change it if I want to, even if it is only for me. I need to make my story what I love now, and then we'll see what happens. Changes will come again later, I'm certain, but I have to love it first, the best I can, and when I'm doing it just for me, it takes so much pressure off.
Tuesday, November 10, 2009
Jonathon/Dawson
The three main characters in my book are based on my kids. I have other stories where the characters are completely made up, based on nobody/nothing at all, but this book, this series, Dawson, Cris and Casey are Jonathon, Duncan and Kaes, and it's all their fault.
When Jonathon was a little boy, we came home during a thunderstorm, and just as he got out of the car (after a crash of thunder overhead) he said, "Dragon roar, dragon boom." I thought my mind was going to explode. Those four words overflowed with possibility, with creative genius. I tried to think of a story, but nothing came. Duncan came along and I tried several times to write a story about two brothers and dragons. Nothing worked (though those pathetic attempts are still on my computer). Then Kaes came along and suddenly so did the story. It was waiting for the little sister, the princess, and once she got here, things started falling into place. People who know my kids recognize them in their character counterparts.
Last night, Kaes's friend left her bike at our house when she went home. It wasn't late, but it was already dark outside when Kaes decided she would take the bike over to her friend's house, three houses down from ours. I was in the living room with Matthew and Jonathon when we heard this terrible screaming outside. Jonathon took off like a bullet. I was right behind him, but the boy is six feet tall and runs like a gazelle; he reached his sister long before I did. It turns out our neighbor's dog two houses over had gotten out of the house just as Kaes was walking past and came running up to her. Kaes, who LOVES dogs (and anything else with fur) has been told for over a year that she can't pet this particular dog because he doesn't do well with strangers. In her mind, that meant he was a mean dog, and when he came running up to her, she freaked out. He didn't hurt her, but she was pretty shook up about it.
The point of this story is that Dawson really does love and take care of his sister (and his brother). Do Jonathon and Kaes have the same relationship as Dawson and Casey? No. They are not exactly the same (for one thing, my kids don't really have dragons, darn it) and it's true that Dawson, Cris and Casey are a little idealized. But the love is real, and Dawson is an awesome big brother. He should be: he's based on my Jonathon.
When Jonathon was a little boy, we came home during a thunderstorm, and just as he got out of the car (after a crash of thunder overhead) he said, "Dragon roar, dragon boom." I thought my mind was going to explode. Those four words overflowed with possibility, with creative genius. I tried to think of a story, but nothing came. Duncan came along and I tried several times to write a story about two brothers and dragons. Nothing worked (though those pathetic attempts are still on my computer). Then Kaes came along and suddenly so did the story. It was waiting for the little sister, the princess, and once she got here, things started falling into place. People who know my kids recognize them in their character counterparts.
Last night, Kaes's friend left her bike at our house when she went home. It wasn't late, but it was already dark outside when Kaes decided she would take the bike over to her friend's house, three houses down from ours. I was in the living room with Matthew and Jonathon when we heard this terrible screaming outside. Jonathon took off like a bullet. I was right behind him, but the boy is six feet tall and runs like a gazelle; he reached his sister long before I did. It turns out our neighbor's dog two houses over had gotten out of the house just as Kaes was walking past and came running up to her. Kaes, who LOVES dogs (and anything else with fur) has been told for over a year that she can't pet this particular dog because he doesn't do well with strangers. In her mind, that meant he was a mean dog, and when he came running up to her, she freaked out. He didn't hurt her, but she was pretty shook up about it.
The point of this story is that Dawson really does love and take care of his sister (and his brother). Do Jonathon and Kaes have the same relationship as Dawson and Casey? No. They are not exactly the same (for one thing, my kids don't really have dragons, darn it) and it's true that Dawson, Cris and Casey are a little idealized. But the love is real, and Dawson is an awesome big brother. He should be: he's based on my Jonathon.
Monday, November 2, 2009
NaNoWriMo
November is National Novel Writing Month. It is also the month of my birthday, two siblings' birthdays, Thanksgiving, and the month before Christmas. Which is why I signed up to write a novel this month. What's that? you say. You're crazy, you say. You haven't written on your blog in months, you say (and I've heard something about it being write-on-your-blog-every-day month too). Why yes, I am a little insane, thanks for noticing. In fact, I'm insane enough to be working on polishing my first dragon book while committing to write the second. Yup. Insane. My patheticness knows no bounds. I'm supposed to keep track of my word count for NaNoWriMo and I can't even figure out how how to do that. (I am certain that these are things I should not be confessing, in case some interested agent/editor someday looks me up and finds out how utterly incompetent I really am. However, in my defense, they say that it is writing ability that will get me published, not my ability to to do a word count. Besides, I'm confident that by then end of this month, I will know how to find a word count.)
