It's only two and a half months until Fairer than Morning hits stores! The closer I get to publication, the more I feel like I just fell down a rabbit hole.
Everything looks different. I grow, I shrink. Pieces of paper turn into characters and rain down on my head.
The first people I meet in Wonderland are my potential endorsers. When a couple of them send me enthusiastic comments, I float around for days like the Cheshire Cat's smile.
In Wonderland, where words won't behave themselves, I face the reality that not everyone will like my novel. Initially, that makes me feel as if the Queen of Hearts has called for my head to be lopped off. "But why?" I want to ask. "What have I done? Or failed to do?"
But in this strange place where persons are made of paper, it's not about me. It's about the taste of the Reader Queen. And she is sovereign of her own realm, and has every right and every authority to like some authors and behead all the others. That's how the cards are dealt in Wonderland.
In Wonderland, the end of the story is the end of the dream and the beginning of real life.
So for now, I dance the Lobster Quadrille with wild joy when I find out my novel has been selected as a Buyer's Choice for a major national chain. But in the end, I'm still dancing with lobsters.
Maybe if one of them pinches me, I'll wake up.
Monday, January 31, 2011
Monday, January 24, 2011
Research and Historical Fiction
In my last post, I referred to what I call historical fiction with texture.
What does this mean? I call it texture when a historical novelist can call into being the physical world that surrounds her characters. When a novel has texture, a reader can jump through the imaginary barrier between fiction and life and walk through the vivid settings that the characters inhabit.
There's one problem with this type of historical fiction. It takes a TON of work.
And there's another problem too. The more detail you insert in your historical novels, the more opportunities you create for historical errors.
That's why, in some ways, it would be easier to write historical fiction without texture. But it doesn't satisfy me. As a writer, I must write what I'm passionate about, and I'm passionate about creating the detail that allows readers to transport themselves to a different time. I'm not just telling a good story that happens to take place over a century ago. I'm writing that story BECAUSE it took place over a century ago.
So my chosen style of writing requires extensive research.
And I don't mind. I quite like it.
If I didn't like research, I couldn't have survived graduate school education in research methods. My grad school experience has helped me many times as I identify vital questions I need to answer before I can work on a certain part of my novel. Because the real research challenge is narrowing down the crucial pieces of information that are missing from my perspective. Anyone can browse through an archive and write down interesting facts. But once I start to assemble a plot, I have to know which details are so basic that I cannot start without them.
Last week, I contacted the Columbus Metropolitan Library for assistance. I had done everything in my power to find an answer to a question through print and internet sources, and I simply did not have access to the right sources. I live too far away from the local history archives that I need for this third novel in my trilogy.
Those Columbus librarians and scholars were wonderful. They answered my first question immediately, and offered additional help.
I've had this kind of warm, enthusiastic support several times as I've worked on this trilogy over the years. It gives me hope to find others who care about history and learning so much that they offer assistance to strangers sheerly because they want to share their knowledge.
Have you ever had assistance from others as you researched a novel? How does texture work to inspire you in your writing? How do you feel about texture, as a reader?
What does this mean? I call it texture when a historical novelist can call into being the physical world that surrounds her characters. When a novel has texture, a reader can jump through the imaginary barrier between fiction and life and walk through the vivid settings that the characters inhabit.
There's one problem with this type of historical fiction. It takes a TON of work.
And there's another problem too. The more detail you insert in your historical novels, the more opportunities you create for historical errors.
That's why, in some ways, it would be easier to write historical fiction without texture. But it doesn't satisfy me. As a writer, I must write what I'm passionate about, and I'm passionate about creating the detail that allows readers to transport themselves to a different time. I'm not just telling a good story that happens to take place over a century ago. I'm writing that story BECAUSE it took place over a century ago.
So my chosen style of writing requires extensive research.
And I don't mind. I quite like it.
If I didn't like research, I couldn't have survived graduate school education in research methods. My grad school experience has helped me many times as I identify vital questions I need to answer before I can work on a certain part of my novel. Because the real research challenge is narrowing down the crucial pieces of information that are missing from my perspective. Anyone can browse through an archive and write down interesting facts. But once I start to assemble a plot, I have to know which details are so basic that I cannot start without them.
Last week, I contacted the Columbus Metropolitan Library for assistance. I had done everything in my power to find an answer to a question through print and internet sources, and I simply did not have access to the right sources. I live too far away from the local history archives that I need for this third novel in my trilogy.
