The Backstory: How I Wrote my Novel

The advent of the financial crisis put me on an employment roller coaster. In the course of two years I was given two pink slips, had my hours cut (even though I was already part-time) moved to another department, moved back, and was finally given a new desk at my old job. I'd been back for a total of three months when an instant message flashed across my screen. My supervisor messaged me that my job would end in 30 days.

I did not fright. I wrote. I began to write a love story that had been rattling in my head for almost 20 years. During that 30 day period, I had amazing inspiration and energy. I would work all day come home for parenting duties and sit to write my novel. The words exploded and the pages filled quickly.

My job was ultimately saved and I was left with a draft of my first novel. It may have not been perfect, but I was proud. What I’ve now been told is that your first draft is the “vomit draft”. You throw everything into your story, then go back to re-arrange/delete and strengthen. In other words, when the first draft was complete, the real work began.

The librarian at my kids’ school introduced me to an editor who once worked at a publishing house in New York. I worked with that editor to form my story and help it into three acts. The process was fabulous and collaborative, but showed me that I had more work to do.

Between work, parenting and volunteering I’ve brought the novel to a place that I’m now ready to share with the world. Please enjoy Lovelost, it is available on both Amazon (yes, you can get it in paperback!) and Apple Books. If you read it and love it, please write a review. If not, than thank you for taking time to try a debut author.

I’m drafting of my second novel. To stay up to date on all my publishing news and follow my writing journey, please follow my Author Page on Amazon or Facebook.

The Down Vest (my armor)

Fall is here and so is my vest. I love my vest. It's a thick black down vest with giant pockets.The pockets are so big I could fit a newborn or litter of kittens in each one. My mother wears a robe around the house, I wear a vest. It is not the fashionably fitted cute kind most moms wear. It's boxy, roomy and perfect.

Some days I sleep in it, other days I remove it prior to climbing into bed and hang the lofty friend off the bed post. It is my armor.

The vest was a Christmas present. In those first weeks of acquaintance, the vest mostly hung  in the closet. I was unsure where it fit into my life. Slowly, I started wearing it on short trips to the grocery store, then to volunteer at school. I decided the vest was a good thing. I did not have to carry a purse when I wore it. My wallet, phone, sunglasses and keys all fit with ease in the voluminous pockets. When I wear the vest, I can turn the thermostat down a few degrees. A box of tissues even fit into the pocket which is helpful during flu season. My daughter needs a rubber band for her ponytail, I probably have one in my pocket. The house phone rings, it's in my pocket. My cell phone buzzes, it's in the other pocket. My husband calls the vest my uniform.

I love the warmth the vest offers. Warmth is security. You never hear of someone who is hot and scared, it is always cold and scared. Being too hot indicates ill health. Being warm is perfect. Like the intuitive baby bear in the Goldie Locks fairy tale, warm is just right. I do not fight with my kids or husband when I wear my vest. It makes my home life easier.When I'm warm, all is right.

A couple of years ago my husband and I were invited to a Christmas party. At the end of the night the guests grabbed their jackets and coats and emerged into the cold winter night. We were the last to leave. I found the coat closet, picked up a lonely down vest and kissed the hosts good-bye.

As we drove home I noticed my vest felt a little bigger than usual. I let the thought pass as my husband drove on.

At home I walked straight to our room. I removed my vest to sling it over the bedpost and suddenly stopped. There was already a vest hanging on the bedpost. I picked up both vests and compared the labels. They were the same brand and color, but different sizes. Obviously I had grabbed the vest by mistake (and oddly had forgotten I didn't wear the vest to the party in the first place).

I e-mailed the hosts to alert them about the wayward vest. No reply. I saw the hosts again for New Year's Eve and I mentioned the vest. They said nobody had claimed the orphaned vest. The conversation ended.

I now own two vests. They keep each other company on the bed post on those days and moments when I am vest free. Perhaps the universe knew I needed the armor and sent a back-up.

FLASH FICTION: The Lead

The review of Desert Cabaret in the morning paper was a sign that I had landed. I was home. I slowly read the words, which filled me with pride: “The lead stole the show, his sparkle lit the night."

Desert Cabaret is now showing in ‘the biggest little city in the world'; Reno. I moved here because I answered a call. I grew up in Chester, a small town in the Sierra Nevadas. I never fit in at school and besides mom, my only ‘friends’ were the school nurse and an English teacher from freshman year.

The day after high school graduation my mom found me lying in bed. I was depressed and staring through the window without much thought; my leg was hurting more than usual.

“You should try Reno,” she said. Mom knew I would never be happy in Chester. The smart kids were off to college and the stout ones had jobs in the lumber mills; I was neither of these.

I rolled over, “Why Reno?”

She bounced out and came back to my room with a crisp newspaper. “Look at this terrific ad,” she chirped, “it’s asking for ‘actors of every make’, that’s you.”

A new casino had taken out a full-page color ad in the local paper. The newest card house was to focus on ‘Vegas style shows’. The call asked for everything from actors and singers to comedians and dancers. I sat up straight and read the entire ad; trying Reno seemed plausible.

Throughout high school, mom had always urged me to audition for all school plays. The lead was never mine, however and I blamed it on my limp. I was cast in endless minor roles: the keystone cop, the odd-uncle, the little brother. They were small parts, but I always transformed them into memorable moments on-stage-- small moments that made us both proud.

Mom drove me to Reno to audition. I could not drive, because we did not yet have a car fit for my leg. When we reached the city, she pulled off the freeway and into a sea of crawling cars. The slow traffic and ticking clock required me to walk the last few blocks to the casino. I emerged from the car at the nearest curb and like a tumbleweed, walked with gusts of wind toward my destination. As I neared the entrance, I felt suddenly at home and began to walk a little straighter. Young men and women gathered on the sidewalk leading toward the entryway. I saw many familiar faces, but yet none known. 

