6 Reasons Why Writing a New Novel is Like Trying to Get In Shape

1. You have to actually do something in order to make things happen.

(You know, write, walk, run, fast like a Hollywood ingenue before the Teen Choice Awards.)


2. You have to let go of the past.

(But in my old novel.... But in my old pants' size....)


3. You have to resist temptation.
(Why not another teen vampire novel? Why not another Reese's Peanut Butter Egg?)


4. You have to be a bit selfish with your time.

(Mama can't make Play-Doh cakes with you this afternoon because she'll be writing, dear heart. Mama can't visit the tadpoles in your classroom on Tuesday, sugar-roo, because if she doesn't get to the forest she'll look like Play-Doh. The white kind.)


5. You have to recognize that, for the most part, the process will sucketh mightily.

(I'm staring at my blank, dusty computer screen wishing I'd decided to join the Peace Corps. Or the circus. I'm staring at my muddy trail runners wishing I'd decided to take up water aerobics. With my elderly neighbor.)


6. Sometimes, you have to take a break.

(Step away from the computer, Quasimodo. Step away from that story line, because it's giving you hives. Drive directly past the trailhead and pull over, sit on the riverbank for a while. Or turn the car around and head to the gelato shop.)

The Forest for the Trees: Editing a Novel. Or, the Coffee I.V.

“When you write a book, you spend day after day scanning and identifying the trees. When you’re done, you have to step back and look at the forest.”   
 ~ Stephen King, from On Writing

Throughout the month of March, my editor at Bell Bridge Books and I have been deep in the editing process with KEOWEE VALLEY. This has been a month of late nights and early mornings, of less exercise and more time at the desk, of red-rimmed eyes and deeper wrinkles. I wouldn't change it for a thing.

William Faulkner, notorious drinking writer that he was, once said that when he was writing, he "always kept [his] whiskey within reach." I can relate to this. If not for the toddler, husband, dog, house, and job, I'd likely spike my coffee in the morn and partake heavily of the vino at night. But my drug of choice, especially during the editing process, is straight-up coffee.

Coffee. Sweet, sweet nectar of the gods.

The first time I drank coffee was finals week my freshman year at Clemson University. My dorm-mates and I had plugged in a coffee pot in the study room on our hall and had a friend wedge a chair under the door knob outside, to lock us in. I had a lot of excess energy in those days, and I'm pretty sure I remember my friends beating on the door, begging the girls outside to get me out of there after I'd had a few cups. I'm pretty sure there were random push-ups, jogging-in-place, and the singing of "The Star Spangled Banner" involved. I'm sorry, college friends. So very sorry.

Now that the editing process is (basically) over on my novel, I can say I know without a shadow of doubt that there are two things every author needs after her novel's been bought:

1. Coffee. Lots of it. Perhaps entering through an I.V.

2. A great editor.

Luckily, I have both of these. Not the I.V. of course. That would be icky.

College, now that we've broached the subject, was the first time I ever dreamed about what it'd be like to work with an editor. I'd been writing novels and novellas (mostly in spiral notebooks under my desk in science classes) since I was 11 years old, but until I became an English major and began having real discussions about my writing with my professors, I'd never considered the nuts-and-bolts realities of writing as a career.

Up to now, oddly enough, despite the fact I've published work in newspapers, magazines and literary journals, and have been lucky enough to win some awards, I'd never really had my writing edited. Unless you consider the copyeditors at the newspaper where I worked right out of college standing over my desk late on Sunday nights, frowning down at me. The conversation usually went like this:

Them: "Uh, Katie. You can't use this word. It has three syllables."

Me: "Why not? It's a great word."

Them: Silence.

Me: "Shouldn't we elevate the standards of our readership? You know, write to our readers' best selves?"

Them: Silence.

Joking aside (though that was no-lie, real conversation I had several times as a 23 year-old reporter), they still didn't really edit my writing much. No one ever did.

Until now.

Until my novel. My baby. My sweet little 450+ page darling.

I thought it'd be harder, I really did. Family members used to joke with me over the holidays when my writing career was in its youthful beginnings (everyone knew I wanted to write books): "How are you going to feel about being edited?" they'd ask, as if I wouldn't be able to take it.

