In the last month and a half since I returned home from the Mystery Intensive, I’ve had the same close family member in the hospital three times with as yet no permanent resolution in sight, I’ve thrown my back out once in a medium-bad sort of way and then two weeks later again in a very-bad way, and I’ve had assorted other large stressors on top of those things. Not to mention that in the middle of all that, the Doggie Ranger up and pulled a muscle in his right hind leg and for two weeks couldn’t perform his favorite activity — jumping — to save his life. And, yes, that includes getting into the car to go to the vet for x-rays, which means that Mom With the Bad Back had to do some lifting she shouldn’t have.

In the past, all of this might have stopped me from writing period, full stop. This time around, I’ve made it a point to have a short-term goal and then meet it, even if it would normally take me 4 days and instead took twice that. I have managed to write 3 chapters to go with 2 of the different novel proposals I wrote at the workshop. One of them has been mailed and the other is with my first reader and will be mailed next week. I’ve started a short story that I plan to finish this weekend, and which should be in the mail next week as well. Then I’ll move on to the next set of chapters for one of the other novel proposals. Then another short story. And so on.

One of the other things I’ve made a point of doing is to seize time where I find it. The other day I found 20 unaccounted-for minutes in the morning before work. 20 minutes is one page of writing — the first page of the above-mentioned short story. I’ve had an hour here or there, and in one case, three whole hours, but I’m not setting requirements for how much time I “must have” to sit down and write. Any time in which I have the energy to write is enough “must have” for me.

In the supporting category — in other words, not actually writing new words — I’ve made sure to keep everything in the mail. If it comes back, it goes out again the same day or, if that’s not possible, the next. No stories piling up either on the dining table or in my inbox to stare at me accusingly. In fact, there will be no staring of any kind, buster. Only mailing.

I’ve kept reading, too, filling the well with fabulous stories written by other people. Oh, sure, there’s been plenty of comfort-food type movie and/or TV watching; sometimes that’s really all the energy I have. Monday was one of those days. I curled up on the sofa with a big bowl of popcorn and an icepack (injured back and all that) and watched all three Pirates of the Carribean movies in a row. And then Tuesday I cracked open Justin Cronin’s The Passage, which I am loving (and which is really, really hard to put down; kudos to Mr. Cronin).

In addition to fiction, there’s been Very Helpful and Informative Other Writing. First on the recommendation list are Dean Wesley Smith’s blog, especially his Killing the Sacred Cows of Fiction posts, and of late his free fiction of the week — a new short story every week. Good stuff. And also first (because in this world, there are two firsts), Kristine Kathryn Rusch’s blog, especially her Freelancer’s Survival Guide posts.

And, last but not least (and maybe not even last, since I’m sure I’m forgetting something), I’ve been posting to my weekly goal list. It’s the kind of list that is encouraging rather than discouraging of my attitude and accomplishment rate, and at this stage of 1 month + of life rolls, I need all the encouragement I can get, and am happy to pass a bunch along to others as well.

So: achievable short-term goals, seize time where I find it, keep everything in the mail, read, and encourage/be encouraged. In these ways, slow and steady in times of crisis can stay in the race.

Many thanks to Mr. Gaiman, and to Dean for passing on the link.

As a writer, I spend a lot of time in my imagination. It’s one of the reasons I also consider movement to be so important, and am not physically satisfied unless I’ve had some exercise on any given day. It’s easy, if I spend so much time in my head, to neglect the rest of me. But I digress.

I spend plenty of time making up stories, translating them to the page (or computer screen). And then I spend some more time reading and watching other people’s stories, and sometimes re-reading and re-watching them — the book and TV versions of comfort food. And then I make up all sorts of things I never write, or if I write them it happens much later and I’d be hard-pressed to recognize the reappearance of a former daydream. My life would be much poorer without all of this imagining.

There is a certain point at which fantasizing for the sake of fantasizing becomes only a means of escape rather than an exercise of creativity (and, yes, those two can be and often are the same thing, but the difference I’m talking about here is in degrees). If all of the energy is hurtling towards escape and none of it towards creation, then things are out of balance, and I’d best drive myself to Nia and cook something succulent for dinner. And write.

The main point of the article that people experience lives and situations different from their own through imagination, and that although we know rationally that what we’ve imagined (or what the TV producers have dreamed up) is not real, some part of us believes that it is. The term the article uses to differentiate that state is “alief.”

