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.

Why?

Detective Banks leaned forward to switch on the recording device and then sat back in his chair. Ainslee watched him, her hands gripped three facial tissues like a lifeline. She swiped at another tear and tried to calm the trembling of her body.

            “I just want you to take us through the events of this morning,” Banks said. He used a handkerchief to wipe the sweat off his bald head. Ainslee wondered why the little room didn’t better air conditioning, but then chided herself for thinking of something so trivial at a time like this.

           

            She hunched forward, closer to the microphone. “Mom had just left to take Ashlyn to soccer. It’s just at the park up the street from our house, so they walked.” Her throat caught on a sob and she swallowed before continuing. “I was supposed to go with them but I’d been up all night studying for my geometry final and Mom let me sleep in.”

           

            Banks nodded like he was encouraging her. “And then what did you do?”

           

            Ainslee looked down at the partially shredded tissues in her hands. She’d been tearing at them ever since they sat down. “I got in the shower. I always hook up my iPod to the waterproof speakers and I guess I had my music on pretty loud.”

           

            He moved as though to put a hand on her arm but reconsidered and leaned back. “What happened next?”

           

            You already know, she wanted to scream. Why are you making me tell you?

            “I heard a couple of bangs and a thud,” she said. “I figured Dad and Jayce were roughhousing. They always get a little wild so Mom doesn’t let them do it when she’s home.” She thought of her little brother, how he had taken the last bowl of her favorite cereal this morning and how she’d yelled at him for it.

            She wished she could take everything back.

            “What next?”

            Ainslee took a deep breath to keep the tears in check, but there was no way to keep her voice from wavering. “I felt something shake the walls. I thought maybe it was an earthquake, so I turned down the music and listened. Maybe my dad would call me to get into a doorway or something. But I couldn’t hear over the water so I turned that off too.”

            “Did you hear anything?”

            She shook her head, but then realized the microphone couldn’t pick that up. “No. It was so quiet. I got out and put on my robe and called for my dad. He . . . he didn’t answer. I yelled for him again, even though I could tell there wasn’t an earthquake.”

            Banks nodded again. “And then what?”

            “I heard footsteps,” she said, her voice hoarse. She didn’t bother to wipe the tears streaming down her cheeks. “Then the bathroom doorknob rattled. I thought that was weird since Dad would have said something so I thought it was Jayce being a dork—“

            “Do you always lock your door when you shower?”

            Ainslee shot him a look. With a prankster brother and his perv friends what do you think? “Yes.”

            “Did the person say anything?”

            “No.” Ainslee choked back a sob. “I thought it was Jayce, so I yelled at him to leave me alone. Then the rattling stopped.”

            “Did you exit the bathroom at that time?”

            “No,” she said. “First I put on my moisturizer and then got dressed. See, I thought everything was normal.”

            “When did you discover the bodies?”

            The question sent a shiver right through her soul. Ainslee’s tears poured down her face. “I went to the living room to watch TV,” she sputtered between sobs. “And there they were. Jayce was behind the couch but Dad was right in the middle of the floor!”

            “We have the recording of your 9-1-1 call, so I won’t need you to repeat that,” Banks told her. “Do you remember anything? Did you see anything? Hear anything?”

            “I only heard screaming,” she whispered. It had been her screaming and she knew it, but couldn’t remember opening her mouth. “I just don’t understand. Who would do this? Why?”

            “We don’t have any answers yet, but I promise you we will.”

            Then the question spilled out. “Why didn’t he kill me? He knew I was there. Why didn’t he kill me too?”

            Detective Banks reached over and shut off the recorder. “Miss Dawson, I just don’t know.”

Oh, hi.

I haven't meant to not be here lately. In addition to my wildly exciting desire and drive to write, I've been hit with a couple of fastballs. First my back decided to freak out and stop working properly, and then, before my back got better, my immune system crashed--and let bronchitis and a sinus infection in. Rude.

I'm still working on getting better, and I haven't let it derail my writing plans so soon after committing to them, but it did slow me down. Hey, I'm as human as the next girl.

I'm really just checking in--to let you know I'm still here and going strong for 2012. But the kids are going to be home any minute so I gotta fly. :)

Resolutions are for Suckers

I've said it before, but I'll say it again. I don't do New Years' Resolutions. There's a quote going around Facebook that Resolutions are a to-do list for the first week of January.

I set goals instead. Here, on my writing blog, we're not going to mess with my personal goals. We'll explore my writing goals for 2012.

I decided I'm going to publish, or contract to publish, *5* books this year.

Whoa. I know, right? Then I got to thinking.

