Why Writing is Like Marriage

Yesterday my husband, Bryan, and I celebrated our 18th wedding anniversary. Yes, you read that right. Our marriage is now a legal adult and can vote.

Naturally as this day approached I started reflecting on the last couple of decades of my life and relating the things I've learned in my marriage to other aspects of my life. Like my writing, which is what this blog is all about and why I'm boring you with my personal love story and showing you this picture of two adorable, clueless people.

So why is writing like a marriage? Or, how has my marriage been like my writing career?

First of all, a person doesn't--or shouldn't--approach marriage with the idea that if it doesn't work out then they can just stop. Leave. Get out. At least I didn't. When I accepted writing as my life's calling (or one of them, really) I did the same thing. I don't have an exit strategy for when it gets hard. Period. I. Don't. Have. One. My reasoning is simple. On the marriage hand, I'd be sacrificing so much good and doing so much damage by not trying to work through the rough spots. On the writing hand, not writing is like not breathing. I can't really just stop.

Secondly, a person (in this case me) doesn't step into a marriage expecting it will all be fun and lollipops and chocolate bonbons. (I married a divorced man with a child so obviously there were going to be issues. Still I had no clue how hard that would become, but that's neither here nor there). Writing is the same. There are days when it's just flowing along seamlessly and weeks, months, or even years when it's not. When I'm bogged down by my own insecurities or my own time management issues. But it's important so I work at it.

You've noticed that word twice now, haven't you. Work.  Probably the single biggest parallel I've noticed between my marriage and my writing career is that they both require work. Effort on my part. Actual thought, planning, and patience. No one can have a successful marriage without putting real effort into it. It's not always easy to live with the same person for years on end. Sometimes they get on your nerves. Sometimes they're gone for long stretches for work and you have to adapt without them and then when they come back you're used to doing everything without them and have to adapt again to let them back in.

Writing--or any career, really--requires work. Effort. There are countless hours I put into plotting, thinking, reasoning, and yet that's not even half the work involved. Then I have to actually sit down and physically type. Then collate all my notes and type some more. Then read. Over and over until my eyes practically bleed. Then send it to others to read and offer feedback that I then have to decide what to do about. And for every writer it's different. Some of us can do this process in a matter of weeks. Others months. Others are lucky if they can get one book out a year.

All that work takes time, which is what all this boils down to. My marriage is a priority to me so I invest my time in it. A lot of time. I'd say only my kids get the kind of time I devote to my marriage. Not even my writing gets that much.

But my writing is third on that list. After husband and kids comes words. Because if I want to have a successful writing career (and I'm not defining success for you because that's personal and individual) then I have to give it my time. And that would be the same if I wanted to be a professional dog walker, or an artist, or a manicurist.

But I don't. I want to be a writer.

The Poodle Skirt: What it should teach me about writing, Pt 2

You all should remember this poodle skirt from yesterday's post. Here it is if you want to read it again: Poodle Skirt

All caught up now? Great.

Most of you can already see where this is going, but I have to get it out anyway. I've shared with you the utter dread and torture and agony that was the making of said skirt, and I told you why I did it. Not for the joy of it. Not for accolations.

But because I love my daughter.

When you love someone it sometimes means you sacrifice. Not your soul, not your self-worth, not your ideals or your morals, but you do sacrifice. The time and energy I sacrificed weren't for this stupid skirt--it was for my daughter. My 12-yr-old, smarter-than-me, slightly snarky, occasionally disobedient, stubborn, talented daughter.

Friday, in my post-skirt recovery, I realized that if I was willing to sacrifice so much to do a project I hated, why was I so hesitant in my writing--which is something I love? I used to think I was good with deadlines, that they made me work harder so I could meet them. But somewhere along the way, after seeing self-imposed deadline after deadline slide by, I realized that's not the case. So it wasn't that I had basically only one day to make the skirt.

Is it because I like to sew? Not particularly, and I'm not particularly skilled at it. But I do love to create things, and sewing just enables an aspect of that. But I got no pleasure from creating this skirt, so that's not it either.

Basically it came down to my girl. I did it for her. Only for her. Not for me. Not for the satisfaction of doing it but because I didn't want to see her disappointed if it was something I could actually do for her.

