This and That

This has been a strange week. My poor husband was quite ill Friday and Saturday, then had a biking accident Monday (he's okay now, though still in pain). Then I spent much of Tuesday and Wednesday with whatever illness my husband had. And truly the effects lingered until this morning.

The big greenhouse at Frederik Meijer Gardens

Thursday I dropped our son off with his grandparents at Frederik Meijer Gardens in Grand Rapids, Michigan, (and then I had to go to work in my windowless cubicle while he looked at butterflies and lush gardens full of blooming daffodils and hyacinths), and we spent the evening at the lovely English Inn in Eaton Rapids, Michigan.

The English Inn

We had a fantastic dinner, though I must have overestimated my regained health as the next morning I felt rather like I'd really overdone it (maybe the duck sausage in puff pastry and rack of lamb wasn't the smartest thing to have after having a stomach bug).

Sunset Thursday night after a terrific storm.

But through most of the week, the weather was sunny (though seriously too hot for March . . . 85? Really?) and the flowers and trees were blooming. There was  fantastic storm late afternoon Thursday, and as I ate lamb by the window of the inn the sun was brilliant ni the western sky even as the clouds emptied out upon the slate roof overhead. After dinner we took a walk by the river and considered the merits of living by a river or stream (we've agreed that this would be marvelous).

Today I worked, cleaned the house, and made BBQ chicken in the sprinkling rain for my sister and her family who were stopping by on their way to the airport in Detroit for a family trip. So that means good old Max the dog will be staying at my house for a while.

I did this to poor old Max Christmas 2010. It made
him feel special. I'm sure of it.

Poor old Max. He really can't hear anymore and he has a lot of trouble with our stairs. These two things are made especially sad when you know how much Max loves to follow me from room to room (as he does my sister at his own house). Now when I go around a corner too fast he loses track of me because he can't see or hear me. It used to bother me how he insisted on following me from room to room when I watched him because I would always be tripping over him as I turned to go back. But now I'm turning back to find him and waving my hands and stomping my feet to show him where I am. Sad to think that both he and our dog Sasha probably won't live more than a couple more years.

During my sickness and my night at the inn I've been reading Virginia Woolf's abridged diaries with great interest. Begun when she was just a year older than me and kept until her death, they are thus far a fascinating glimpse into a slice of WWI-era England (the intellectual slice) and I'm having an excellent time getting to know her better. It will be interesting to follow her through the next twenty-one years (I'm in 1920 now) to her suicide in 1941.

I'm also considering whether the time is approaching when I might prefer to keep my thoughts in that more traditional form where one doesn't have to censor oneself, nor think of her readers. Perhaps the time for blogging will come to an end. Perhaps the time for using all my free time sewing will come to an end and I will simply sew on occasion. I feel more and more the pull to use my time differently, in study of the Word, prayer, reading, and for my own serious writing. Though I can envision a place in that future for my literary blog, The Books I Should Have Read.

I'm nearly through what I think will be the last revision of my novel before looking for an agent. Just 2/3rds left to go (though that will be the more difficult portion of the manuscript as it needs the most thought). Reading the thoughts of a great writer such as Virginia Woolf inspires me to spend serious time in that pursuit. Virginia published her first novel, The Voyage Out, at the age of 33. As I am 32, I feel it more than coincidental that I picked up her diaries in January and began to read them this spring.

It will be interesting to see what the rest of the year brings into focus for me. I can't help but feel that the frantic, rushing springtime will affect many of us in strange ways.

Crab apple blossoms in Grand Rapids, MI

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Write, Revise, Rewrite, Repeat

I just finished my first read-through of my manuscript and marked the first round of revisions. The good news is that I still think it's a good story and I still like it. The bad news is, there are definitely some places that need work. Timing, transitions, and descriptive passages during high-dialogue scenes are my main problems, and most of them occur in the middle to two-thirds through area. I love the ending chapters, which sort of amazes me since I've never been good at conclusions.

In fact, this novel is a lot like painting landscapes. I'm nearly always happy with the background and foreground; it's that slippery middle ground that gives me grief.

Onward and upward. Revisions to make. Then the momentous step of releasing it to limited public scrutiny in the form of read-throughs by friends and colleagues. Am I ready for this?

