Next Decade, Next Project

The past couple of weeks have been quite frantic.  I vowed to write a blog a week, and already I am failing miserably at my task.  Poo.  Here is a brief update on my insanity.

I have finished all my cuts and edits on my Urban Fantasy.  Yay!  Let there be much rejoicing.  My manuscript is now being reviewed by two lovely grammar Nazis since I can no longer see my mistakes. My query is done.  Every week I am reviewing it and making sure there isn't another way to tweak it.  I've written the one, two, and five page synopses.  Again, I am waiting a week to review and tweak.  That way, once my line edits are done, I will be ready to query agents.

In the meantime, I have started on my new WIP - Ginny, a western steampunk w/romantic elements.  Chapter one has been written.  I then did something I didn't do with my first novel.  I sat down and wrote a chapter synopsis for the ENTIRE book.  I figure this may change while I write, but unlike my first book where I only had vague ideas of where I was going and was constantly revisiting my timeline and changing things, I have a very clear picture of everything.  And that is an awesome feeling.

But before I go diving in, I have one more very important job - creating an alternate timeline.  This will actually be quite fun.  I already have a great reference book The Timetables of History which will help me create the "real" historical timeline.  Then I will rewrite that with my own twists and turns, including historical events, scientific discoveries and inventions, etc.  I think this will actually be quite fun.  Once I have the timetables done, I am going to write the historical reference text.  Most of this information will just be for me, but it will help my world building immensely.

Oh, what's with the title? I turned forty yesterday.  In January, I wrote Marking Time (http://perchingonabarstool.blogspot.com/2012/01/marking-time.html) and wrote, "In ten years, I will reflect on my forties and say, 'That is the decade I became a published author and had my first best-seller.'"  It seems I am on my way to making my dreams come true.  Everyone asked if I was freaking out about turning forty.  Honestly, I have never been happier.  I finally know exactly who I am and what I want to do.  I wouldn't trade that for any age.

Lastly, a shout out to my husband who is an absolute sweetheart, not only for putting up with me yelling at him to hush while I write, but also for taking me out for a surprise night on the town for my birthday.  He took me on a "stroll down memory lane" to places that have meant something to us, like the Richmond Arms and Brewery Tap, where we had our first date.

My big night out!  First stop at the Richmond Arms!

Ginny

Over a year ago, I woke up from a vivid dream.  A new disturbing world was handed to me complete with a kick-ass heroine.  I wrote a voice piece from her perspective and Ginny was born.  Unlike the novel I was writing at the time, this series would focus on a single heroine and would be written solely from her view of the world.  But I couldn't focus on Ginny then.  I had to file her away for another day.

Now, I'm in the final edits of my urban fantasy, and Ginny has started knocking on my door again.  She is ready.  In fact, she is screaming that her time has come.  Although I hadn't written a word about her since that fateful morning, she woke me from sleep, I have thought a lot about Ginny and her world.  And in all that thinking, her story has come packaged and delivered.

Last night, I started writing in my head.  The words wouldn't stop, and her narrative just about drove me to madness until I told my husband the kid's bedtime was in his capable hands and fled to the bedroom, locking the door, my laptop in hand.  She poured outta me and on to the page, and it felt so damn good.  She even woke me up at 5:30 am... tap...tap...tapping.  Ginny is not a patient woman.  


The time has come to balance my work.  Until I start querying, I will focus on final edits of my urban fantasy. My query and synopsises are done.  YAY!  That way, I can carve a bit of time each day to appease Ginny.

For those curious about the genre, Ginny's story will be a western steampunk novel.

120k, 120k, 120k . . .

Editing is hard.  Really, really hard.

No joke. 

I've learned a lot writing my first novel.  I’ve learned my bad habits. Hello, adverbs!  I’ve learned the importance of note taking.  Hello, Excel charts!  And I’ve learned that editing is far more important than writing the original draft.  Hello, cuts!

When I wrote my first draft, I knew nothing about the publishing industry or what was expected.  My only goal was to get words on a page.  Every time I thought about researching submission guidelines or agents, my creative sphincter would seize up.  So, I saved it for last.  Words on page.  Words on page.  Words on page.  That was my mantra.  I didn’t worry about word count.  I didn’t try to contain the flow of my thoughts.  I just wrote.

 In the end, my manuscript bloomed to a whooping 158k. 

I didn’t realize that was long until I started researching.  And even when I read Urban Fantasy should be no longer than 120k, I shrugged it off.  I was proud of my book.  I just knew if someone read it, the 158k wouldn’t be an issue.  I justified it.  There’s a lot of world building.  It has an ensemble cast.  I am setting up plot arcs for future books.  Excuses.  All of them.

I sent my query out for a few critiques.  One writer said of my word count, “You may have heard this before but… this is quite a lot.”  What she was really saying, “Holy shit!  Are you freakin' serious?  158k? ”

Now, I have a new mantra.  120k, 120k, 120k.  And I will keep repeating it until I shrink that word count.  What good is having a great novel that no agent will ever read because the word count scared them away?  This process hasn’t been easy, but my novel is better for it.  My writing is tighter with less repetition.