So if it's the person who matters most to me, what about the people who are waiting for my next book?

I'm not talking about nameless, faceless fans who I adore but in a distant non-stalkerish way. I'm talking about the kids who have reached out to me to say how much they love my series and can't wait to see what I do next. I'm talking about the little girls who've received my books as gifts and read them over and over. The ones I know by name. The ones I love.

And what about my writing career in general? My publishing goals? My plans for the future? Surprisingly, little of that really has to do with me. I don't want fame and fortune (though a little fortune would be nice, let's be honest) or to be on numerous bestseller lists. I've told you before I like being invisible. (you may now ask if I like it so much why use my real name to publish--and that plays into the part that's really about me, the part where I have to stand for what I say and my goals to improve with each project)

And then there's the fact that I write for my kids. There's so much I want them to learn and so much I want them to know, but one of the biggest things is that each of us needs to be able to follow our dreams. If what you're doing isn't what you love, then why are you doing it? I want them to pursue their dreams, to make success out of them. And how can I properly teach that if I don't live the example of it? Because the failure comparison of do it because I didn't just doesn't cut it.

Lastly, there's the most spiritual and personal reason why I write and publish. Because I know with absolute certainty that it's my calling in life. It's my part in God's plan. I have two callings--mother and writer--in that order. And I love God, so the progression goes that I should be willing to sacrifice to fulfill my part in His plan.

But, yeah, that's a lot of self-imposed guilt there and I'm only human. I'm going to backslide sometimes, make mistakes, and have to own them. Like right now. I don't care if the world never knows my name. But someday I'm going to have to answer for the things I did and did not do, and I feel there should definitely be more effort on my part in that regard.

I want to be able to say that I tried my best. Right now, this is not my best. Not my very best.

I know I get hung up on my first drafts, wanting them to be perfect and needing as little revision as possible. My new goal is to just finish the dang things. Become a fantastic RE-writer. Stop letting my doubts dictate my actions. Write for 5 hrs a day. The kids are in school, what's stopping me but me? So what if I chuck 95% of it later. That's 5% more than I'm doing now. It's still progress.

"You miss 100% of the shots you don't take."

It's high time I start applying what I know, push through my personal issues, and just write. Because of the love.

The Poodle Skirt: What it should teach me about writing, Pt 1

This is a poodle skirt. And you say, "Yes, I know it's a poodle skirt, but what's your point?"

My point? I hate this skirt. Loathe it. Detest it. It's seriously the only thing I hate more than...I don't even know--anything.

 "Wow," you say, "that's a lot of emotion about a stupid skirt."

And I agree. Completely.

If you're a long-time follower then you know that I have made some interesting comparisons to aspects of my life and how they relate to my writing. Bear with me because I'm about to do it again.

You see, last Friday was our school's Homecoming. And my daughter, who is part of the band/marching band, told me Tuesday that they had decided everyone needed a poodle skirt for the parade Friday.

Tuesday. She told me Tuesday. Afternoon. On our way out of town for a dentist appointment.

So I grumbled. And I griped. Why couldn't they have come to this conclusion a week ago? A month ago? It's not like nobody knew when Homecoming was, or that they would be in the parade. And I admit it--I'd hoped her ineligibility status might prevent her from marching in the parade. That way I wouldn't have to drop everything and make a skirt she'll probably only wear once. But no such luck.

I scoured the fabric selections at Walmart Tuesday afternoon because it's the only place with fabric and picked out a sweet floral print because they didn't have decent prices on any solid colored fabric. And because I know my daughter I knew I'd have to make an underskirt to shield her legs from the netting because she'd gripe about it being scratchy. Yeah, I know.

Wednesday I had a full schedule and couldn't do anything about it, but I did manage to make the poodle applique. But I started on the skirt first thing Thursday. I measured. I cut. I dug out more fabric. I measured and cut some more.

I found that the pretty floral print I'd bought at the store wouldn't work for the skirt. I hadn't bought enough fabric, which is a mistake I hardly ever make. Usually I have tons leftover. So I dug into my reserves and found the solid red pictured above. I probably still have enough of that leftover to make a tablecloth for my 8-seater dining room table. The underskirt? Easy--an old sheet. The netting? Less easy--I hate working with netting or tulle but I managed it.