The truth is, when it came time--finally--for my first novel to be edited, I was more than ready. I relished the process. Because good editors, great editors, make your work better. And if you've an editor like mine, who actually takes the time to explain the choices/changes because she remembers what it was like to be a first-time author, you learn infinitely. And you get better.

I like the King quote at the top of this post because 1) I'm in the forest a lot, and 2) I now know what he means... in a way I wouldn't have years ago.

Because I've been writing an historical novel, I get lost--happily--in research. I like knowing what tree grew where along the Cherokee Path that my protagonist takes into the wild backcountry, like learning about the deadly sandbars her ship would have to pass at the mouth of Charleston Harbor, love discovering that there were black wolves, panthers and elk, and even bison roaming the South Carolina Upcountry in the 1700s. This sort of stuff is my literary crackrock.

I'm also a fan of words. Big, beautiful words that some folks may have to look up. (Can you see my old copyeditor frowning? She wore a permanent scowl when it came to me. Also a uni-brow.) My editor showed me that there's a place and time for these words. That sometimes, readers don't want to look things up; that sometimes, these types of words distract from the flow of action, eject the reader from the story like a big, fat stone in a medieval catapult. And no writer wants to catapult her reader over the moat. Especially me. I want them to keep reading.

This is only one example of the many ways I'm learning about popular/commercial fiction versus literary fiction, about how to make a story better. About how to respect my readers. I've got a heckuva lot to learn. And I've had a great editor guiding me. (Thank you, writing gods. The sacrifice will be left by the back door.)

There's much more work to be done on KEOWEE VALLEY before it's published in September. And I'll keep y'all posted. But for now, it's back to my coffee and my next novel. Where, hopefully, I'll have learned enough to consider the whole darn forest.

 

My Favorite Tyrants

So this has been a very, very long week.

If you've been reading along, you may remember that I once referred to my 2 1/2 year-old daughter as a gorgeous little Russian despot. A tyrant  with bright blue eyes and a killer left-hook.

Well. The Czarina has returned. Let me just say that this week involved all of the following:

tantrums
hitting
screaming
no no no no no no no no NO I WON'T!
running into parkinglots
late nights
early mornings
time outs
spankings
fingers caught in windows
broken toys
migraines
pizza

I know that God laughs at me. I mean to say, laughs with me.

No, at me. These days it's definitely at me.

This is okay. My life is pretty funny. And sometimes it's difficult not to laugh when your stubborn little Mossad-agent in training decides to stage all-out war.

But Mama is tired.

So, for today, in honor of my little Czarina, a list of 6 of my favorite tyrants of all time:

1. Cleopatra

The world was hers. She ordered men around like puppies. And she wore great eyeliner.















2. Genghis Khan

A big, bad meanie. Basically created the Mongol Empire and conquered most of Eurasia. And did it with a Fu Manchu.


3. The Lady MacBeth

Wild, erratic, nutso. At least in Shakespeare's version, intent on world domination.

4. Vlad the Impaler

The inspiration for Dracula. One scary son of Pete. (The name says it all, really.)


5. The Emperor Nero

Supposedly fiddled while Rome burned and liked to capture Christians. Enough said.  
















6. Czarina Wylie. Ruling Despot of Turnpike Road.

Notorious for tantrum-throwing (usually in front of visiting dignitaries), plate-launching, and yogurt-tossing. Also refusing to hike any further.

Endings

Note: If you haven't read or watched the final installment in the Harry Potter series, there are spoilers ahead.

Last night, my husband and I finally watched Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows: Part 2. In the midst of summer travels and work and toddler-wrangling and life, we'd missed it in the theatre. Not only had neither of us read the final book in the series, we'd also managed not to ask or overhear just how the whole saga ended. So when we sat down, excited, in our dark living room with our newly HDified TV, we had no idea what was going to happen.

I realize we're behind the times. But bear with me.

I was sure that J.K. Rowling was going to kill Harry. I thought, this is the only reconciliation for such a myth and magic-laden epic: sacrifice the boy. Save the world.

