Category: Writing Life

My November Reads

curtains-from-outside-at-nightOctober’s sunshine and clear skies have disappeared and the wind and clouds have arrived.  A bitter rain is slapping against my office window as I write this, and though it’s not quite four o’clock, it’s almost dark outside. So I’m drawing the curtains early today. I’ve been doing that a lot lately. I’m not exactly cocooning (I have too much work for that), but I am cutting back on my commitments, especially at night.  I’m using that time to catch up on some writing, and to read. Here’s what I’m dipping into right now:

At the gym:   Heroes Are My Weakness by Susan Elizabeth Phillips

On the Kindle: With Love & Light: A True Story about an Uncommon Gift by Jamie Butler

Beside the bed: Delancey: A Man, a Woman, a Restaurant, a Marriage by Molly Wizenberg

Books Read to Date in 2014:  63

 

Get Your Turtle On

turtleA few weeks ago, I talked about NaNoWriMo and the combination of awe and fatigue I feel when I think of producing that many words so quickly.  At the same time, I also admitted that I wanted to boost my productivity, including my daily word count, and I was determined to find a way.

After dumping some bad habits I picked up over the last few months, my productivity is up.  But my word count still isn’t anywhere near as high as I’d like it to be. Part of that is my process (see last week’s blog post) but the other part of it is, well, a little more depressing.  I realized the other day that I’m more like the tortoise than the hare.

And, sure, the tortoise eventually wins the race but honestly, I’d rather be a hare. Hares have a lot more dash and flash than turtles.  They’re sleek and fast and productive. Plus, they’re cute. Turtles, not so much. They’re ground creepers. Members of the reptile family. Turtles have thick, leathery skin, an armored shell, and they are slow.  Painfully so.

I can’t remember the last time I received a compliment for going slow. Or gave one out. I like fast. I celebrate fast.  I hate getting stuck behind the slow driver on the highway. I’m impatient if I have to wait more than two or three minutes when I make a phone call. And let’s not even talk about all the waiting around on book submissions.

Unless it’s a soup that needs simmering or a garden that needs growing, we embrace fast.  It’s a mark of pride if our kids talk or walk at an early age. If our dogs finish first in agility. If we get our Christmas shopping done in October.  If we write three books a year instead of two. Or two books instead of one.

No wonder the thought of being a turtle held little appeal.  Then I found a book about totem animals. Here’s what I learned about the symbolism behind turtles:

Turtle wisdom is linked to the power of Earth. It gives us the ability to stay grounded, even in moments of chaos. It is the way of peace, whether it’s inviting us to cultivate peace of mind or walk our path in peace.

Turtle wisdom is also linked to the spirit of water. Since turtles are fast and agile in water, it has much to teach us about the fluid nature of emotions.

Turtle wisdom encourages us to slow down, to pace ourselves, and to take a break to look within.

Turtle wisdom lends us determination, persistence, emotional strength and understanding.

Turtle wisdom teaches us to travel light . . . to let go of those things we have outgrown.

Because the turtle carries its home on its back, turtle wisdom teaches us to own our space and to take all the time we need to do whatever it is we feel called to do.

Turtle wisdom encourages us to remember that we there is no such thing as failure as long as we are inching towards our goal.

Turtle wisdom reminds us to enjoy the journey and to remember that life is a never-ending process of arrival.

Turtle wisdom reassures us that we have all the time in the world . . .  and that we are always where we are supposed to be.

After reading all of that, I suddenly didn’t mind identifying with the turtle. After all, the turtle is also the symbol for longevity. And I’m in this gig for the long haul.  So my advice? Get your turtle on. And forget about the hare.

Ready, Set, November

ready_set_goNovember is a month for abbreviations and productivity. At least in my world, it is.

There’s PiBoIdMo, which is short for Picture Book Idea Month. The idea is to come up with a picture book idea every day for the month of November.  There’s also NaNoWriMo, which is short for National Novel Writing Month. The concept is similar though the word count is longer – produce a 50,000 word rough draft of a novel in 30 days. That’s 1666 words a day. Every single day. Weekends included.  Unless you want to take weekends off. In that case, you’ll need to write about 2500 words a day for the next four weeks.

A lot of people sign up for these things. Some people do it every year. A few people I know do both NaNoWriMo and PiBoldMo.   Somewhere in there they find the time to go on social media and post about ideas generated or daily word counts.  And to congratulate or post encouragement to others too.

