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.

The Bands that Define Them

Writing the post on music got me thinking.  What would my characters’ soundtracks be like? What are their favorite bands?  What do they dance to in the kitchen? (Yes, I do this a lot.) What would be on a road trip playlist?  What are their favorite drinking songs?  What songs do they listen to when they're angry, sad, or happy?

We all have soundtracks.  The songs that mark passages in time.  The songs that bind us to others.  The songs that define us. 

Keeping this in mind, I gave myself an assignment.  I gathered a few of my characters in a room and threw out a question.  I wrote it as if I were eavesdropping on their conversation, transcribing the words and actions as they happened.  When I was done, I decided to share it with all of you.

What are your favorite bands?

Conlin – I’m fairly eclectic.  Tool, Fugazi, Johnny Cash, Zepplin, Tom Waits, Duke Ellington.

Dru – Conman will listen to anything.

Conlin (shrugs) – If it's good music, it's good music.  At least I branch out.

Dru – Hey, I branch out.

Conlin (laughs) – Yeah, right.  What from sludge to death?

Dru (suddenly very serious) – There are all types of metal, man.

Conlin – But it's still all metal, Dru.

Dru – I have not educated you enough, my friend.  Every single metal band, if it's good metal, is distinct.  You have your classic metal – Black Sabbath, Pantera, Metallica, well, the Ride the Lightning and Master of Puppets era.  Then you get into the ‘90s.  Rage Against the Machine. Deftones.  System of a Down. All unique.  Crowbar's from New Orleans.  They're what you call sludge metal. And you can't leave out Meshuggah.  They will blow your mind. Trash metal, death metal, math metal, call it what you will, they are the shit, man.  And if you really want dark and twisted, try Cannibal Corpse.  They –

Kasey (cutting Dru off) – Really, Conlin.  You had to get Cheeto all riled up and waxing poetic?

Conlin – It's too easy, Kase.  Far too easy.  (winks)

Dru – You suck, Conman.  And you, rat, shouldn't talk.  If it isn't Radiohead, it's crap, right?

Kasey – So? I'm a bit obsessive with Radio-

Dru – A bit?  Kasey you followed them around the country.  Twice!

Kasey – There’s nothing wrong with that.  I had the time and -

Dru – The stalker inclination...

Kasey – Not a stalker.  I just like the music.

Dru – To excess. 

Kasey – You can’t OD on Radiohead, so let me have me my fix.  Besides I dig a lot of different stuff, like old school Kraftwerk, for instance.

Dru (rolls his eyes) – You mean, Crapwerk.

(Kasey jumps up from her chair and whacks Dru on the arm.)

Dru – Ouch, rat.  You are stronger than you look.  That hurt.

Kasey – Good.  (Kasey grabs a Mountain Dew and flops back down in her chair.)  What about you, Izz?

Izzy – The Black Keys and Heartless Bastards are on permanent rotation at the moment, but I'm a Texan, so Willie resides in my heart and soul.  There's nothing better.

I think I might write more of these little vignettes.  It was fun and gave me insight into my characters.  Also of note, certain characters demanded floor time.  It’s always interesting to me whose voice will command attention in any given scene.  Kasey and Dru yelled the loudest this go-round.

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.  

Mother's Day

I wrote this poem a decade or so ago.  As today is Mother's Day, it seems appropriate to share it now.  It's interesting reading it again after all these years, especially now that I have my own daughter.  This poem is dedicated to my mother and grandmother, my lineage.

Lineage

Circa 1972 and my mother whose belly is round and full, heavy

with the flesh of my unborn body, wakes.

Midnight nears, I kick and squirm, struggling

against the natural course of time, unwilling

to leave her womb without a fight.

Circa 1977 and my bare feet stand on the cold

linoleum of my grandmother’s kitchen floor.  My mother

and grandmother stand close beside me.  One tablespoon

of vanilla.  Stir it in now.  My hand grips the metal handle, plunging

the spoon into the dough. I see my opportunity as they both turn away.

My finger dips into the raw butter, sugar and eggs, pulling

up just enough to taste.