Happily, I was wrong. And the movie ended as it should have--our focus on the faces of three true friends.

But this made me, today, ponder on endings. Crafting a beautiful, memorable, and above all satisfying ending has to be one of the toughest things about being a writer. Creating an ending for a series must be even more difficult, considering that your readers have made a major investment in the lives and times of your characters.

One of my favorite historical authors, Sara Donati, ended her acclaimed Wilderness novels by utilizing a series of news articles and obituaries in her fictional town's newspaper--a newspaper her main protagonist, the heart of the series, had founded. It was a poignant and lovely way to close the book on a host of memorable and beloved characters.

But there are other ways of doing this. Cinematically, it just seems easier.






Butch and Sundance went out guns blazing.

Thelma and Louise drove a car off a cliff.

                                         And Rhett decided he didn't give a damn.

Movies have the luxury of outside influences--musical scores, set direction--to aid in just how deeply their endings affect a moviegoer. But writers have only words, and those words had better be the right ones if a reader is going to close the book truly changed from what he or she has read. This is no easy task.

Anton Chekhov once said, "Don't tell me the moon is shining; show me the glint of light on broken glass." And writers, as much as moviegoers, want to be there in that world and in that moment--whether they're captive in a dark theatre or huddled under the covers, reading by flashlight. They want to see the light on the broken glass.

I'm still not certain if I love the ending of the Harry Potter series, book or film. And this is interesting to me, because I'm utterly in awe of J.K. Rowling, profoundly moved and fascinated by the widths and depths of her imaginative powers. I can't read her novels or watch the films based on them without grinning hugely, even at the dark parts. My God, that woman has a gift.

But I wonder, at times, if it's possible to truly write a great ending. And has anyone ever really done it successfully? Or do we leave this to our readers, assuming that--despite our best efforts as writers--they will find a sort of imaginative closure off the page, in the recesses of their own imaginations?

Favorites List: Things I Love About Life-Long Friends

This afternoon my daughter and I are headed to Charlotte, N.C. to visit two of my oldest and dearest friends. One of these women I have known since birth, and another since I was in kindergarten. Years ago our parents forged a bond of friendship (involving quite a lot of adult beverages, Motown, and beach/lake time) for which I am forever grateful.

I'd include photos here, of our parents and us, but that could be trouble. Instead, I'll share one of our favorite places:

The Lawdy Mercy, Garden City Beach, S.C.

All friendships are blessings--some of the greatest in this life. Whether old or new, friends bring color and relief and magic to our everyday spinning through space. But for today, here's to life-long friendships, and life-long friends!

10 Things I Love About Life-Long Friends:

1. They don't let you lie to them.

When you've been friends so long that you learned to potty-train together, you forfeit all subterfuge.

2. They really, truly think you're beautiful--and say so.

This one's important: No matter how fat or thin you grow, no matter how your belly and boobs change after childbirth, or how many wrinkles form at the corners of your eyes, these friends see you as you were 20 years ago, and as you are now. And they love you for it all.

This is especially important in the case of my particular friends, because I suffered the zit and braces-filled adolescent years with them. Years when my mouth and my nose were too big for my face. Years when I had bouffant bangs. The year of the perm.

3. They know how to mix your drink.

Heck, they know what you like to drink, how you like to drink it, when you like to drink it, and when you need a drink.

4. They share with you.

Their clothes, their shoes, their children, their vacation houses, their favorite new music, their secrets, their recipes. Life-long friends love you like family, and when they find or have something or someone else that they love, they want you to be part of it.

5. They're there for you, good times and bad.

This is a biggie. When you are, and have been, friends for life, you endure it all together: weddings, funerals, births, cancer, moves, job losses and gains, hearts merged and broken. Whether you're in the room or over the phone, or a thousand miles away from each other, you are there. And there's nothing more important than this.

6. They make you do things you don't want to do--but they do them with you.

Even if one of these (many) things involves a lot of wine, a sunset over the marsh, a band, a microphone, and maracas.

7. They put sunscreen on you.

This cannot be overstated. Lathering someone up with sunscreen is tedious, annoying and messy. You have to really love another person to commit to making sure they're not going to get fried in hot pink patches. I've estimated that these friends and I have been putting sunscreen on each other for about 20 years.