Then I started to piece it all together and sew. I put in movies to listen to in order to break up the monotony. Occasionally I got up and ate or got more water or went to the bathroom or changed out the movies. But mostly I sewed. And sewed. And sewed.

The skirt was almost complete by the time my daughter got home from school. Mind you, I've made skirts before. Usually I do a simple elastic waist and hem it up. Really, really basic. The last one I made my youngest took me about 15 min start to finish. This skirt?

Oh. My. Goodness. It had a waistband. It has a zipper. I don't have a zipper the right length. I measured and cut for the size up from my daughter's size and the waist was tiny. TINY. My daughter is 12 and does not have a tiny waist. When she tried it on it was easily 3 inches too small. After all that work?

I grumbled a bit louder. I fantasized about going down to the school and yelling at the adults in charge of the band and the parade stuff. Details like this need to be worked out well in advance, not 3 days before.

My waistband solution? I ran a seam deeper into the top of the skirt, measured her, cut off the top of the skirt so there was a bigger opening, and measured again.

And still botched it. Now it was too big. Slid right off her not-quite-yet-hips and puddled on the floor. By this time I was fed up with the whole project, but no way was I going to put this much time and effort into the dang skirt and give up there. Safety pins. Yes, the skirt is still too big for her and if it ever fits it will likely be too short. I ran up to town and while the girls were in their drama class I bought a zipper. That night I came home and sewed it in. I'm not fast with zippers so it took until after they'd gone to bed.

But, finally, late Thursday night, the poodle skirt was done. And I LOATHED IT. In fact, I'm still considering burning it.

Because I hate that stupid, awkward poodle skirt.

But I love my daughter.

*Part 2, how this relates to writing, will be up tomorrow.

Maybe it's Just Me

As writers, I think we all have faced that unsolicited story advice. You know the kind--someone asks about your current work in progress and then proceeds to inject their own thoughts and ideas into the masterpiece you are creating.

Do people do that with painters? --meaning artists who paint, not house painters. :)

I'm not complaining, really, because bouncing ideas off my husband is a great way to get a story rolling. He's got a creative mind, and he has different perspectives than I do, so it works.

However, there's a time and a place for everything--as I'm about to explain. I want to share with you a moment so surreal it took almost a week for me to realize how odd it was.

Last week, I had an appt with an OB/GYN. This was the kind of appointment where the hubby takes time off work so he can be your moral support. The kind of appt where you stress and worry and try not to imagine every horrible possibility. The kind where you're seeing this dr because your regular dr needed the opinion of a specialist. (results are back--I'm fine, so no need to worry)

Let me set the scene for you. I'm essentially bare except for the silly gown they give women to cover up in for these types of exams. My feet are up in stirrups and I'm in "that" position as the doctor uses a piece of equipment that likely costs more than all the houses I've ever owned COMBINED to "get a closer look." My loving husband is sitting up by my head.

I say to him, "Talk to me about something. I need to be distracted."

So he asks me about the map I've asked him to draw for my new dystopian project. He needs some story details in order to flesh out the map in his mind. After exchanging a few sentences, who pipes up but the doctor.

Yes. The doctor who is currently examining the inside of me. Starts talking about what twists and concepts I should present in this post-apocalyptic world I have designed.

The assisting nurse quips, "You should co-write the book with the doc here."

Chuckle. Laugh. Be polite. DON'T kick him in the face.

I changed the subject. Got things back on task, so to speak. Left them some bookmarks and let them look up my books if they chose. And I've reconsidered talking books during doctor visits.

(just a disclaimer--I liked the dr overall. He's very competent and thorough, which is appreciated. Just--the moment was wrong. That's all. Strange and wrong. IMO)

What it Really Means

Not too long ago, I blogged about going OLD SCHOOL, and how much it meant to try to write a novel long hand again. Today, I'm going to update you on my progress.

5700 words. That's about when my brain started going faster than my hands, and I couldn't keep up. Transcribing those last 5 or so pages into the computer, for instance, was a fight to read my own chicken scratch. Not that I've ever had stellar handwriting, but let's just say it gets much worse when I'm in a hurry.