It’s all good. Really, it is. But, honestly, it makes me tired just thinking about it. And leaves me feeling vaguely guilty. I average 1000 – 1200 words a day four or five days a week. Weekends are for chores, for groceries, for meal planning and all that good stuff.  Even if I intend to write on weekends, I rarely do, though I’ll often find myself mulling a character, a plot twist, or an upcoming scene.

I’d like to change that. For one, I have a novel that’s almost done, and another one to start and finish by March 2015. I have a major feature due at the beginning of December too.  So this November, I’d like to up my productivity and boost my idea quotient. I’d like to clean out my in box and clean off the top of my desk. Hit the gym, stop eating wheat and do 100 push ups every day. Finish my Christmas shopping. And maybe finish the needlepoint that’s been sitting in the closet since 2008 too. In other words, I’d like to kill the month of November.

Just call me LeMeWriMa or Lean Mean Writing Machine.  Or, if you’d rather, go with the pros and check out these sites: http://taralazar.com/piboidmo/     and http://nanowrimo.org/

 

My October Reads

fall2013 007The squirrels are gone from the attic, the garden is put to bed, and the soup pot is already seeing action. In a few days we’ll set our clocks back an hour to standard time. Not everyone appreciates the fewer hours of daylight, but I don’t mind.  It’s a little lighter in the morning but darker earlier at night. That means more time to read!  What’s not to love about that?  My ‘to-be-read pile is higher than my fridge so I’m looking forward to sitting by the fire and losing myself in a good book.

Here’s what I’m reading this week:

On the Kindle:  Walking Home by Sonia Choquette

Beside the Bed: What I Love About You by Rachel Gibson

At the Gym: Beautiful Lies by Lisa Unger

 

Books read to date in 2014: 57

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I’m Going Squirrelly

Squirrel-on-roofVirginia Woolf said, ‘a woman must have money and a room of her own if she is to write fiction.’

No argument there. But with all due respect, Virginia, you missed something. Along with money and space, a squirrel-free zone helps too.

We have squirrels in our attic. Or at least we did. It’s been quiet the last few days, though that’s no guarantee. They’ve tricked us out before. We noticed them first this summer. They’d run through the yard taunting Team Sheltie. One took to sleeping on our fence where the sun hit in the middle of the day. I thought it was sweet. We had a house squirrel, I told myself. A totem protector.   How cute is that?

I am so naïve.  So. Naïve.

We no longer have a house squirrel. We have an army of squirrels. They’ve captured the attic and are defending their territory with a vicious determination that makes ISIS look like a group of kindergarteners. Given that Mr. Petrol Head is protective of his family, not to mention the fact that he’d like to keep our roof, our insulation and our wiring intact, he declared war.  He would eradicate the mighty army himself. Just call him the original squirrel slayer.

Just to clarify – our attic isn’t a traditional space where you store clothes and steamer trunks and kids go to play on a snow day. Our attic isn’t accessible, at least not by anybody taller than eight inches.  It’s a narrow space just below the roof where the insulation lives. It is accessed by vents. Vents in squirreldom are known as front doors. And ours apparently have a great big flashing WELCOME sign visible only to squirrels.

After some on line research, the Original Squirrel Slayer got to work. He tried moth balls which squirrels apparently hate. Maybe they do somewhere. Not where we live.  He screened off the vent. The squirrels laughed and chewed through it. He made a ‘foolproof’ one way door out of all sorts of heavy, squirrel proof material and snapped it over the vent.  Squirrelgate he called it. The squirrels thumbed their noses. They pulled a break, enter and repeat. Squirrelgate was breached.

I’d had enough. Call in the experts, I said. Let me try something else said the Original Squirrel Slayer, who was spending more and more time on our roof determined that the rats-with-tails wouldn’t get the best of him.

A new and improved Squirrelgate was created and installed. Things got quiet. We were hopeful. We were sure the army had been conquered.  We were sure we’d won the war.

Then came Saturday.  I woke up to find the Squirrel Commander-in-Chief chewing his way through the screen on our open skylight.  The army was on the move. The attic was no longer enough. The capture of new territory – in the form of our TV room – was the goal.