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Revising Your Life

It's that time again. That bleak, cloudy moment when you realize that there are people who live in warm sunny places who are picking oranges from trees while you gaze at the lackluster yard standing shamefully naked without a covering of snow (the yard, not you, I hope). The broken remains of the perennials you were too busy to cut back in November hunch weakly as great, fat brown squirrels tear through the garden pursued by spry red squirrels less than half their size. The dog comes in with mud on her feet—MUD!—when you should by rights be slipping down the driveway on packed ice while trying to bring the groceries in the house. You come to acknowledge the insidious fact that this winter has looked more like March, the ugliest month of the year, than it has like the normally enchanting January of memory.

I think we're all fighting a low-grade depression in our house right now.

It is in this soul-crushing grayness that I find myself revising my recently finished novel (which, incidentally, takes place in the summer . . . how cruel). I go through chapter by chapter, line by line, word by word, cutting out the fat, culling the phrases that hold the story back, choosing a more precise or less cliche word here and there. I'm trying not to allow myself indulgences—favorite sentences that don't work very hard—and I begin to see that revising a manuscript is rather like revising the contents of your home or the way you spend your time.

There are things you just don't need that you hold on to for no more reason than a bit of sentimentality or potential usefulness in some far off future that will never really come. There are things you do for no more reason than they seem amusing or you feel you need to fill some time, but in reality you could be doing something much more useful, like keeping up with the laundry or calling your sister just to chat.

So once I'm done savaging my manuscript with red pen, I may turn my attention and my revision skills to my life. I realize that the beginning of January is a more traditional time for such activities, but I've been so fiendishly busy with work and sewing and exercise avoidance that I only now find myself mentally capable of such considerations.

But what should go? What should stay? I'm seriously contemplating making use of that old practice of assigning to each day a chore: laundry on Monday, ironing on Tuesday, grocery shopping on Wednesday, mending on Thursday, tidying the house on Friday, deeper house cleaning on Saturday, resting on Sunday. Until there are serious outdoor chores to work on in the Spring, I believe this could be a workable plan. To kick it off, I may take a few days off work after the catalog is at the printer in order to de-clutter and rid the house of dead weight. I have the sudden urge to find beautiful empty space and then protect it from encroaching hordes of stuff. I am feeling penned in on all sides (especially in my office) by creeping piles of stuff that needs shelving or filing or pitching. Mentally I feel rather the same.

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THE END

Back in July, before we left for a week at Camp Lake Louise, I wrote this. I was frustrated.

Then while I was sweating it out at camp during the hottest week of the year, I started a novel.

In early August, I wrote this. I was fearful.

Then yesterday, on my 32nd birthday, I finished a novel.

Frustration and fear were removed from the process of writing. And for the first time in my life, after half a dozen attempts or more, I finished a novel.

What a great birthday gift. Thank you, God.

Oh, and by the way, I can already check something off my goals list for 2012. Take that, mediocrity!

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Goals Reached, Missed, and Planned

Funny thing about goals. You generally only reach them if you try, consistently, to do so. So how did I do with my five goals for 2011? In June, I had accomplished only one. By the end of the summer, I had accomplished two, leaving three goals left for autumn, none of which I thought about more than in passing. Here's the rundown:

1. Finish my bed quilt: DONE

2. Draft an original dress pattern: FAIL (because I never did #3)

3. Lose 25 pounds: FAIL (partially because I didn't keep up #4)

4. Do C25K: Partial fail. I did start exercising and I did build up the ability to run for 20 minutes straight without dying. But I never made it to 5K.

5. Create my kitchen garden: DONE

So, where does that leave me? I did not accomplish everything I had hoped to accomplish, but that's largely because I stopped trying. I managed the creative things that were not dependent on the more odious, non-creative things. And, truthfully, the time it took to finish that quilt and create the kitchen garden ate into a lot of time I could have spent exercising. But we each only have 24 hours in a day, and very few of those are reserved for personal projects.

On to 2012. I'm not done making goals just because I didn't accomplish some of them.  So here's what I hope to accomplish in 2012.

1. Lose 20 pounds. I'm really not so tied to the number on the scale as I am interested in getting inches off my waist, mostly so that I don't have to do as much pattern adjusting when I sew! Plus, I have to get my cholesterol down a bit. Good eating (which I've been doing lately) and exercise (which I've started) will be essential to reach this goal. I have to be consistent with both. I'm remembering how awesome I felt (and how I combated the winter blahs) last year when I was exercising regularly and I'd like that good feeling again this winter.

2. Finish my novel. I started a new story in July and now have nearly 60,000 words written. My goal is to finish the book by the end of winter, do revisions in spring, and start looking for an agent in the summer. I feel this is a very worthy goal that I can accomplish, again through consistency.