I'm submitting The Tyrant King at the end of the week. Cleaning up The Wild Queen to prepare for print versions (by Mother's Day per a personal request). Submitting Lizzie Lilac and the Left Socks, my children's book, (though there's no guarantee it will be published). These 3 books are almost done, and only require a few touch ups.

But, The Wild Queen shouldn't really count since I published the ebook last year. Right?

I have lined up a fabulous editor for Consequences in March, so my edits need to be done by then. That's okay, since my plan is to have it done by February. That gives me time to get it out to readers, get their feedback on it, and then make a few tweaks before my dear editor gets her hands on it.

After that, I think I'm going to work on a few rough drafts. It will be great to flex that creative muscle again. Exciting.

Five books will be great. What a fun way to spice up 2012.

Since I will be self publishing a few, I have some control over meeting this goal. The fun part will be learning how to do my own typesetting and cover art. Scary. I'm excited and motivated to get this done.

Let's go 2012!

Dear Chloe

Dear Chloe, (From Consequences)

I’ve figured something out about myself. I can’t love anyone halfway. I guess that’s what makes me such a lousy stepmom. It’s hard for me to step back and not take part in your life because I love you like my own. I know you aren’t my child; I know you have a mother and she loves you and you love her. I’m not trying to replace anyone or edge anyone out. But I love you with my whole heart. It’s impossible for me to love a child part-way.

Having the day care taught me this. Remember when little Mae burned her hands? Her mom called to tell me what happened and I couldn’t sit still—I had to do something to help. And when she came back to day care with her hands all bandaged and only one little thumb sticking out my heart just bled for her. I’m not her mom. But I love her. Just like I love you and just like I love all my biological children.

Love isn’t a part time thing for me. Once a child pulls me into their world, that’s it; I’m hooked. I think about the kids I babysat in my teens. I wonder about the kids I took care of in the church nursery over a decade ago. The human heart has an unrelenting love capacity with no boundaries. If we allow our hearts to love, then the love just grows and grows.

You have grown up right before my eyes. The last 13 years have flown by; I swear just days ago you were that 4 year old who captured me so completely.

I saw you first. I don’t know if you know that part of the story, but I saw you long before I saw your dad. I fell in love with the little girl skipping circles around her dad long before your dad told me his name. And I knew I wanted to marry him because of the way he treated you. I wanted that kind of love and devotion for my children someday, and I got it.

If only we could have lived forever in those first months I knew you. You accepted me and we had fun together. You have a capacity to love that is unparalleled. I know why it happened. The "honeymoon" had to end at some point. Then you started treating me like I had become something forbidden. Once, you called me late at night just to whisper “I love you” and hang up. I cried. Not for me, but for what you had to change to please the people you love.

I love you. No matter what.
Jenni

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.

From the Other Side of the Move

I'm getting all my posts in early this week, in case I end up with no internet. Kinda hard to blog post with no internet. :)

What's new in my writing world? Well, the publisher rejected Lizzie Lilac and the Left Socks, as their children's book quota has been realized this year. I'm going to shop it around for next year. Hopefully I'll find someone who will want it.

Nothing new to report on The Tyrant King. I'm not writing/editing much, but I am learning quite a bit about how to improve my writing and look forward to making it a real knockout book once the kids are back in school. Yes, my kids haven't started yet. It's a casualty of the move, but they start today. Hooray! Tomorrow, I plan to be home all morning and afternoon with nothing but my thoughts. I almost can't believe I'm looking forward to that.

Still adjusting to small town living. That will take some time. But, I think I will enjoy the quiet. Less hustle and bustle. More writing time. More time with my kids. More bloggy time. :) More writing time. Wait, did I say that already? lol

In the move, I found something truly exciting--a fresh, new story idea that I'd written down forever ago and just can't wait to develop. In my next post, I'll give you the basics so you can tell me if you've seen or heard it before. One of my biggest fears finding something like this is that it's not my idea at all, but one I summarized from another source. I'd hate to be repetitive. If feels like mine, but seems so brilliant I can't quite bring myself to claim it. Make sense?

It just Keeps Coming

We are moving in 6 days. Good thing I've got these great pain killers to keep me from freaking out too much. :) I guess something good can come from having your wisdom teeth yanked the week before a cross country move. And, if something in this post doesn't make sense--you now know why.