The Original Squirrel Slayer conceded defeat.  Refusing to accept his new moniker, he picked up the phone, dialed the Squirrel Whisperer and went back to being Mr. Petrol Head.  Some things, like marauding squirrels, are better left to the experts. squirrelgate

Giving Thanks

thankful 2 It’ll be Canadian Thanksgiving in a few days and my thoughts are turning, as they usually do in the fall, to the things I’m most thankful for. This time last year, I blogged about why I’m thankful to be a writer. And many of those same things (the joy of playing with words; the ability to ask endless questions; regular and mandatory reading; wearing yoga pants and slippers to work) still apply.

But I’m feeling more serious this year and it occurs to me that even though I work alone, I don’t work in a vacuum. In fact, I couldn’t do what I do without a pile of people in my corner. And for that, I’m profoundly, extremely grateful.

My long suffering partner, Mr. Petrol Head (possibly to be rechristened My Squirrel Slayer – watch for an upcoming blog) has had my back, along with the rest of me, since I started this gig way back when. Not once has he questioned my sanity, my ROI or my need to bounce endless (and I mean endless) questions off of him.  He cooks, he designs my business cards, he listens to me rant, and he laughs. I love him for all of it. Mostly I just love him.

My kids – Uptown Girl and Teen Freud (the latter needs a rename since he’s left teen hood behind forever; sob) – have made me the writer I am. They’ve helped me become more patient (they may not agree with that), more disciplined and more creative. They’re bright, funny and truly the best kids a mother could ask for. I love them more than life. Even if they weren’t mine, I’d want to spend time with them. Yes, they are that cool. Mr. Petrol Head pointed out the other day that my career has, to a large extent, followed the trajectory of their growing up years. When they were young, I started writing picture books. As they grew, I segued into middle grade fiction. And now I write for teens and adults.

My web guy keeps my site up to date. Thank you Miles Barr for achieving the seemingly unachievable . . .  for returning my panicked emails . . .  and for reassuring me that glitches can be fixed even when they seem unfixable.

My fellow authors who follow the publishing road.  No one else gets it the way you do. I’d be a whole lot crazier if I didn’t have friends like you with me on my path.

The editors I’ve been blessed to know. I’ve been hugely lucky in the editorial department over the years and it shows in all my books. You might want to thank those editors, too. Trust me.

My readers.  A reader was the impetus for this blog. Not a reader of my books, but a medical technician who reads science fiction and fantasy. I was in for a test recently and when he found out I was a writer, he spent about ten minutes talking books with me. Not in the ‘how do I get published? sense’ but the ‘have you read this author?’ and ‘what do you think of this author?’ sense.  His passion was a sharp reminder of why I do what I do and for whom I write (it was also a good distraction from the task at hand but that’s a whole other story).

And last but not least – Team Sheltie.  They sometimes drive me nuts with interruptions and they bark waaaaay too much, but they get me out of the house for several walks a day, they always make me smile and they’re my soft place to land when I walk away from the keyboard at the end of the day.

Happy Thanksgiving everyone!     dogswindow.jgp

Imagination: Blessing or Curse?

mental-workspace-in-human-brainOne great thing about being a writer is my imagination is always on steroids.

One lousy thing about being a writer is my imagination is always on steroids.

Plus when you’re a writer and a mother, there is guilt. I’m not talking about the guilt of deadlines, or traveling when there’s an event at home, or being preoccupied with the book a little too much.

No, I’m talking about the guilt of having an imagination that’s always on steroids. Because if you have more than one child, chances are high you’ll pass that particular blessing on to at least one of them.  If so, my condolences. And a suggestion: get out the Tylenol. You will need it.

Case in point (actually two cases).  Case one: Several weeks ago, a friend left six chocolate covered strawberries on my doorstep. Delighted, I brought them inside, ate one, and put the rest on a high table for later.  When my back was turned, Luna, my Sheltie, jumped up, grabbed three and gobbled them down before I could pry her mouth apart (first time she has ever grabbed food from the table).   I spent the next twenty-four hours in one of three states: on my laptop trying to assess how much chocolate it takes to cover three strawberries and how toxic that would be to a 20 pound Sheltie; staring at her while I waited for the convulsions to start; and obsessing about how we would break the news to Teen Freud that one of the dogs died while he was in Morocco.