Circa 1979 and my roller skates, permanently

affixed to my feet, move

in unison to the beat of Blondie, skidding

around my cul-de-sac for my first taste of freedom.

I spread my arms wide, absorbing the final rays of sunlight

before my mother calls me inside.

Circa 1987 and I am fighting -

Fighting to get out.

The pink bristles of my shaved head stand in revolt

against everyone and everything.  Patiently,

my mother waits for me to be born.

Circa 1988 and my hand yearns to feel her warm breath.

For a moment, I can feel it.  I see

her chest rise and fall.  Maybe

she’s only sleeping. 

A tear falls from my mother’s eye.

She’s gone.

I look back to my grandmother’s still body and see my mother –

my lineage.

My fists unclench and my arms spread wide,

to embrace the past.

Circa 1948 and my grandmother whose belly is round and full, heavy

with the flesh of my mother’s unborn body, wakes.

Midnight nears, my mother kicks and squirms, struggling

against the natural course of time, unwilling

to leave her womb without a fight.

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.

Marking Time

 ‎"Yesterday, everybody smoked his last cigar, took his last drink and swore his last oath. Today, we are a pious and exemplary community. Thirty days from now, we shall have cast our reformation to the winds and gone to cutting our ancient shortcomings considerably shorter than ever." - Mark Twain

New Year's Eve is just another marker of time.  We like to mark time.  We like periods of rebirth.  It allows us a second chance.  A chance to forget our trespasses.  A chance to reinvent ourselves.  And whether New Year's is really just another day on the calendar or not, for many it is that chance at redemption. 

Personally, this coming year marks a huge passage of time.  I will turn forty in August.  I have begun reflecting on the past decade and asking the standard array of questions. Am I where I thought I would be?  Have I lived well?  Have I accomplished things I am proud of?

To answer those question I have to go to the start, my 30^th birthday.  I was finishing my English degree at the University of Houston and getting ready to start my teaching career.  A real grown up job.  You see, until this point, I was by and large, a big kid.  I floated from job to job with no clear idea of who or what I wanted to be.  I worked in a bookstore; I toured with Bill and Tek's Excellent Theater; I sporadically ran my own photography business; I mixed oils at an aromatherapy company; I filed medical records at a cardiologist's office; I was a receptionist at an architecture firm.  In essence, I lacked focus.  Do I regret squandering away my twenties?  Not one bit. 

I had a blast. 

I made mistakes.  I dated the wrong guys. I lived in crappy apartments and had chunks of plaster fall on me while I showered.  I formed lasting friendships with amazing people.  I learned never to drink a Car Bomb at the end of a night of drinking.  I met my future husband.  I stayed up all night gaming.  I drove twenty-four hours to LA to stay less than forty-eight hours and head back home again.  I danced until my feet hurt and laughed until my sides split. 

I wouldn't trade one minute. 

When I turned thirty, I was ready.  I was ready to start a new decade and put the confusing mess of my twenties behind me.  I was more self-assured.  I was confident.  I began teaching and found a love I never knew I had.  I got married.  I had my first child.  I traveled.  I went to Jamaica, Scotland, New York, Colorado, and Florida.  I had my second child.  I became a stay-at-home mom.  I started writing my novel.  I fostered traditions with friends and family that I will cherish forever.  I danced with my children until my feet hurt and laughed until my sides split.

So am I where I thought I would be?  Yes and no.

My thirty-year-old self would have said, "Yes.  Most definitely, yes!"  She would be exactly where I am today.

But my twenty-year-old self, I would have said, "No way!"  She would have been living in New York doing theater.

And if you went even farther back to my ten-year-old self?  She would have said, "I am going to be a writer and have a family.  One boy and one girl."  She knew better than I who I was to become.  If only I would have listened to her sooner, but then, I wouldn't be where I am today. 

Some years are better than others and 2011 was my best year yet, both personally and creatively.  There are many things I hope to accomplish this year.  I am not a big resolution maker, but I do set goals for myself.  Last year, I vowed to start my novel.  This year, I vow to finish my second draft and start the process of finding an agent.

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."

I wish you all the best in 2012.  May your year be full of laughter and love and joy! 

-Kristi

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.