So, I spent an hour or so this afternoon writing. I know, an hour a day does not a novel make, at least not in one month. However, I spent most of the morning reading On Writing, by Stephen King, since I have been told on countless blogs that I should read that to improve my writing. And since I am focusing on my writing this month, this seemed like a good time to read his book. Except that reading does get in the way of writing. It's an issue I will have to work on throughout the month, I guess. In any case, I realized that my 'writing' muscles are woefully under developed. The idea of this month, and the reason I decided to do this instead of working on next month's Christmas presents, is to turn off the editor and just write. Create. That sounds like bliss. I just have a hard time doing it. I have barely one page written so far today (though single spaced, since I never fiddle with lines and page numbering and what-not until later) and I found myself going back and changing this word or that instead of moving forward. I have a lot to learn and I look forward to learning it.
Now, if they could have made NaNoWriMo in March when I don't have birthdays and holidays to contend with, this would be perfect.
So, I spent an hour or so this afternoon writing. I know, an hour a day does not a novel make, at least not in one month. However, I spent most of the morning reading On Writing, by Stephen King, since I have been told on countless blogs that I should read that to improve my writing. And since I am focusing on my writing this month, this seemed like a good time to read his book. Except that reading does get in the way of writing. It's an issue I will have to work on throughout the month, I guess. In any case, I realized that my 'writing' muscles are woefully under developed. The idea of this month, and the reason I decided to do this instead of working on next month's Christmas presents, is to turn off the editor and just write. Create. That sounds like bliss. I just have a hard time doing it. I have barely one page written so far today (though single spaced, since I never fiddle with lines and page numbering and what-not until later) and I found myself going back and changing this word or that instead of moving forward. I have a lot to learn and I look forward to learning it.
Now, if they could have made NaNoWriMo in March when I don't have birthdays and holidays to contend with, this would be perfect.
Wednesday, June 10, 2009
writing conferences and rejection
First off, I have to say that I got a very polite, generic form rejection back within 24 hours of sending off my query letter (a month ago, I know. Leave me alone). Should I have posted? Probably. But it was so utterly, politely impersonal that there wasn't even enough angst to go along with it, so I didn't. Don't get me wrong, it's not that I wasn't devastated (okay, I wasn't actually devastated) but it's not like I didn't expect it. I didn't want it, and I had vivid fantasies of six-figure deals being FedExed at 7:00 in the morning, but I expected it.
So I have officially submitted and been rejected. My journey down a new path has begun. However, my journey is, so far, not unlike a game of Candyland and I am on one of those squares where you have to draw a certain color before you can move again. I have not yet drawn the right color, and I have not submitted anything else. Yet. But wait, I am not completely pathetic. Yet. (Though I am the only reason I haven't submitted again. It's not like the polite form rejection came back with a PostIt that said, "Please don't send this again. Ever. To anyone." It's just me.)
To prove my lack of pathetic-ness, I have been attending a writing conference this week at BYU. It's an all day, week long afair, and I am loving it. I spend the morning with thirteen other ladies and our mentor/guide/teacher, Claudia Mills (whose math-inlcuded chapter book I bought in the hope that it will inspire Duncan in both math and reading). Claudia is a) delightful and 2) wonderful. She has taught us (well, at least me) a lot and she is a completely nice person to boot. Though apparently when you get fifteen (fourteen, not counting her) grown adult women in the same room together they will sound like fifteen (fourteen) kindergartners, though with more sophisticated chatter (and I say that only because I hope it's true). The afternoons are spent listening to agents and editors (real live ones that you can stalk) and honest-to-goodness actual authors who get paid and everything (also available for stalking). I have learned tons there also, and should probably go through all of my notes at some point and post them. Wouldn't that be productive of me . . .
We interrupt this post to bring you the charming news that my wonderful husband (who brought me a rumball as compensation for my day) is going to co-author a cookbook. His name is going to be on the front of a book before mine, and ask me how much he writes. Okay, he does write, but mostly he cooks, and very well, but considering that this cookbook is about cooking for one and he can only cook for one if the one is like a single regiment of an army, it is all suspect and unfair.
Okay, back to our regularly scheduled post, whatever it was.
The ladies in my group/class are great writers and have wonderful ideas. On the one hand, I wish I could keep copies of what they've passed around for us to read, and on the other, I wish they'd just hurry up and get published. (Watch out Edward, Rye is going to take your crown as reigning supernatural heart-throb hunk.)