Case two: in Morocco, Teen Freud was having adventures of his own, including, but not limited to, getting a bad concussion after hitting his head so hard on a bathroom sink that part of it broke off.  Determined to avoid Moroccan hospitals (he was traveling with an Australian medical doctor who came equipped with her own IVs and syringes, among other things) he opted to wait until he got to the London leg of his trip before seeking medical attention. Unfortunately before he could do that, he bumped his head a second time which led him to immediately google second impact syndrome. He spent the next several days convinced he had it, waiting for the convulsions to start, and obsessing about dying so far away from home.

By the time we got wind of all this, Luna had recovered completely but Teen Freud was certain he was poised to die from a brain bleed.  I’m not minimizing brain bleeds. They’re serious, we all know that, and there’s no question Teen Freud had a bad concussion, which is nothing to mess with either.Two doctors told him so (one was, in Teen Freud’s words, ‘barely out of diapers’ and you haven’t lived until you’ve heard your baby child describe someone else as young enough to be in diapers).

You also haven’t lived until the offspring with the imagination on steroids sustains a (potentially serious) injury 7500 kilometres away from home and you are forced to read between the lines. To separate the rhetoric from the meaningful. The facts from the paranoia.  Until you are forced to remind yourself that he carries your genes, your imagination, and your touch for drama along with a dose of hypochondria that clearly came from the other side of the family.

One great thing about children who travel is they always come home. And there’s nothing lousy about that.  However, Teen Freud is now convinced he has post-concussion syndrome.

We’re beating back our collective imaginations and monitoring the situation. Stay tuned.

The Creative Art of Doing Nothing

stock-footage-time-lapse-with-cloud-formations-moving-away-from-viewer-over-a-field-and-a-small-forrest-full-hdI don’t have much time for lying on the grass and watching the clouds these days. You probably don’t either.  Do you care? Or does some small part of you celebrate the fact that your life is busy, busy?  That it’s always go, go, go?

Benjamin Franklin said, “It is the working man who is the happy man. It is the idle man who is the miserable man.”  Most of us have taken that attitude to heart. We’ve also adopted the belief that “Inspiration exists but it has to find you working” (Pablo Picasso) and that ‘Idle hands are the devil’s playthings.’  (That quote is so rampant and has so many variables no one is entirely sure where it first came from).

In our culture we celebrate busyness. Busyness equals business.  If you aren’t busy, you aren’t doing business.

Except:

“To do great work one must be very idle as well as very industrious.” Samuel Butler

And:

“Imagination needs moodling – long inefficient happy idling, dawdling and puttering.” Brenda Ueland in If You Want to be a Writer

Moodling isn’t watching TV or seeing a movie. It’s not surfing the net or reading a book.  It’s not cooking a meal for someone you love or listening to a friend in trouble, or even walking the dog if that dog is anything like my youngest (lovable but demanding) Sheltie. Those things are all worthwhile. But they’re not  moodling.

Moodling is

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. . . watching a spider eat aphids on a rose.

 

 

 

 

 

 

. .  walking the beach with no agenda and only your thoughts for company. Witty's-Lagoon-022s

Blue Night Sky

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

. . . sitting outside after dark and staring at the stars not because you’re locked out but because you want to lock in. To inspiration. To creativity.  And to possibilities.

 

 

We all need a little moodling time. It’s the best way to let our imaginations soar.

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When Life and Writing Collide

traceTShirtIMG_20140428_093331If life unfolded according to plan, I’d be writing this from a villa in the south of France while my personal assistant tracked the rise of my latest best seller on the New York Times list.  The villa would be luxurious and clean, the pool refreshing, and my muse would be in high gear . . .

Okay, forget the fiction. In reality, if life unfolded according to plan, I’d be on the treadmill writing six hours every day and ignoring the dust, the dog hair, and the dirty dishes.

I’m not. I’m getting some writing done, and I’m doing it on the treadmill, but I’m being pulled in a number of stressful directions which is wreaking havoc on my routine.

A few weeks ago, Trace, the male half of Team Sheltie, had surgery to remove a lump that was supposed to be small, but ended up being much bigger than the vet anticipated. Recovery has been slow and he has needed careful watching, even wearing his fancy T-shirt to stop him licking the incision.  Thank the Canine Gods the lump proved benign.

Then, just after Easter, my 89-year-old mother-in-law ended up in hospital.  Last year she faced life-threatening surgery and was hospitalized for three months (That was a routine killer, let me tell you). She recovered and went home, but she’s been frail ever since. She has also relied on family to get her groceries and take her to various appointments. It’s no small commitment since we’re on the island and she lives on the mainland, about three and a half hours away.  With this latest hospitalization, the ferry trips have started again as we wait for a diagnosis and prognosis. Though I’m concerned for her, I also recognize that we might be facing months of work disruptions and punishing expenses (thank you, BC Ferries).

