Laura Langston's Blog

I wasn’t that odd as a child, not really, although if you ask my father he’d probably disagree. I was sensitive to my surroundings (especially to the undercurrents of conversations and what wasn’t being said); I was prone to storytelling (others referred to this as exaggeration); and I had three special (imaginary-to-everyone-else) friends. I played with them, had conversations (and arguments) with them and I ate meals with them too. Sometimes, if my father was out, my mother would set three extra plates. I guess she knew I was a writer-in-the-making.

How do you know you’re a writer? You know you’re a writer when -

You had imaginary friends as a child only they were real to you.

You are prone to wild imaginings that can literally make your heart race.

Conflict makes you smile.

You don’t get non-readers.

You laugh out loud at conversations in your head.

Some of the letters on your keyboard are worn off.

You have pens in every room of your house, including the bathroom and beside your bed.

A song on the radio sparks a story idea.

You stare at random people and memorize their quirks.

You can predict the conflict or turning points in movies, and your family has made you promise to keep quiet until it’s over.

You get excited by Scrivener.

Eavesdropping is second nature.

You love bookstores (but hate them if they don’t carry your books).

You live in a constant state of ‘what now?’ closely followed by ‘what if?’

Twist is not a cinnamon stick.

You have scribbled an idea, a word, or a piece of dialogue on a restaurant napkin, boarding pass, old envelope, school newsletter, or empty toilet roll.

You find those odd bits of paper – sometimes indecipherable – in pockets, wallets, purses, drawers, stuffed between the pages of a book, and you save them.

Pacing is a concept not an activity.

You found it easier to write when you first started.

You have missed a turn, an exit ramp or possibly a plane because you were so absorbed in your story.

You weren’t comfortable as a journalist because you always wanted to change the end of the story.

Proofreading is automatic.

Character is not about your personal ethics.

A hero must be flawed. But sexy as hell.

You gather ideas, thoughts, bits of trivia and snatches of dialogue like black pants gather lint.

You visit a cemetery and take notes.

People you barely know ask you to read their book, their article, their life story. Or ask you to write it.

You have a weird combination of insecurity and confidence.

Finishing the scene is more important than answering the phone.

The Muse is an intimate.

You will read anything.

This heron has been visiting my pond lately. The fish don’t like it; they hide. At least I hope they do. But the heron always returns. He comes by several times a week, flapping his huge wings before settling onto a rock. Serenely he waits (I always think of him as a male) for the opportunity to catch dinner.

Herons are smart that way. They’re persistent and patient, and they have a lot of fortitude. If the fishing isn’t good the first time, they’ll try again. And again. It’s a good lesson for me as I force myself to ignore the enticing call of the spring garden and settle instead at my desk, day after day, writing and rewriting. Surviving in this crazy business of publishing requires a lot of patience and persistence, along with some luck and timing too.

A friend of mine, Lea Tassie, wrote a short story a few years back featuring a heron. It’s called Fishing Expedition and it’s available as part of her short story collection Harvest. Here’s the link: http://www.smashwords.com/books/view/5284

I think of Lea’s story just about every time my heron comes to call.

I sow seeds around this time every year: tomatoes, peppers, eggplant, sweet peas. And basil. Lots and lots of basil. (I make pesto for the freezer in the fall). With luck, some heat, and a little water, a single seed will grow into a large, sturdy plant that will bear lots of fruit. In the same way, the seed of an idea, tended and metaphorically watered, will grow into a book that touches people.

When I’m sowing seeds, I’m usually focused on the end product: the book I’ll hold in my hand or the tomato I’ll eat. But lately staying on track isn’t easy.

In the world of publishing, there’s lots of talk about what’s better – books that are traditionally published or books that are self-published. Go on Twitter and I guarantee you’ll find someone extolling the virtues of one over the other.

In the world of gardening, the ‘what’s better’ debate revolves around the kind of seed you sow. There are those who insist open pollinated (sometimes called heirloom) seeds are far superior and the only way to go. Still others tout the virtues of hybrid seeds (the result of planned crosses between first generation parents). Then there are genetically modified seed (the devil’s spawn some would suggest).

Admittedly I’m not a proponent of genetically modified seed but as for the rest of it . . . well, it’s starting to bore me. Hybrid seed or open-pollinated? Traditional publishing versus self? Who. Really. Cares.

And who is the definitive authority on what’s better anyway?

As long as that tomato is the real deal: drippy and delicious and stuffed between slabs of homemade bread (with extra Hellmann’s mayo and maybe a slice of Havarti), I’m happy. And as long as that book yanks me in and holds me hostage – electronically or otherwise – I’m all over it.

Because as far as I’m concerned, a tomato is a tomato and a book is a book. Why complicate things?