Saturday night I had this fantastic story idea just hit me out of the blue. I'm not ready to share it yet (mean, I know--sorry!) because I'm still working out the kinks, but I just love it when inspiration strikes like that. It's such a great feeling to have a wealth of ideas to choose from when I sit down to write, although I know it's going to be a little while before I get to actually write it. But it's a twist on a missing person story, actually a couple of twists on your basic missing person plot. The inspiration, I can see now, came from a combination of a movie I watched (and thought it could have been better), a book I read a few weeks back, and my own brain.

What's really cool is when the main character just starts telling her story, right out of the blue. I admit that I hear stories in first person, though I often adapt them to 3rd person. This one I may not, because I like the 1st person "voice." She's capable, yet vulnerable, with a healthy dose of suspicion. And I like the way she describes the people she meets and interacts with. She's a little irreverent. :)

I promise, I will share more when I can. Stay tuned for a first scene, or even a brief synopsis in the coming weeks.

Surprise!

This is an actual letter I sent to my publisher, with a few changes to protect the innocent. :) What do you think?

Dear (name withheld):

This submission is in response to this publisher’s public request for Mother’s Day book submissions. I offer you a children’s book with a twist that will appeal to mothers and children alike—as a gift, or for themselves. It is called Lizzie Lilac and the Left Socks.
Lizzie Lilac is a little girl with a passion for socks, so she notices when her favorite socks come up missing. Determined to solve the mystery, she finds herself following a troll to a secret world where she discovers an entire troll village. Lizzie learns trolls steal only “left” socks, because they only know how to knit “right” socks. Caring as only a young girl can, Lizzie solves the trolls’ problem, and earns a reward.
When she wakes up in her bed the next morning, Lizzie isn’t sure if her adventure really happened, or if it was just a dream, but she does find that all of her missing socks have been restored, and someone has left a mysterious gift under her pillow.
I wrote this story with the help of my ten year old daughter, Kylie, and hope to include her name on the cover. Kylie and I have friends, Rebecca and her daughter, Lizzie. Rebecca was diagnosed in May with breast cancer, and her strength and courage has been an inspiration. She makes beaded butterfly breast cancer awareness pins. I’ve included one. Please wear it with our compliments. In my mind, the Lizzie in the story has a mother who is recovering from chemotherapy. She can have either a scarf on her bald head or wear a cute hat. The treasured socks Lizzie misses are socks her mother sewed little, beaded butterflies on while she was sick. I believe, through the combination of the words and strong pictures, adult readers will easily see the deeper meaning behind the book as they read the entertaining story to their child(ren).
I currently serve as President of the League of Utah Writers’ Tooele Chapter. My first novel, The Peasant Queen, is now being sold in stores and online. You can also find my name as one of the contributors in Covenant Communications’ inspirational compilation, Tender Mercies, released Spring 2010, and its upcoming sequel. I appreciate your time and consideration.

Sincerely,

Cheri Chesley

Cross your fingers! :)

March Right In!

Hello, March! Blog tour is done, contest is over, prizes mailed out (and received in part).

Right now, March feels pretty good. But it's only just beginning.

Coming later this month, I'm going to share with you another contest. I have to research the details a little better, but it's going to be tons of fun. And, of course, there will be a prize. It's a nice one, but not a book. Well, not necessarily. :) That part's up to you.

So, that's all I'm going to share now. But the wait will be worth it.

Remember, I'm signing at the Starry Night Books in Tooele with author Michael Knudsen this Saturday (March 12) 2-4pm. Hope to see you there!

A Little History

Today I'm posting a little about my writing journey. You know, what got me to the point I am today? What drives me to write?

First, though HERE is the link to my ongoing contest. I need a cool, awesome name for this blog. Keep them coming; this is getting really fun! :)

Now for some backstory:

I was an intensely angry youth, but I hid it pretty well. I know everyone has a hard time through the teen years, but I took it up a notch. My parents divorced when I was 4, and my dad remarried. He died the summer before I turned 8 yrs old. I had no coping skills to deal with this, so I internalized it.

Things got really complicated at home when I was about ten years old. Without going into details, home lost all safety for me. Even my friends' moms didn't like them coming to my house. They didn't feel it was safe for their children to be there. Not that I had a great many friends, mind you. I liked the loner status--less to explain.

But I was developing a reputation in certain circles because of my temper. Some considered me dangerous when angered. I had developed a habit of bottling my emotions. If something hurt me, or angered me, I'd stuff it into this little bottle in my mind. Except that only works for so long before the emotions start spilling out--usually at bad times.

This is how I coped. I read, a lot. I made up stories and scenarios in my head and acted them out with my dolls, my friends--whatever worked. But it wasn't until I was in high school that I started writing things down. And it was writing that saved my life.

But more about that later. :)