Those Columbus librarians and scholars were wonderful. They answered my first question immediately, and offered additional help.
I've had this kind of warm, enthusiastic support several times as I've worked on this trilogy over the years. It gives me hope to find others who care about history and learning so much that they offer assistance to strangers sheerly because they want to share their knowledge.
Have you ever had assistance from others as you researched a novel? How does texture work to inspire you in your writing? How do you feel about texture, as a reader?
Monday, January 17, 2011
Minding the Temple
Today, I worked out for the first time in months. I think many writers are in the same boat. Or chair, or couch.
What we do is so cerebral, and so time-consuming, that our bodies can start to seem unimportant.
Our writing minds are taxed to their limits. Writing takes every synapse we have, and some we didn't even know about.
Right now, I'm in the middle of constructing a world in my head. Historical novelists have to worldbuild just like fantasy novelists, at least if we want our novels to have a lot of texture. The difference is that our constructions have to match the historical record. So while I'm constructing this world, including two major settings and two ethnic cultures, full of objects and events I must cram into my brain, my body sits idle on the chair.
Just as it sat idle for months while I worked on the edits for novel #1 and completely rewrote novel #2.
I could feel my muscles loosening, bones weakening, and ligaments tightening. But I didn't have time to work out.
Or did I?
Because today, after I finished whinging to my daughter's gymnastics coach about my pathetic state of fitness, I went home and put on my workout DVD, which hasn't seen the light of day in at least a year. I had forgotten all about the workout DVD option.
And I rode my recumbent bike for a while. It sits right in my living room. I can even read while I'm on it.
A year ago, I resolved to help my daughter become healthy after months of respiratory infections. Last Christmas, she was a tiny, skinny, coughing child who could have starred as Tiny Tim. Now, she is a muscle-packed athlete, still tiny, but strong and healthy, with color in her cheeks. I made her health my number one priority. It required dedication from both of us. It involved allergy medicine and a fair amount of money for organized athletic activities, but it has been worth every minute and every penny.
The moral of my daughter's story is that my own poor state of fitness is simply a matter of priorities. Will it be important to me to take care of this physical temple that holds and sustains my mind and spirit? Or will I let it decay more rapidly than it should, for lack of maintenance and effort?
After my workout today, soothed by music and challenged by strength-building exercises, I felt wonderful. And any activity that pumps blood through our bodies also pumps it through our brains. Though I can be tempted to think that I don't have time to exercise because "I have to write," the truth is that I will be a better writer if I'm healthier and fitter.
This year, I'm going to take care of the whole temple, not just feed the altar fires.
How about you? Do you write better after you've been physically active, taken a walk, or otherwise sent that blood pumping through the brain? Do you struggle as I do to find the time and motivation to take care of the temple?
What we do is so cerebral, and so time-consuming, that our bodies can start to seem unimportant.
Our writing minds are taxed to their limits. Writing takes every synapse we have, and some we didn't even know about.
Right now, I'm in the middle of constructing a world in my head. Historical novelists have to worldbuild just like fantasy novelists, at least if we want our novels to have a lot of texture. The difference is that our constructions have to match the historical record. So while I'm constructing this world, including two major settings and two ethnic cultures, full of objects and events I must cram into my brain, my body sits idle on the chair.
Just as it sat idle for months while I worked on the edits for novel #1 and completely rewrote novel #2.
I could feel my muscles loosening, bones weakening, and ligaments tightening. But I didn't have time to work out.
Or did I?
Because today, after I finished whinging to my daughter's gymnastics coach about my pathetic state of fitness, I went home and put on my workout DVD, which hasn't seen the light of day in at least a year. I had forgotten all about the workout DVD option.
And I rode my recumbent bike for a while. It sits right in my living room. I can even read while I'm on it.
A year ago, I resolved to help my daughter become healthy after months of respiratory infections. Last Christmas, she was a tiny, skinny, coughing child who could have starred as Tiny Tim. Now, she is a muscle-packed athlete, still tiny, but strong and healthy, with color in her cheeks. I made her health my number one priority. It required dedication from both of us. It involved allergy medicine and a fair amount of money for organized athletic activities, but it has been worth every minute and every penny.