But I have cut scenes I love.  I have cut dialogue that made me giggle.  And just tonight, I cut a side-plot that made me weep.  It will have to wait for book two.

And that’s my goal, isn’t it?  To get published and get a book two? 

Hell, yes! 

So, I will cut.  And cut.  And cut, until I hit 120k.

As of tonight, I am down to 130k.  And the more I cut, the less I am attached to any one thing.  The big picture is what matters.  The end game.

Big thanks to those who helped convince me to deflate my monster in a box. I'm a better writer for it.

A Little Book Music

I have discovered, as I have with everything else in my life, I can't write without music.

Music helps me delve into the heart of a scene, setting the tone and pace. Perhaps this comes from my origins in theater. Whenever I do a play, I create a soundtrack for my character. I play it throughout the rehearsal process and each night before I go onstage.

Music has always been a huge part of my life. A song can take me to an exact moment in my life and suddenly I am there again.  I can almost taste and touch the moment.  I hear Blondie and I am roller skating around my cul-de-sac, all arms and legs and Farah hair and uncertainty.  I hear the B-52's and my heart is racing as I fumble in the dark, making out with a boy for the first time.  I hear Van Morrison and I am crying as my best friend travels hundreds of miles away.  I hear The Proclaimers and I am walking down the aisle hand-in-hand, having just said, "I do."

The soundtrack of my life is how I mark time.  Someone will ask when an event took place and all I have to do is associate music with the event, and I know exactly the time and place it occurred.

As I wrote the book, certain music just worked.  There really wasn't a rhyme or reason.  Some was new music; some was old.  One day nothing seemed to work until I drug out an old Belly album and suddenly I was in the groove.

So for those musical fanboys and fangirls, like me, here are the albums that were in frequent rotation while I wrote.

The Decemberists - Picaresque & Hazards of Love
The xx - xx
Florence + the Machine - Ceremonials & Lungs
The Duke Spirit - Bruiser
The Black Keys - Brothers
Phantogram - Eyelid Movies
Thao & Mirah - Thao & Mirah
Belly - Star
Magnet - On Your Side

I'm not sure what it was about these albums that clicked for me.  There was a lot of other music I was listening to that didn't work while I wrote.  I'm curious what the next soundtrack will be.  Will some albums appear again?  Or will they forever be associated with book one?  I know I can't hear The xx without having Conlin and Izzy whispering in my ear.  Their story is most definitely not done.  Mayhaps in book two The xx will slip into rotation when I focus on them, like having their own theme song.  

The Peregrine Falcon

In the past year, I have talked to many people about novel writing, both professionals and friends.  There are two questions that are always asked.  The first is what inspires me.  I can't tell you how many times I have been asked my inspiration.  It is a difficult question to answer and inevitably follows the other common question, "What are you writing about?"

The conversation goes something like this.  Joe Curious asks, "So you're writing a novel.  That's awesome.  What are you writing about?"

I say, "It's urban fantasy."

He cocks his head and looks at me questioningly, "Urban fantasy, eh?" 

I can tell he isn't exactly sure what that is, and sometimes even I wonder.  There isn't an urban fantasy section at most bookstores.  Books in that genre haphazardly get shoved into horror, mystery, or romance.  For some inexplicable reason, I feel the need to explain the genre when anyone looks at me the way Joe Curious is looking at me now.   It is a mixture of confusion and skepticism. 

I take a deep breath and say, "Urban fantasy books take place in modern day but with mythical or fantastical elements."  Really that is the easiest way I can explain the genre to a non-reader without confusing them more than they already are.

What do I really want to say when people ask what my book is about?  Fighting, fucking, and fireballs.  It's clean and concise, but I worry about offending people.  Most times Joe Curious is a former co-worker or acquaintance or former student.  After teaching high school AP English, people expect a certain kind of novel from you.  A former AP teacher shouldn't be writing fantasy, certainly not one that has paranormal and romantic elements.

No.

They should be writing the great American novel with all the heartbreak and misery that comes with the classics so many of us suffered through in our own high school English classes.

Don't get me wrong.  I love the classics.  I have my degree in English literature.  In high school, I read Ayn Rand's Anthem in Ms. Wallace's 9^th grade pre-IB English class and was hooked.  I tore through The Fountainhead and stumbled through Atlas Shrugged.  I discovered Faulkner, Hemingway, and Cather.  I moved on to British authors, devouring Dickens, Bronte (Emily, Charlotte, and Anne), and Joyce.  Camus' The Stranger changed my life.  I started reading all the existentialists, which led to the Russian authors.  And is there a Shakespeare play I haven't read?  No.  I've even read Troilus and Cressida.

But do I want to live in those worlds?  No.  And writing a novel means living in that world.  You can't put the book down in a few days and walk away.  You live in that world each day when you write.

I did a lot of theater in my twenties and always wanted to do a meaty drama.  It seemed I always got cast as the ingénue in comedic farces.  Finally, I had my opportunity.  I was cast in Dancing at Lughnasa.  For twelve weeks, I lived the life of Aggie.  I died every week.  I lived a pitifully sad existence.  Aggie crept into every part of my life.  I loved the show.  I relished the opportunity to play a character with such depth, but after it was over, I was done.  Give me farce any day!