8. Their hearts break and swell with yours.

When you hurt or get hurt, life-long friends feel it too. This is different than being there in spirit or being there physically when something happens in your life.

The simple fact is, when you've been friends this long, you're part of each other's DNA. You feel for each other like family... really, in many ways, like something more than family, because you've chosen each other. And it doesn't matter if you don't talk on the phone every week, or if there are years when you see each other only once or twice. When they hurt, you hurt. And you're on your knees, in the dark, begging for their relief. When they rejoice, you rejoice. And you send your love out into the stratosphere like shouting into an emotional bull horn.

9. It doesn't matter how far apart you live, or how long it's been since you've last been together. When you get together, it's as if time has stood still, and you pick up right where you left off.

We have lived as close as half a mile and as far as 700+ miles apart. We've gone months and even years since being together. It just doesn't matter: our connection is rooted in the blood.

10. You are forever friends.

Really.

Historical Research: Or, an Excuse to Feed My Book Habit

I'm a collector. I collect quotes, photos, images, art, random thoughts. I've been doing this since I was a kid. Later, in college, I covered the walls of my freshman year dorm room with the stuff--mostly any statement I considered inspiring, made by writers and artists I was enamored with at the time. I seem to recall a lot of Emily Dickinson, Walt Whitman and Frank Capra on my walls. (My collage also included a purely academic photo spread from Vanity Fair of Texas newcomer Matthew McCoughnahey. It was called "Lone Star." He was wearing blue jeans, boots, and a cocky little grin. I think I still have it.)

These days, when I begin a novel, I always begin with images--physical or imagined. If an image or scene pops in my head, I get it down. If it's something I see in a magazine or book--I've even collected quotes from tea bags and Nike ads--I pin the image to a bulletin board I use expressly for this purpose.

Filmmakers do something like this, but they call it "storyboarding." Though my version isn't nearly as organized (and how I wish it were), it's a fun, visual way to make an idea present during my creative process.

Here's what I've got going for the novel I'm working on now:

It all started with the guy in the center: it's an anonymous photo I've had--and been captivated by--since 2008, when I was a writing resident at the Vermont Studio Center. A friend of mine, another writer, had it, and let me make a copy. The grainy, blown-up image has been itching at me since then. I can only assume from clues about the man's dress and hair style that it's from the 19th century. Who the man really was, I have no idea. But now he's a main character in my new novel.

Whenever I have a random thought about the novel--plot, setting, what have you--I jot it down on a piece of paper and pin it to the board. It's not organized, and it's not neat. In fact, I'm in the early stages, so this is about as good as my storyboard is going to look over the next year. It'll be covered in Post-It notes and other cut-outs and pictures in no time, and will eventually resemble something like a framed scrap heap.

I don't have a system. I'm not a plotter (however much I'd like to be). A novel, for me, grows organically. I have to get it down, then figure it out. Hopefully, I'm learning how to do this better... and hopefully, my MFA program will help. 

What I do love (like a cold Corona Light with lime on a hot Carolina beach) is the research process. Right now I'm dipping my toe in the cotton boom of the 1850s in coastal South Carolina. It's a fascinating, dark, strange and glittering world. And I'm just getting started. So far, my physical research looks like this:

That's basically a short stack of Internet articles and a book I just ordered about James Petigru, a venerable Charleston lawyer who was against secession and didn't care who knew it. (This was a very big deal in the antebellum South, and especially in Charleston, S.C.) When he died in 1863, he was memorialized--indeed, lauded--by Confederate and Union sympathizers alike. I've found him fascinating since I first learned about him in the 8th grade. (Yes, I'm that girl.) And I want to know what life was like at that time and in that place for people who felt the way he did.

But this is just the tip of the iceberg. When I research, I bury myself. I've got three other books coming in the mail, and four on order via interlibrary loan. On advice from an historical novelist I respect, I'll soon be planning a researching road trip to S.C. to delve into the newspapers of the time. (What I'll do with my two year-old, I don't know. But I'm sure she'll sit quietly by my side while I spend hours looking at microfilm.)