And in case I’m not feeling committed enough, my mother is scheduled for two surgeries over the next six weeks.  They’re relatively minor in the scheme of things, but she’ll require hands on support for a day or two afterwards, and I’m the chauffeur, caregiver, cheerleader.

Needless to say, I’m distracted these days.

Here are some thoughts on how to cope when life interferes with the best of (in my case) writing plans.

Focus more on less.  Whether your job is writing or something else, when a crisis hits, zero in on what really matters. Your loved one. Your own health. If there’s time and energy left, pick one professional commitment that matters to you. For me, that’s writing. Everything else – social media, emails, reading blogs and professional sites – slides.

Prioritize.   As soon as a crisis erupts, I mentally scan my professional ‘to do’ list and slash it in half. I determine what, if anything, must be addressed immediately. If I’m on deadline, that moves to the top of the list. I contact my editor and alert him or her to the situation. When my mother was hospitalized with a pulmonary embolism three years ago and I was on deadline for an article, I contacted the editor, explained the situation and asked for a few extra days to complete the assignment. She was very understanding.

Stay flexible. When my stepfather was dying from lung cancer, I found it difficult to produce fresh writing but I was able to focus on short articles. Though I wasn’t happy about it, I let the fiction slide for a few months. I’ve never regretted it.

Say no when you can.  This isn’t the time to bake two dozen cupcakes for the school bake sale, or take on a rush assignment. And don’t be afraid to change your mind and say no when you previously said yes, particularly when it comes to personal commitments. People understand as long as you tell them what’s going on.

Keep going.  As frustrating as it can be to have plans derailed, I’ve found some comfort in taking small steps. I might not be able to write 1500 words a day on my work in progress, but with half an hour I can read over the last scene and make a few notes in the margin. I can read up on my setting or research another aspect of the story.  The novel may not advance as quickly as I’d like, but a few minutes a day on peripheral work can keep the story in my mind and make it easier to return to later.

Maintain healthy habits. Easier said than done if you’re spending a lot of time at the hospital or traveling to reach a loved one, but it’s so important. For me, that means eating high quality food, avoiding alcohol and sugar, and getting regular – and that means heart-pumping – exercise. Doing this helps me sleep, and that’s another thing to maintain during times of high stress. Good sleep habits.

Get organized.  Maybe it’s just me but when life is chaotic, I take some comfort in having the basics under control. I like to have a fridge full of food, the laundry done, the grass cut. It’s not always possible, but spending a few minutes every week thinking about meals, for instance, frees me up to concentrate on what really matters.

And finally:

Everything is temporary. This too shall pass. Repeat as needed.

 

 

Getting Out of your Comfort Zone May Help Your Writing

tryingnewthingsquotesI’ve been making an effort to try new things over the last while.  Even things I don’t feel all that confident about. I’ve started using a rowing machine (my body isn’t impressed but  I’m not giving up yet); I’m working on a short story which takes me miles out of my comfort zone; and I’m about to use Adobe Acrobat for the first time to go through a set a page proofs.  Small things, all of them, but the research is clear: doing things differently or learning something new (regardless of whether it’s something significant like a new language or something small like Adobe Acrobat) increases our brain activity and could make us more creative, more energetic, more social and just all around happier.

I’m all for that.

As I learn and stretch and try new things I’ve noticed how much it impacts my writing and helps me see things from a fresh perspective. Writing short stories requires brevity which sharpens my skills. Learning to row has given me insights into a character who plays an important role in a young adult novel I’m writing. Understanding and implementing Adobe Acrobat reminds me of what it was like learning to work with the track change feature in Word years ago.

More than anything, though, change alleviates boredom. The ennui I was beginning to feel at the gym is all gone as I challenge myself on the rowing equipment.  The stress I sometimes feel around writing (deadlines; word lengths; acceptance/rejection) doesn’t apply to the short story I’m flirting with.  I’m writing it just for me. I’m not even sure when I’ll finish it.  Given my tendency to set deadlines and meet them, having a more free flowing approach to a writing project is a new thing for me. It’s taking me totally out of my comfort zone.

And it’s a surprisingly happy place to be.