It is the same with writing.  At least for me it is.  What I write creeps into my life.  I still read the classics and the modern fiction that will someday become the classics, but primarily I read fantasy, horror, and paranormal romance. I can't read normal, run of the mill novels or romances.  They bore me to tears. To quote Jennie Breeden of The Devil's Panties, "I like a little carnage with my smut." (http://thedevilspanties.com/archives/6161)

Back to Joe curious who nods at my explanation and offers, "Cool.  So, where did you get your inspiration?"

This is the far more difficult question.  The smallest, most insignificant things can provide the most inspiration.   I like drawing from the ordinary and imagining the fantastical.  I love the thought that magic surrounds us.

One day I was taking my son to school.  He is in kindergarten and he said, "What is the fastest animal in the world?"

I said, "The cheetah?"

"No, mom.  It's the peregrine falcon.  It can go like a billion miles an hour."

"Really, a billion?"

"Yep.  The Wild Kratts said so.  They know everything about animals."

"Peregrine falcons are really cool.  They are my favorite."

In that moment, a story element came to me that changed the course of my novel.  It was only an ordinary conversation with my son, but the spark was there all the same.  A kernel of light hidden in the usual morning banter.

I went home that day and wrote twenty pages.

Magic.

Inspiration comes every day in little ways.  You just have to pay attention.  Take the time to sit and watch.  Too often we rush through each day not stopping to appreciate the business of living.  When we do stop, we find magic.

Poking Holes

Two weeks ago, I finished the first draft.

409 pages. 122, 698 words.

I was elated. My squeals of joy shook the rafters, and I am quite lucky I didn't drive off the road en route to pick up my daughter from school, as I finished moments before my "Pick up G" alarm began wailing.

Finishing my "monster in a box" definitely ranks among the big events of my life. Graduation, Marriage, Birth. It's up there. Way up there. I don't think I have ever been prouder of myself.

I was giddy with excitement and I let myself revel in the post-completion bliss for a few days before getting back to work. I may have finished, but it was only a first draft.

I had holes to poke.

The first step was getting my novel on paper. There is something about the touch and feel of pages. I needed a tangible copy. Something I could hold in my hands. Something I could mark up with pen. Something I could take to my favorite comfy chair and enjoy.

With my flash drive in hand, I headed to the local OfficeMax and waited at the counter. This was my moment. The first printing. I am sure the grin on my face was enormous and quite frankly scary for that time of morning. Truly, how many people do you see at 8 AM psychotically grinning ear to ear at your local office supply store?

I had to wait twenty minutes while another customer proofed her two-hundred-page copy. The clerk offered me a seat, but how could I have possibly sat still?

Finally, the moment came. I proudly handed over my flash drive.

"Just one copy?" she says, her hand out but her eyes still focused on the computer screen.

"Yeah. It is 409 pages, so just one."

"Double-sided?"

"Only on one side please. I need room to write all over it."

She breaks her trance and looks at me for the first time, accessing me. "Uh huh." Then, she turns back to the screen. "It will be about ten minutes to print something this size."

"Ok. Thanks." I sit back content to wait, my joy not diminished one iota.

She looks at me again and raises her eyebrows. I think I am crowding her with my happiness. She looks like she hasn't had her morning coffee and this place is eating her soul.

"I said, it will be about ten minutes. You can walk around if you like." What she is really saying is take your happy ass out of my face.

I do. I walk around and get a new pack my favorite pens and post-it flags. Ready to revise, I bounce back to the counter. I heard the copier stop printing. Sure enough, there it is waiting for me.

A different clerk, but one equally as unhappy approaches the counter.

"Can I help you?"

"Yes. That's mine." I point to the box on the counter. I am practically doing a jig.

She raises a brow and looks at me above her glasses. "The pens, too."

"Yes."

She looks at me again with that look. I feel there needs to be an explanation. Like she is waiting for one. I can hear her thoughts in my head as she gives me that look over the rim of her frames. Why is this girl so damn happy? Is she crazy? It's too damn early in the morning for this shit. She keeps eyeing me.

"It's my first book. Pretty momentous occasion. First printing and all." The words float out of my mouth like balloons. They contain all my hopes and dreams.

It's that look again and her eyes fix on my words like needles. "Yeah, we get a lot of you in here."

Pop! Pop! Pop!

She pops each balloon. I feel deflated.

I pay my $40.90 and realize if my book gets rejected as many times as Dune, then I will be one broke mama by the end of this process. But I can't think of that. I have to think that Dune did, indeed, get published. And so will mine. I have to keep that faith.

I still have work to do. I can't let those thoughts infect my brain.

I have holes to poke.

PS. A huge thanks to Jason Kiniry, my personal hole poker. He has been reading my book as I finish each chapter and poking holes all along and asking me the questions that need to be asked. He is a lore master extraordinaire. There is nothing more I hate than having magical events not make sense, or having the plot not make sense. These inconsistencies are holes and I plan to sew mine up. Mysteries = good. Leaving holes large enough to swallow your reader = bad.