One of my friends, when I told her what I was doing, quipped, "learn shorthand." That might work, but I struggle with the old dog/new tricks reality I realized I didn't want to take time away from my writing to learn another way of writing.

Here's the thing: I may start all my novels long hand from now on. I may write the first chapter without using a computer because it DOES do amazing things to the human brain--or at least my (mostly) human brain. I found the experience to be much richer, and I got to know my characters quickly and I tended to do more description.

Or not. I may just end up doing extensive drafting by hand, so it helps me develop my characters before I actually write the story ON MY COMPUTER.

Because that's what all this boils down to. I can ALMOST match my thought speed with a keyboard. Haven't got a prayer of doing that with a pen and paper.

So, for now, it's keyboard all the way.

May Day

Actually, that was 2 days ago. And I'm really not in any kind of panic. Mostly. :)

It's May now, and we're winding down the school year and my writing time. I don't get any writing done in the summer when the kids are home, so I'm really not planning to do any from May 26th through August 20th (or whenever school starts again). This is a self-preservation technique to save me the stress and aggravation of trying to write and not succeeding.

But my plans have been a little redesigned.

Last week, I posted about my writing doubts while I waited for the publisher to get back to me for The Tyrant King. They did, with a list of suggested changes and a request to resubmit when I make the changes. At first, I was sad. I mean, I didn't WANT to have to do any more work on it, but that night as I was driving (another epic story for another day) to an author event one of the more inspirational songs I use spontaneously played on the radio. For me. I know it was just for me. :) And I'm honest enough to admit my writing isn't perfect, and the story DOES have issues, so I'd much rather fix them now rather than have it published full of plot holes. (slight exaggeration) So while I wait to hear back from my beta readers for my e-book, The Wild Queen, I'm going to work on fixing The Tyrant King--with the hope of resubmitting it by the end of this month.

What has changed? My 3rd planned e-book, The Price of Love, has been put off indefinitely. And I'm not going to start The Lost Princess, my (hopefully) 3rd print book, until I've resubmitted The Tyrant King to the publisher. I'm still hoping to get it all done this month, but I'm also cutting myself a little slack.

I may also be writing a little into June. Hopefully the kids will forgive me. :)

Stranger than Fiction

Have you ever experienced something in your life that is so bizarre the people you share it with have a hard time believing it actually happened? This is what I consider to be "stranger than fiction." Why? Because fiction has to make sense.

We're odd, aren't we?

Imagine you're reading a charming, coming-of-age novel about a young girl who is struggling to find herself after her parents' divorce and father's death. When the main character is 15, she and her friends--one of whom is old enough to drive and has a car--decide they're going to have a wild night of fun. They go to a rock concert, then tell all their parents they are staying at one girl's house. But that girl's parents are out of town, and the girls have no intention of going back to her house that night. They are going to stay out all night and have fun, meet people, etc.

They go to a pool hall/bar and play a few games, attracting the attention of several young and older men. One of the younger ones seems so interested, he literally writes his name and number on the MC's arm as her friends are dragging her out. Later, they meet up with these two guys that one of the girls kind of knows, and end up crashing at a stranger's apartment until the wee hours of the morning, when they discover their plan has been found out--and their parents are all worried and waiting for them to come home.

The MC rides back with her friends to the girl's house where they were supposed to be, and during the ride they come up with the story they're going to tell their parents. If it's a simple enough story, and they all tell the same one, they reason the truth won't be found out. I mean, whose parents WOULDN'T kill them for staying the night with some guys, even if nothing really happened?

The MC gets a ride with one of her friends and her parents, who are fuming. All the way to her house, the MC has to sit and listen to the lecture from the parents to both girls about how worried her mom was and how irresponsible and stupid their behavior had been. And how much trouble she was in when she got home.

When she does get home and they drive away, her mom gives her a hug, makes her a sandwich, and lets her take a nap before they go to church that afternoon.

Now imagine the conversation those girls have at the lunch table at school the following Monday. One has been grounded for a month. Another got grounded for two weeks. The driver had her car taken away for two weeks, and was grounded for another two weeks. And our MC? She tells her friends her mom made her a sandwich and let her take a nap.