I dazzled on stage and found the lead. Did the director notice my limp? I wondered just once. 

Reno is now my home. My first floor apartment is where I sleep and eat and the casino theater is my living room. I re-read the review as I pulled on my knee-sleeve and prepared my leg for the day. I didn’t need to send the article to my mom, she knew without reading that I was in the right place. Reno called and she helped me answer.

A Beachside Artist

An artist, a beachside artist stands atop a cliff overlooking an azure sea below, recording his vista on a canvas. Multiple paintings line up beside him stretching out along the sea wall. The square canvases are variations on a theme: the colorful celebration of life at the beach. Tourists file past, some linger to admire the joyous paintings, and a few return to buy. 

My station of inspiration

The scene in this beachside community is quintessential vacation: sun, sea, patio restaurants, beach umbrellas and hoards of happy day-trippers. The artist is lucky; all who trip along the beachside wall on this stupendous day are inspired by the natural beauty of this place. They pose for pictures along the wall and stop to soak in everything beach. The artist is recording this same scene in real time. The brown pelicans fly overhead; the movement gets a brush mark on the canvas. A cloud momentarily covers the sun; another brush stroke. The tourists buy and enjoy the artist’s paintings because they are a small memento of their day, and the purchase fills two parties with happiness.

The scene is something I experienced recently. The artist struck me, because I too was in the beachside community to be inspired and express my craft, my writing craft. However, my craft would not be appreciated or admired on the spot. My craft takes longer and cures longer. The ocean breeze and a quiet spot on the beach had me scrawling thoughts and notes, but it is not until now that I can compose those thoughts and incorporate my day at the beach into both this blog and add dressing to my novel.

An artist is one who professes and practices an imaginative art. An artist can hold a paintbrush, or pen or a musical instrument or _________ (fill in the blank). Some of the arts are experienced instantaneously while others have a delayed experience and appreciation. Artists want their craft to be enjoyed; it is a measure of success and fuels an artist to continue, to create. 

I’m a tad jealous of the beachside artist. He creates and has something to show straight away, and I do not. I could run back to the hotel and blog, recording my day, but will never experience the same immediate appreciation of my craft. 

After sitting on the beach for a few hours, I packed up my notebook and beach chair and head back to the car. The artist who I had passed earlier had vanished. His moment of artistic expression and appreciation was over and mine had only begun.

Right if by Hand

A blog entry inspired while sitting with my notebook

Do you think your writing is different when you put pen to paper versus writing on a keypad? The thought crossed my mind this morning and I'm weighing in: prose written by my hand are delivered straight from the heart. I find an unexplained stream of creativity comes through me when I sit with a pen; I don't find the same thing at the keyboard.

When I have a pen in my hand, it's as if my heart sparks and my hand ignites, writing furiously to capture the spark’s energy. I believe sitting at a keyboard and typing with two hands divides the energy; diffusing the moment.

Writing with one's hand is also more intimate. You must shape the letter of each word and thus are tied to the emotion of it. When you write with your hand perhaps you are never too ugly, because you would have to feel the ugliness in order to write. Maybe more vile words come when typing, because words come out quickly and are not truly felt.

The first draft of my novel was written on a computer. It poured out and was over. The second draft became the challenge. I hesitated to begin the second draft, for there was much work ahead. 

I was camping with my family in Yosemite and re-drafting my novel was on my mind. Where do I start and where do I end?  My mind woke me one night. Words were coming, I got up and found my notebook and began to write. The first words of the novel were being dictated. The words were much more forceful and engaging and I allowed the spark to ignite. I wrote for an hour before going back to bed.

The morning came and the camp began to rumble. I re-read what the spark and my hand had brought the night before. It was delightful. The new first chapter came from my heart and my hand distilled it, cured it and painted it with emotion. I decided from that point forward that if I felt trapped or unhappy with my writing I would go back to my hand and trust the words to pour from my heart.



*Post script... I was inspired to do some research after writing this blog. I found a great article on mental floss about the subject. It seems that I have hit on something and my preference for writing by hand should be trusted.

Noise

When the river is deepest it makes least noise -Italian Proverb

There is noise in my life; noise of a busy family. The dog barks, the kids cry and complain, and television blares competing with public radio, which runs endlessly in the kitchen. I am fighting to write and complete the book that I have started, but the noise keeps seeping in distracting me from my task. I know my muse is here and waits for me to sit and write, but the noise keeps her away.

The noise from the television shows my daughter chooses are all the same. It does not matter which show is on, the sound and tempo are identical. Today I had had enough, I asked her to turn off the TV, I needed to cut the noise. She turns the screen off and runs outside. The noise does not stop, but changes. I now hear her screaming and giggling with the neighborhood kids as they jockey over shared bicycles, trikes and wagons.

My son is too old to run with the neighborhood kids; he is in his room. The room is at the end of the hallway on the other side of the house from where I sit. It would seem that this separation could provide the silence I need, but he too makes noise. He clicks away on his computer while using face-time and Skype to chat with his friends. I hear each computer stroke. The cadence of his tempo is not as fast as the television show that eluded me before, but his activity bursts unexpectedly jarring my muse and frightening her away.

I need quiet. I need calm. I need the noise in my life to slow so that I can bury myself in the world my muse and I created. The world of Lovelost. I will busy myself with dishes now, in hopes that when the evening falls, the household will head for a long night of slumber and I will revel in silence to write and create.