Speaking of the ladies' writing, I need to go read their writing for tomorrow and it's crazy late. My kids didn't get dinner until after 9:30 and didn't get to bed until after 10:30. My daughter (after I got home and not during the day when I was gone and she would have been oblivious) came in for dinner with 'mud' on her pants. Except it wasn't mud, it was poop-dog (as she used to call it when she was younger). So I took the pants off and threw them in dumpster. Yes, there was nothing else wrong with the pants, there were no holes and they still fit, and I went ahead and threw them in the trash because today is not the day I clean poop-dog out of my daughter's pants. All of this being proof positive that I am not a) supposed to work full-time, and 2) not supposed to have more than three kids. It could also mean that I'm not supposed to have the kids I've already got, but it's too late for them now, they're stuck with me.
So we come to the end of this post. Can you tell when my husband came home and everything kind of fell apart? I have a hard time writing and talking at the same time. I am loving this conference and I want desperately to be able to come again next year. It would be great to have this be part of my life on a regular basis. What a wonderful way to spend a week.
One more thing. I found out when I got home today that Karen writes fantasy. Today we read her story about Sheldon the very-cute-snail-that-I-liked. Yesterday we read about billions of zucchini taking over a garden. When I got home this evening I found that snails had eaten my zucchini plant AGAIN and we will not be having zucchini this year--AGAIN. I don't get it. It's all but a freakin' weed, and I can't grow zucchini to save my life.
Also, I am going to accost Lynne tomorrow and beg her to give me the recipe for her breakfast bars.
So I have officially submitted and been rejected. My journey down a new path has begun. However, my journey is, so far, not unlike a game of Candyland and I am on one of those squares where you have to draw a certain color before you can move again. I have not yet drawn the right color, and I have not submitted anything else. Yet. But wait, I am not completely pathetic. Yet. (Though I am the only reason I haven't submitted again. It's not like the polite form rejection came back with a PostIt that said, "Please don't send this again. Ever. To anyone." It's just me.)
To prove my lack of pathetic-ness, I have been attending a writing conference this week at BYU. It's an all day, week long afair, and I am loving it. I spend the morning with thirteen other ladies and our mentor/guide/teacher, Claudia Mills (whose math-inlcuded chapter book I bought in the hope that it will inspire Duncan in both math and reading). Claudia is a) delightful and 2) wonderful. She has taught us (well, at least me) a lot and she is a completely nice person to boot. Though apparently when you get fifteen (fourteen, not counting her) grown adult women in the same room together they will sound like fifteen (fourteen) kindergartners, though with more sophisticated chatter (and I say that only because I hope it's true). The afternoons are spent listening to agents and editors (real live ones that you can stalk) and honest-to-goodness actual authors who get paid and everything (also available for stalking). I have learned tons there also, and should probably go through all of my notes at some point and post them. Wouldn't that be productive of me . . .
We interrupt this post to bring you the charming news that my wonderful husband (who brought me a rumball as compensation for my day) is going to co-author a cookbook. His name is going to be on the front of a book before mine, and ask me how much he writes. Okay, he does write, but mostly he cooks, and very well, but considering that this cookbook is about cooking for one and he can only cook for one if the one is like a single regiment of an army, it is all suspect and unfair.
Okay, back to our regularly scheduled post, whatever it was.
The ladies in my group/class are great writers and have wonderful ideas. On the one hand, I wish I could keep copies of what they've passed around for us to read, and on the other, I wish they'd just hurry up and get published. (Watch out Edward, Rye is going to take your crown as reigning supernatural heart-throb hunk.)
Speaking of the ladies' writing, I need to go read their writing for tomorrow and it's crazy late. My kids didn't get dinner until after 9:30 and didn't get to bed until after 10:30. My daughter (after I got home and not during the day when I was gone and she would have been oblivious) came in for dinner with 'mud' on her pants. Except it wasn't mud, it was poop-dog (as she used to call it when she was younger). So I took the pants off and threw them in dumpster. Yes, there was nothing else wrong with the pants, there were no holes and they still fit, and I went ahead and threw them in the trash because today is not the day I clean poop-dog out of my daughter's pants. All of this being proof positive that I am not a) supposed to work full-time, and 2) not supposed to have more than three kids. It could also mean that I'm not supposed to have the kids I've already got, but it's too late for them now, they're stuck with me.
So we come to the end of this post. Can you tell when my husband came home and everything kind of fell apart? I have a hard time writing and talking at the same time. I am loving this conference and I want desperately to be able to come again next year. It would be great to have this be part of my life on a regular basis. What a wonderful way to spend a week.
One more thing. I found out when I got home today that Karen writes fantasy. Today we read her story about Sheldon the very-cute-snail-that-I-liked. Yesterday we read about billions of zucchini taking over a garden. When I got home this evening I found that snails had eaten my zucchini plant AGAIN and we will not be having zucchini this year--AGAIN. I don't get it. It's all but a freakin' weed, and I can't grow zucchini to save my life.
Also, I am going to accost Lynne tomorrow and beg her to give me the recipe for her breakfast bars.
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