This novel has been on the backburner for a while now, ever since pregnancy and new motherhood threw a wonderful, exhausting wrench into my writing life. But now it's back. I'm back. And I'm learning to fit my old way of doing things to my new life. It may take me a helluva lot longer, and I may have to purchase stock in a Costa Rican coffee farm to stay upright during the process, but I can do it.

Book Heroin & Writer Lust

I've got a book problem.

I've always had it, but lately it's gotten worse. I am drowning in books.

Over the years--as recently as the Fall--I have made attempts to seek a cure. I've culled my books, my haphazard library. I've donated books to friends, to the county library, to women's and childrens' groups. I became a volunteer for Operation Paperback, and each month I send countless paperbacks overseas to soldiers who desperately need a good story.

None of this has helped my disease. Let me offer proof.

Exhibit A, one of the four bookshelves in my livingroom/kitchen:



This bookshelf just squeaked, "Save me!"

Do not believe my husband when he tells you that I haven't given away enough books. I have. But this is as far as I can go. I won't show you the other seven bookshelves in my house. They're not fit for company.

Some girls dream of shopping sprees at Sephora and Manolo Blahniks. I dream of built-in bookshelves.

Now that I've begun my MFA in Writing, my book problem has gotten worse. Short story collections and essay collections--slim volumes, true--have been added to the stacks. Aimee Bender, Katherine Mansfield, and Jim Harrison have now joined the ranks of William Shakespeare, Diana Gabaldon, Lauren Groff and William Bartram. The books on my shelves speak Cherokee, Gullah, Cockney English, Gaelic and vampire. Yet they get along. I think.

Yesterday, I continued work on a new novel, which opens up a realm of possibilities for research. Okay, fine. A new reason to feed my book problem. Still, the sky has brightened and the seas have parted on a whole new world of topics like the Antebellum women's movement, the cotton industry, and pirates. Ooh, and also horse racing and 19th century politics and riding boots.

I might as well just go ahead and open a vein.

As a result of my book problem, I recently purchased one of the most enjoyable novels I've read in years: A Discovery of Witches, by Deborah Harkness. This book, which I gobbled down in about two days last weekend, satisfied all my cravings. It's centered around a
young American historian in Oxford (a hereditary witch determined to ignore her witchy DNA); a gorgeous, bookish vampire-scientist, and an ancient text. This is no teenager's vampire story: The pace of the novel is lightening-fast, the settings gorgeous, the mystery fun, and since Harkness herself is a PhD in history and a research hound, it totally satisfies the egghead in me. I can't wait for the sequel.

Since I read it, I've been suffering from writer lust. Another of my unfortunate "problems." I'm not necessarily jealous of Harkness's success (okay, maybe a smidge). What I lust after is her skill, her power to meld intellect with imagination. This is the sort of story I always long to tell: one that fuses history and research and books and adventure, and, when necessary (and some could argue this is always necessary), love.

And on top of all that, to create a story readers enjoy--full-throttle enjoy, like I did. On a beach, at the lake, on their couches, on a plane. Heads bent over gripped pages or Ipads or Kindles, completely immersed. Reading into the wee hours, though they have jobs and kids and life to take care of the next day.

It also doesn't hurt that as a full-time professor and author, Harkness is engaged in almost exactly the dual career I've been working toward since I was 24. And she's only in her mid-40s.

Did I mention that A Discovery of Witches is her fiction debut? Debut. First novel. And already a bestseller.

Okay, maybe more than a smidge jealous. But it's good-natured jealousy, non-threatening writer lust. Because for all her success and writerly genius, I get to read what she writes. And that's a gift.

So now it's back to my own projects and the story I'm currently trying to tell. In two minutes, it'll be time to wake my daughter, whom I've already let chatter and sing in her crib for far too long. Then my day really begins.

It's a wild, complicated, frustrating, wonderful, exhausting, exhilirating life, choosing to be a writer. I wouldn't trade it for anything.

I also wouldn't trade this for anything:

My daughter, 2 1/2, head in her own book.



Happy Thursday, all!