The moral of my daughter's story is that my own poor state of fitness is simply a matter of priorities. Will it be important to me to take care of this physical temple that holds and sustains my mind and spirit? Or will I let it decay more rapidly than it should, for lack of maintenance and effort?
After my workout today, soothed by music and challenged by strength-building exercises, I felt wonderful. And any activity that pumps blood through our bodies also pumps it through our brains. Though I can be tempted to think that I don't have time to exercise because "I have to write," the truth is that I will be a better writer if I'm healthier and fitter.
This year, I'm going to take care of the whole temple, not just feed the altar fires.
How about you? Do you write better after you've been physically active, taken a walk, or otherwise sent that blood pumping through the brain? Do you struggle as I do to find the time and motivation to take care of the temple?
Monday, January 10, 2011
The Ultimate Countercultural Act
Last week, I read my friend Keli Gwyn's post Staying Positive in a Negative World.
Even though her post was primarily about publishing, I couldn't get the title out of my head, as it resonated with many other non-publishing related situations this weekend.
We had some bad news splashed all over the media yesterday.
Remember when the crazy guy shot the Amish schoolchildren a few years back, and their parents offered nothing in return but love and forgiveness? Why was America so moved? Because those Amish people were countercultural. They did not become obsessed with assigning blame. They did not spread hatred and pain. Instead, they absorbed it and gave back peace instead.
When we hear bad news and immediately let it spread its cloud over us and darken our thinking, we are falling into the culture of the world. When we get angry and blame others for a tragedy, or, alternatively, we get angry because someone is being blamed and we feel that person or party is innocent, we are just dupes of the world.
No one listens to anger. There's so much floating around that our sulking or shouting just blends in with all the rest.
People listen to love.
When's the last time you heard someone talk politics with love?
I haven't heard it often. In fact, one of the reasons I often avoid political discussions is because people take them as a license to vent their extreme dislike of one person, or one party, or one law.
I heard a man talk politics with love in the parking lot of a Goodwill the other day. He had my full attention. As he unloaded my donation, he talked to me about his concern for what the politicians are doing to the people of this country: how they are dividing and turning us against one another.
I could not agree more.
The real battle is not between Republicans and Democrats, black and white, or rich or poor. The battle is between those who treat others with love and respect, and those who abuse and deride others, or even murder them, in the ultimate act of abuse.
The problem is, we've become so confused about the terms of our debate that we no longer understand whose side we're supposed to be on.
If we're Christian, then our God should be the God of Love. Most understand that being on the side of love means we must not murder. But we must also say no to disrespectful words, to abuse, to argument in which we just want to be superior or to win.
That means even when we talk politics, we stay positive in a negative world. Does that mean we can't disagree with something? No. But it means we don't get abusive, we don't ridicule others, and we don't pass around blame. It means we don't say things about people behind their backs that are unkind or derisive, no matter how misguided we think their beliefs or policies might be. That includes public figures!
Love: the Ultimate Countercultural Act.
How can we spread it today? Because THAT is what it means to "fight the good fight."
Even though her post was primarily about publishing, I couldn't get the title out of my head, as it resonated with many other non-publishing related situations this weekend.
We had some bad news splashed all over the media yesterday.
Remember when the crazy guy shot the Amish schoolchildren a few years back, and their parents offered nothing in return but love and forgiveness? Why was America so moved? Because those Amish people were countercultural. They did not become obsessed with assigning blame. They did not spread hatred and pain. Instead, they absorbed it and gave back peace instead.
When we hear bad news and immediately let it spread its cloud over us and darken our thinking, we are falling into the culture of the world. When we get angry and blame others for a tragedy, or, alternatively, we get angry because someone is being blamed and we feel that person or party is innocent, we are just dupes of the world.
No one listens to anger. There's so much floating around that our sulking or shouting just blends in with all the rest.
People listen to love.
When's the last time you heard someone talk politics with love?
I haven't heard it often. In fact, one of the reasons I often avoid political discussions is because people take them as a license to vent their extreme dislike of one person, or one party, or one law.
I heard a man talk politics with love in the parking lot of a Goodwill the other day. He had my full attention. As he unloaded my donation, he talked to me about his concern for what the politicians are doing to the people of this country: how they are dividing and turning us against one another.
I could not agree more.
The real battle is not between Republicans and Democrats, black and white, or rich or poor. The battle is between those who treat others with love and respect, and those who abuse and deride others, or even murder them, in the ultimate act of abuse.