Stranger than fiction? Would you throw the book across the room and swear that couldn't possibly happen? No parent, acting as both mother and father to their child, would just let them get away with such behavior! That's ridiculous, and SO unrealistic.

Except it really happened. And I'll probably never use it in a book because readers expect more from a novel than we can get away with in real life. :)

What's your "stranger than fiction" story?

Christmas Aftermath

Now that we are on the other side of Christmas, I'm anxious to re-focus on my writing. At my last signing of the year, I sat down and ironed out on paper the remaining plot holes in THE TYRANT KING. Earlier this month, I was able to plot out the entire story of THE LOST PRINCESS. And, now that I have people literally clamoring for my next book, I'd better get moving.

My husband has a network of amazingly supportive friends where he works, most of whom have purchased at least one copy of my book. Last week, he shared a bit of a short story with them that I'd written for my mom forever ago. And his friend immediately asked when THAT story was being published.

I told him he has to stop talking about my stories. He asked why. I said, with my current schedule, there's no way I can keep up with his mouth! :)

The biggest challenge of plotting out my trilogy has been deciding who lives and who dies. Really, only a handful of characters have proven untouchable. But I also don't want to kill characters off for the sake of killing them. There has to be a purpose, or reason, for their death that makes sense from the plot perspective. And I'm kind of worried, because there are a couple of characters I deeply love who might meet their end in THE TYRANT KING. I wasn't expecting that.

There's very little death in THE PEASANT QUEEN. I mean, most of the important deaths occur before the book starts. Only two characters die in the book, and they are the bad guys. But, in THE TYRANT KING, the villain is much more ruthless, and much more deadly--arbitrarily--than in THE PEASANT QUEEN.

But, in THE LOST PRINCESS, there isn't a murderous enemy. Most of the conflict comes from internal character issues, though there is a little bit of a power struggle the characters involved are not murderous. They feel justified that they are on the side of the right, so they don't feel they should have to resort to murder. But, it's not realistic for the events that happen to transpire without costing at least one life. And, it's a big death, a meaningful one. I'm still struggling with it. All the primary characters will feel it--they will all react.

I remember JK Rowling saying once, on this topic, that she'd tried to kill Mr Weasley several times, but he kept surviving. But the Weasley family couldn't be untouched by the events, as close as they were to them, so it did cost. When I look at killing off characters, I play out the events and then wonder what the cost would be. In one instance, a character poisons someone so he can escape, but logically, as he reaches the stable to get his horse to steal out of the castle, someone is there. Someone who would raise the alarm. Someone who, if injured, would die before help would arrive the next morning.

It's amazing how much logic and reason have to go into a fantasy novel. :)

A Little More History

I've posted about all the exciting things, contests, books etc, during the last few weeks, and gotten a bit distracted from my writing history.

If you'll recall, the last tidbits I shared were in story form. Basically, I shared real events that happened to me in ways that were easier to talk about. Now I'm going to share with you how those experiences, and others, helped me write my book.

We all know that we're supposed to "write about what we know." Okay, well, I wrote a romantic fantasy novel. I don't know much about the setting and what might happen in an alternate world--never been there--but I do know something about captivity, real and figurative. I do know what it feels to be put in the role of "victim" and how I react to it.

Recently, I attended a signing where author Jessica Day George spoke about this very thing. Her books focus heavily on relationships because that's something she knows. So, while she has this fantasy setting for her novels, the characters resonate with the reader because she pours what she knows into them.

That's what I hoped to do. In my book, THE PEASANT QUEEN, Krystal is put in a position in her family where she is given an impossible choice: marry the village idiot or run away. I faced different circumstances, but a similar choice. Krystal is taken prisoner by an evil king. Okay, my captivity was more emotional than physical, and he wasn't a king, but I felt trapped just the same. And I did NOT like it, very much like Krystal.

At one point in the novel, Krystal is fighting of the unwanted advances of an older man. Been there. At another, she has genuine fear for her life. Been there, too.

Most of us don't know how it feels to look possible death in the face and the things that race through your mind in those moments. When we're granted the reprieve of continued life, we reflect on what we would have left behind.

All of this is very real for me. All of this is what I know, and what I hope to pour into my novels.

Next week I'll tell you about that day I almost died. At least one of them.