For instance, some fictional characters have become so real to me through re-reading or re-watching that their stories have become part of my personal mythology on some level. To name a handful, Stuart Redman and Nick Andros of Stephen King’s The Stand and the characters of the Joss Whedonverse from Buffy to Mal. While this is interesting to me, this alief as regards these stories and characters, what I find even more interesting is the way the alief translates to or informs my own philosophy of living. I’ve said several times that certain stories have completely changed the way I see the world, and certainly the way I act within it.

The part of this translation the article makes me think of most is something I’ve also written and talked about — I wrote an entire novel based on the premise that a society that loses its stories ceases to exist. A society that continues to create its stories, and to evolve them, thrives.

Based on the quality (in any way you choose to interpret that word), what kind of society are we?

Over the course of six days, we each produced six novel proposals in various mystery subgenres — cozy, PI/detective, police procedural, hardboiled, and noir. We also wrote two noir short stories. And we, of course, read all the work each other produced.

Peppered in among all this for me were good conversations with folks I don’t often spend much time with and walks on the beach — except for Tuesday, with its overlapping deadlines. No walk. I almost started killing people outside my fiction. So, lesson learned and applied on Friday, the other day of overlapping deadlines.

Bonus: On Saturday, Scott William Carter signed his debut novel The Last Great Getaway of the Water Balloon Boys at North by Northwest. If you haven’t got a copy already, you want to buy one. It’s a riveting read, and often laugh out loud funny.

I learned a ton at the workshop. I’m very grateful for the opportunity to have taken the workshop from such an amazing teacher and with so many great writers.

The stories are already out in the wide world. Now to add chapters to all those novel proposals and get those out as well.

On your mark. Get set. Go!

So, danger. What makes a topic dangerous? Risk.

It doesn’t have to be risk to life and limb, although for some people — reporters in war zones, people who tell the truth to power under repressive regimes, those who blow the whistle on wrongdoing in the wrong place at the wrong time — it is. Sometimes it’s a risk to livelihood – take the Dixie Chicks, for example, and their comments about George W. Bush at a time when those words evoked outrage in a politically polarized environment. I know, I know. These days, is there any other kind of political environment around here? Let’s face it, for writers like me it’s not any of those things. There is no danger, grave or otherwise, to me in the act of writing a story.

Now that that’s out of the way, I want to move on to what I mean.

In my personal experience, living the life of privilege that I do with mostly plenty of everything I need and some things I want, the risk is in revealing myself. In letting air and light into the family skeleton closet when those old bones and sinews have influenced me down to my molecules. Or worse, showing myself parts of me I don’t want to know about or examine, or possible didn’t even know existed in the first place.

To be clear, every piece of fiction I write is meant to be submitted into the wide world of markets for publication, so I’m aware that no matter what my experience is in writing a story or a novel, the goal is for somebody else (and hopefully a lot of someone elses) will read it. Am I worried about baring my soul (and the souls of my characters) to the world? No. Not for a second. What scares me is the act of baring my soul to myself.

I’ve had lots of practice doing it. It never gets old. And I never quite get used to it, especially when I draw back the curtain of my inner recesses and there’s some unexpected, gut-wrenching feeling or idea that demands to be explored in words.

The insidious shame of regret. (“Ashes,” just completed and mailed, about a runner-inner who rescues women and children from house fires as penance for not having rescued his own family, and the washed up theater janitor who learns to live by his example.)

Unexpected depth of outrage. (“Outcast,” published in Chizine, created from outrage over the torture of prisoners at Abu Ghraib.)

Grief and loss. (“The Truth According to Margot Williams,” published in Fantasy Magazine, exploring grief over the loss of my grandmother.)

Or I could talk about the novel I’m percolating now and about to start work on, which story I won’t discuss because I don’t discuss works in progress. But I can say about it that the initial impulse of the book stems from the almost subconscious unwillingness to face certain kinds of loneliness in myself. “Almost” because, while it remained subconscious for a long time, I managed to unearth it with the help of a friend who poked me in the eye with a spear. After all, what are friends for?

You could say that all of these things are run-of-the-mill emotions, or just that everyone has them or some variation on them, and you’d be right. But it’s not acknowledging the emotion that I’m talking about here. I’m talking about digging into these things until what I’m feeling when I write is risky.

The common writing advice is “write what you know,” which most people take to mean “write about subjects you know.” That’s not it at all. If every writer wrote only about subjects they’re experts on or have experience with, there’d be a lot of stories that would never have been and would never be written. I don’t know anything about mountain climbing but I could make up a story about mountain climbing with a few details and I could make it riveting and vital because the story isn’t really about the mountain or the climbing. It’s about the people. Writers make shit up. Some of us make shit up with varying levels of research. Either way, it’s still creating a story out of whole cloth.