3. Sew from my stash only. I've already talked about this (twice, I realized) so I won't belabor the point. But this is, I think, the easiest goal to reach on my list.

4. Draft an original dress pattern. Yes, I still want to do this. But I will wait until I've accomplished goal #1 before I do it, because I don't want to have to re-do it later.

That's it. Four doable goals. What are you hoping to accomplish in 2012?

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Social Media and Writing

It's come to my attention (many times and in various ways) that writers and would-be writers must have an internet presence. Many of the authors I work with (I would say most) are on Facebook. Many are on Twitter. Most have their own websites. Some have blogs.

As someone who is herself closing in on the end of a novel that I hope to someday get published, I have finally caved in and started a Twitter account (which I plan to ignore for a while). The only reason I mention it is to point out the new button on the righthand side of your screen. If you want to connect via Twitter, click that button. When the time comes for me to look for a literary agent, a decent online network of folks who are aware I exist will probably be important.

So help a girl out. Or don't. Your call. :)

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Writing without Fear

For as long as I can remember, I have enjoyed writing and wanted to write novels. I've started a number of them, even gotten quite far on a couple, and then stopped. Part of it is just not knowing where I wanted to go with a story. But if I'm honest, a big part of it is fear.

Writing anything is dangerous. It is final. Writing takes on a life of its own after it leaves your pen or is typed onto a computer screen. When you write honestly, you leave yourself open to the criticism, judgment, and scorn of others. To have written something means that you have thought it, and so all your innermost thoughts are laid bare.

To some extent fiction writing mirrors life. You experience something in life and it will somehow make its way into your writing. You experience people and there they are, looking back at you from the page. What if the person upon whom you base a character reads your story and recognizes himself in it? And what if it's not very flattering?

I'm less than 100 pages away from finishing a 600+ page biography on Ernest Hemingway. Hemingway was a writer who used real people and real events (sometimes not even changing the names until forced by an editor) in his novels and lost many friends over it. As a Christian I'm charged with living at peace with everyone as far as it depends on me. Does that mean I should never base a character on a real person who might someday take offense to what I write?

Besides the concern that I may someday hurt someone's feelings through my writing, I fear the judgment of others. Writing fiction as a Christian, and especially as a pastor's wife, I censor myself. I'm not talking about curse words or sordid sex scenes. I'm not interested in those. I'm talking about writing scenes where anything bad or immoral happens and then imagining some old lady from my church reading it and thinking I'm a terrible person for coming up with such a scene. But in order to be true to life, good writing should deal with life—all of life. Not just the nice parts. Evil and sin exist in life and so they should exist in art. Ignoring them doesn't accomplish anything.

This evening I managed to write a 3-page synopsis of a novel I started while we were up at camp. Start to finish, every step is laid out. I've never done this before. Always before in my novel writing attempts I have started with a great first scene or a great concept with some vague idea of how I would continue, but I have always ended up stuck somewhere. I've lost interest. I've revised and edited the beginning so many times that I've begun to wonder if it's boring (since it has become so predictable to me on the 20th read-through). I've abandoned one story only to start a new one a month later. I realize now that these stories all stopped when I got to a point where conflict needed to kick in or characters had to start misbehaving in order to be real. Deep down, somewhere in my subconscious, I think I didn't want a reader to know I could come up with bad things for characters to do, that my thoughts were not pure.

The synopsis I wrote this evening involves some bad behavior. It involves greed, cheating, lust, betrayal, abuse, neglect, opportunism, and selfishness. And that's why I started thinking about fear.

But I will make an effort to simply write, to push away all thoughts of fear, judgment, criticism, and scorn and save those for another day, off in the future, when the book is actually published. And I really believe that's finally a possibility. This time around, I think I may finish something. I think I may actually get it all out of my head and into the hands of readers.

And that's sort of scary, but also sort of exciting.

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Literary Blog Revamp

Every so often a blog needs a facelift. I've revamped The Books I Should Have Read so it is easier to read and better formatted for wide screens. Please take a gander at it and read some of the newest entries. I'd love to hear your comments on the new design. And if you enjoy reading books, I invite you to follow it. I only post once or twice a month on my literary blog, as it takes me so long to get through books lately. So many other things going on. But if you're looking for reviews of all those books you should have read in high school and college, that's what that blog is all about. Hope you enjoy it!

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The Poetic Moment

I was feeling a bit melancholy this evening after a day of tying up loose ends and packing for our trip to camp, and after reading in my Hemingway biography about the suicide of Ernest's father Clarence. I was thinking of writing and how I never do it.