The problem is, we've become so confused about the terms of our debate that we no longer understand whose side we're supposed to be on.
If we're Christian, then our God should be the God of Love. Most understand that being on the side of love means we must not murder. But we must also say no to disrespectful words, to abuse, to argument in which we just want to be superior or to win.
That means even when we talk politics, we stay positive in a negative world. Does that mean we can't disagree with something? No. But it means we don't get abusive, we don't ridicule others, and we don't pass around blame. It means we don't say things about people behind their backs that are unkind or derisive, no matter how misguided we think their beliefs or policies might be. That includes public figures!
Love: the Ultimate Countercultural Act.
How can we spread it today? Because THAT is what it means to "fight the good fight."
Sunday, January 2, 2011
The Spot Where She Stood
Two days after Christmas, our church community lost someone very special.
Bettye Palmer would have been 82 this week.
You probably know someone like Bettye. I hope you do.
Bettye was a widow, and had to use an oxygen tank at all times because of declining health. She was sometimes in a wheelchair, but liked to stand up as often as she could to greet people. Her back was bent, but her face always shone with love and genuine interest in others.
Bettye stood in the front of our church foyer after every service so she could ask all of us how we were doing. She remembered all the details of our lives. She would often ask me about my mother's health, though she has never met her. I could tell that to Bettye, my mother was a real person, not a faraway stranger. On Wednesday nights, Bettye sat where she could take the money for our communal dinner night so that she could talk to people and check up on each of us.
Bettye rarely talked about herself, and you never got the feeling that she wanted to do so. At a time of life when one's own news is often not good--failing health, friends passing away, loneliness-- Bettye found that the secret of joy was in focusing on others. Her body was no longer strong enough to serve, but her spirit and her loving heart were able to minister to everyone, making us all feel that she cared, and she missed us when we were gone.
This Sunday was our first experience of church without Bettye. As I walked in the door, I got a big lump in my throat as I passed the empty spot where she had always stood. I was not alone in this. Of course, someone talked about Bettye during the service today, and many of us wiped away tears.
We all know that our tears aren't for her. We rejoice that she has gone on to a much better place. But it will take a while before we stop feeling that sharp ache when we pass the places in our church where we remember her.
When I walk into the foyer of our church and see that empty place, I will remember this. Bettye was a woman so filled with love, so unselfish, that she literally graced the ground she stood on.
The best way to remember Bettye is to follow her example of grace: to really listen to others, to ask questions, to make certain their lives are real to us, and not to rush so much that we forget to care.
Have you known a Bettye?
Bettye Palmer would have been 82 this week.
You probably know someone like Bettye. I hope you do.
Bettye was a widow, and had to use an oxygen tank at all times because of declining health. She was sometimes in a wheelchair, but liked to stand up as often as she could to greet people. Her back was bent, but her face always shone with love and genuine interest in others.
Bettye stood in the front of our church foyer after every service so she could ask all of us how we were doing. She remembered all the details of our lives. She would often ask me about my mother's health, though she has never met her. I could tell that to Bettye, my mother was a real person, not a faraway stranger. On Wednesday nights, Bettye sat where she could take the money for our communal dinner night so that she could talk to people and check up on each of us.
Bettye rarely talked about herself, and you never got the feeling that she wanted to do so. At a time of life when one's own news is often not good--failing health, friends passing away, loneliness-- Bettye found that the secret of joy was in focusing on others. Her body was no longer strong enough to serve, but her spirit and her loving heart were able to minister to everyone, making us all feel that she cared, and she missed us when we were gone.
This Sunday was our first experience of church without Bettye. As I walked in the door, I got a big lump in my throat as I passed the empty spot where she had always stood. I was not alone in this. Of course, someone talked about Bettye during the service today, and many of us wiped away tears.
We all know that our tears aren't for her. We rejoice that she has gone on to a much better place. But it will take a while before we stop feeling that sharp ache when we pass the places in our church where we remember her.
When I walk into the foyer of our church and see that empty place, I will remember this. Bettye was a woman so filled with love, so unselfish, that she literally graced the ground she stood on.
The best way to remember Bettye is to follow her example of grace: to really listen to others, to ask questions, to make certain their lives are real to us, and not to rush so much that we forget to care.
Have you known a Bettye?
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