The more distilled version of the advice I’ve heard is “write what you’re passionate about,” to which I say, yes, absolutely. But I don’t think passion is entirely what I’m after when I write either, at least not all the time.

I want the occasional risk and the discovery, and the subtle and sometimes not so subtle shifts that come from them.

I don’t need it for every story. I don’t even want it for every story. That would be exhausting, as much as I’m writing, and frankly unnecessary. But having it pop up every so often reminds me that story can be a great revealer and changer of minds and hearts, especially my own.

I did run myself into a wall of busy and have taken a few days off my regular writing. It’s time to get back to it. I have the start of a strange western hybrid, a sort of Firefly-flavored bounty hunter story. Since as usual I have no clue what’s going to happen yet, I’m excited to see where it will go.

I’m also neck-deep in reading for the upcoming Mystery workshop in May. My bookmark is somewhere around page 155 of Michael Connelly’s The Black Echo, which I’m enjoying the hell out of.

Other, non-reading happinesses:

1. The new season of In Plain Sight. This show hooked me half way through last season and hasn’t let go yet. Witness Protection marshals, you rock.

2. King Arthur Flour’s new gluten-free cake mixes. I’ll be making a couple of these in the next week for birthdays — mine and several folks in my immediate family (a ton of April birthdays).

3. The catalog that came with the King Arthur Flour cake mixes, from which I’m going to choose some really frivolous seeming birthday gift. Fun! In the kitchen!

4. The new Runaways movie opens in my town this weekend, and Sunday is popcorn in the dark with Joan Jett day. I can hardly wait.

Happiness!

The story is a mad wrangle. My critical voice, having been kicked out of my office for months upon months, storms the castle at least once every writing session, sometimes twice. Can we say annoying?

I can only come the conclusion that there’s something important trying to be expressed here (and by important, I don’t mean that I have or have not committed literature or an excuse for an award nomination, just that there’s something deep and imperative for me to express). In this case, important = dangerous.

As it happens, I’ve come across a link a few times in the past day or two on Facebook that leads to a letter David Mamet wrote to the writers of The Unit. The letter is specifically about writing for the screen, but IMO the text is a great refocusser no matter what medium you’re writing for. It’s certainly helping me with my current wrangle all of a sudden.

Thanks to my friend Thorn for sending the link directly to me so’s I could finally read it.

Here it is for your enjoyment and edification.

First up, novel workshop. I’ve been to these before, but this time there was a new method, moving from traditional Clarion workshop round-robin critique rules to more targeted comments about the marketability of the novels and spiffing up the proposal packages so that they really shone. It rocked. I found the whole experience eye-opening and very useful. And such a treat to read so many really great books.

I took The Heart of the World to this workshop. So well-received. And then mailed to editors, one of whom requested the full manuscript so far. Good stuff.

Next up, a couple of days off, which I mostly spent reading the first round of stories sent in for the second workshop and walking on the beach. Great reading, strenuous walking on that loop down to the beach and around to the inlet near Mo’s, then back up through the neighborhood via the Hill of Hell. Sunshine even graced us some.

And then the anthology workshop with Dean and Denise Little. This one, too, went as usual above and beyond my expectations as far as learning and networking. I wrote my first ever noir for the overnight short story at this workshop. What a blast! And I got to read and learn from the excellent overnight batch of stories and all of Denise’s and Dean’s comments.

Both my first and second story are out to markets.

Add to all this mix a shopping trip to North by Northwest Books and my first trip to Mo’s (no chowder for me unfortunately because of the glutens, but it smelled heavenly; and Mo’s surprised me with a bang-up bowl of chili) and lots of time with so many other professional writers and editors, and you have a recipe for amazingness.

So. Reading back over what I’ve just written, it strikes me that there is no real way to describe what I get out of these workshops and what it’s like to experience them. Because I’ve written about the logistics and mechanics, and that doesn’t include the way it feels to be among people who write professionally, who love it, who love story, who love learning. Or how it feels to completely immerse myself in writing and writing culture for at least a week. Or how it feels to bump up my craft and business knowledge in a way that fuels my work once I return home. You just have to have been there.

I’m betting you have a similar experience that’s hard to explain to someone who hasn’t been there. Feel free to substitute words and phrases.

I take “vacation time” from work to do all this, usually a couple of times a year. Everyone, including me, knows that it’s not a real vacation. Not in a million years. I work my butt off. I get very little rest. It doesn’t matter, though. What does matter? Doing what I love. That feeds me in a different way than sunning on the beach or curling up in front a peat fire on a rainy Irish night. Without all those different kinds of nourishment, I feel like a starving woman.

Do what you love. Find a way. That’s my prescription.