I looked out the window, but not really—only at the drapes which were drawn against the intensity of the evening sun hanging low in the western sky—and suddenly saw the delicate shadow of a dragonfly alight on the window outside. I saw the distinctive pattern on his wings. I should have liked to see him plainly, not merely a shadow of him through a cutain, but directly, as he truly was. But, of course, if I moved the drapes aside to see him face to face he would have been frightened away.

Such is my writing. So vivid and clear through the drapes of my mind, but when I try to confront it directly, to look at it face to face—it vanishes.

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Resisting the Urge to Borrow Tragedy

It has been said that there is nothing so difficult for a writer as having had a happy childhood. Writers seem to thrive on (and even bask in) having a troubled past. Abuse, neglect, and dysfunction are often seen as a prerequisite to authentic writing. But if you had a happy childhood, in which your parents’ love for you was never in question, the only sibling rivalry was an occasional tussle over a toy, or the only tragedies you experienced were those common to all youngsters (that first break-up, acne, a bad haircut, an embarrassing rumor), the compulsion to write may be there but the needed backlog of emotional turmoil and strife will be sorely lacking.

I suppose this comes from collision of the old advice to “write what you know” and the general consensus that stories without conflict, those in which the protagonist has a fairly good time floating through a peaceful life, are simply boring. How can you both write what you know and write dynamic, interesting stories if all you know is good times?

I agree that you do need a conflict in a story to make it compelling. But I recently admitted to my husband that I am often reading a book or watching a movie, and when I see the conflict beginning I screw up my face and think, “Man! I was really enjoying this! Why’d they have to go and ruin it with conflict?” Like someone who has just been released from a lifetime of hiding some dark secret from a judgmental world, he responded with a resounding, “Yes!”

Both of us had been suffering in silence, tormented by the fact that sometimes we would just like to enjoy a pleasant story in which nice characters enjoy life so that we can enjoy it with them in whatever setting the story happens to be. A few little foibles here, maybe a slight miscommunication with funny consequences there, and we’ll all trot happily to the end of the story with smiles on our faces the entire time. No repressed memories of hideous sexual abuse coming to light, no secret previous life that comes back to haunt characters, no kidnappings, no life-threatening escapades. Just a happy story.

Having admitted to this literary shortcoming, I do understand that, even if there are other secret “happy story” lovers out there still in the closet, for whatever reason those stories do not sell (though maybe that’s because they are no longer written/published). People pay to experience strife secondhand. The popularity of the horror genre; films about natural disasters, war, or terrorism; and dramatic true stories of surviving abuse are all proof of this.

But all you would-be writers out there, take note. Those who write these stories do not all experience firsthand the exact situations they are writing about. If you really needed to “write what you know” there would be no fantasy or science fiction stories. For that matter, there would be no historical fiction! You can write stories about things you’ve never experienced provided you do the research to make them believable. A good story can stand up no matter the time frame or world, real or imaginary, in which it is set. A fantasy story exploring themes of personal friendship, racism (or speciesism), and true love could also be set in modern day America, 17th century China, or on the planet FR-73. All it takes is a theme or conflict that rings true to readers.

While there unfortunately needs to be conflict, it doesn’t always have to be huge, over the top, or even obvious. My favorite stories are often those that are character-driven rather than plot-driven. Sure, the occasional action film is great fun, but it seems to me that the stories that stick with me are more about the characters than what those characters are doing. And those stories can be written by all of us, even if we did have a happy childhood (as I did).

Even though I grew up with both parents in the home. Even though the only people who died in my life were old and the deaths were expected. Even though I was never homeless, never went hungry, and never witnessed a terrible crime. Even though I didn’t struggle in school. Even though my life was pretty cushy, I did experience the mild strife that everyone experiences. I had friends who stabbed me in the back. I was taken advantage of. I said mean things to people that I regret. I did have my heart broken. I was confused by things. I did stupid things. I struggled with knowing what to do with my life.

And even though these are all very small struggles compared with those of many people throughout the world, they are true struggles. I can write the truth about the little things—and I know that because these struggles are so common, there will always be readers who want to read about them because they identify with them. I can’t identify with someone whose house is haunted by demonic forces or whose family is murdered (thank God). But I can identify with someone who feels left out, is regretful about how they treated someone, misses that childhood feeling of wonder, or worries about wasting time on frivolous things. So that’s what I should write about.

Write what you know, because what you know—however little—is important.

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Tutorial: Making a Feather Pen

Admit it. At one time or another you wanted to write with a feather pen. I have a tendency to collect things I find on the ground. Rocks, leaves, shells, feathers, sticks (yes, sticks). I seem to recall that among all the things I collected off the ground, my mother had something of a negative reaction toward the feathers. They were deemed "dirty," perhaps because they had once been stuck in an animal that might carry a disease. And actually, in a way Mom was right. Birds and reptiles can carry salmonella, so when you are handling them it is always a good idea to wash your hands afterward. But I don't think the feathers themselves are dangerous, so handle away. Probably you just shouldn't eat them.

Anyway, over the years I've found a few "good" feathers, the kind that are somehow more desirable than the plain gray feathers that come off of mourning doves. Blue jay feathers were always prized. I don't think I ever found a cardinal feather. Seagull feathers were fairly common where I grew up near the Saginaw Bay, but since they were white (which seemed to represent purity, royalty, and poetry to me as a child) I liked finding them. But I always wished I could find some BIG feathers. And, of course, fairly long feathers are needed for making pens.

Let me pause a moment and tell you that some feathers are okay to take, while others are not. Feathers from non-migratory birds, like pheasants and turkeys, are okay to pick up and take home. However, feathers that come from any migratory bird, including songbirds and birds of prey, are illegal to possess in the United States (see the Migratory Bird Treaty Act of 1918). So those blue jay feathers I had? Yep, not legal. But if I had found a feather from an English sparrow (a.k.a., house sparrow), a pigeon (a.k.a., Rock Dove), or a European starling, all alien species, I could keep it. In fact, I could even destroy nests of those birds legally. And if I had a crop that was in danger from blackbirds of any kind, I could kill them from June-October, despite the fact that they migrate.

Now, is the DNR going to come with the SWAT team to break down your door and drag you screaming into the night if you pick up a cool feather and put it on a shelf? Odds are against it. Still, it's important to know what's right in the eyes of the law.

Now, with all that out of the way, once you have the perfect feather, how do you make it into a functioning pen? First, you need the right tools. A feather, a new straight razor, and a piece of cardboard.

These feathers are from peacocks, which do not migrate across international borders and are not covered by the Migratory Bird Treaty Act. (Why aren't they iridescent green and blue? Because a peacock's flight feathers are usually brown--they're for flying, not courtship.)

Hold the feather in your hand with the tip down and the shaft curving toward you. This shows you how many of the barbs you will have to remove to allow the pen to rest comfortably in your hand and where the tip will have to be cut.

Next, use the razor to remove any barbs you desire. You can just remove a little bit and keep most if you really like the color or pattern of the feather. Or, for a more stylized look, you can remove barbs until there is just a small area left at the end.

To remove barbs, turn the feather right side down and position your new, sharp razor next to the shaft, slicing very close to the shaft.

Stop near the end of the feather to leave a fancy tuft.

Once you have the feather looking the way you want, it's time to slice off part of the tip. The bigger the feather, the tougher the shaft, the harder it is to do this. If you tend toward clumsiness, be careful at this point and consider donning protective gear. You will be slicing toward yourself, though at a downward angle, so, should you slip, the razor should end up in the cardboard and not in your sternum.

Notice the fairly sharp angle. You want the opening you create to be long and thin.

Smaller feathers are more delicate and should be treated with care so that the shaft isn't smashed to bits or cracked.

Once you have your opening made, you may notice some flaky bits inside the shaft (see below).

Clear those flakes out. You'll probably have to scrape at them a bit with the razor then blow them out. Again, smaller feathers with thinner shafts are delicate so be gentle with that razor.

Once the hole is clean. you will need to shape it such that you have a fairly fine tip. Here's where it's both good and bad dealing with a thicker shaft; it's harder to shape, but if you succeed in getting a nice fine point it is less likely to break during use. Shave off a bit at a time, as though you were trying to sharpen a pencil with a knife and not break the lead.

Eventually you want to have a fine point, like a fountain pen (sorry for the blurred photo).

Dip the newly fashioned pen into some ink (you did remember to buy a pot of ink, right?) and test it out. Stay light on the pressure at first to get to know the pen. Too much pressure on a fine point may bend or break it, and there goes all your hard work. Use a few layers of paper at first in case your pen allows the ink to flow too fast. You don't want ink soaking through your paper and onto your table. If the ink comes out too fast, you may need a finer tip or a smaller feather.

Good luck!

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