Maybe I'm amazed

Yes, I really AM still working on Peri #5, and yes, I can see the ending, just around the bend, as they say. It's been an absolute beast of a story to tell--simple and yet complicated and I couldn't find its rhythm and more whining that you don't want to hear. It will require more editing than any book I've written, but as I work toward the end, the structure has announced itself, and I'm glad we met.

For those of you who think each book gets easier to write, consider that a Public Service Announcement. And a warning label.

In the meantime, of course, I'm wrestling columns and attending meetings and conferences and HAY! riding my horse. And I recently had the joy of talking to my son. It doesn't happen often, and I love it when it does. He is composing a piece of music for his high school music director (with her knowledge) for her students to perform for her 20th anniversary teaching. Which is a pretty cool idea, to showcase works by your former students, who you encouraged and mentored. 

I started thinking about all that time I spent in the choir booster club, and those hours in the classroom, helping organize folders and count robes and pull out the ones that needed cleaning/mending, etc. I would listen to each class come in as a ball of noise chaos. The teacher would have to settle them, make them listen, make them sing, make them learn.

Words came to mind, a poem about the noise and the music, the howl and the trill. I wrote it all down (because why wouldn't I), then noticed three short lines: "They come." "They are here." "They are home." They were at different places within the poem, and I noticed they could be inserted, together, in a few places, and make a chorus.

And as I edited, I heard a choir arise from cacophony, into radiant strands of music. And whether it's a good poem or a bad poem, I'm amazed at the written word and where it can take you.

THE SOUND OF BELONGING

In the silence of a beat

A single voice,

A ringing bell invites.

They come.

       They are here.

             They are home.

Whispers curl like napping cats,

Waves softly brushing the shore,

Words rise and clash,

Cymbals, punctuating space.

They come.

       They are here.

             They are home.

They bring their rainbow dreams

And lift them in a roar of thunder,

The howl of angry wolves,

The mournful cry of the lost, the lonely.

Bird-songs, high and giggling,

Break through the storm.

They come.

       They are here.

             They are home.

The cacophony swirls, rises, meets, joins, blends.

New sound is born, sweet and joyful,

Embracing the air.

Voices.

Soft, sad, harsh, happy, peaceful.

They come.

       They are here.

             They are home.

Is it good? Does it have to be?

FWIW, I am working feverishly on the 5th Peri mystery, and finally feel, in the second-muddle of an act, that I know where it's all going. That's the good news.

While I write, however, life goes on and other deadlines pop up, one of which is my weekly column. Every Wednesday, I leave Peri and her friends to write 600 words on Some Other Topic. It makes one feel a little distracted.

And when I went to Sonny Boy's choral concert last month and heard the beautiful words set to music sung by beautiful voices, I felt pulled to compose a poem of my own. I used to write poetry, in my angsty youth--all Rod McKuen, free verse, in a kind of yearning cadence. Whining. Let's just call it what it was. Teenage whining wasteland.

When Sonny Boy first went to kindergarten, his teacher had them keep a journal, where they would draw a picture, and she would help them write a sentence underneath it. Each day had a kind of topic. Something You Like. Your Favorite Game. What You Eat for Breakfast. Whatever. 

The first day's topic was, I Feel Like... Marcus drew a spectacularly hot mess, spirals and curls and jagged lines, all in black crayon. Underneath, the teacher had written what he dictated: "I feel like a tornado."

That's pretty much how I feel at least once a day lately. The politics, the environment, the constant battening down of my hatches I need to do to keep Fear away from my door. My own advancing age. The storm seems relentless. 

But I am an optimist. I am eternally looking for light, smelling the roses, tasting the wine. As dark as Life gets, I look for the Escape hatch in the corner. I see shards of light poking through. And so my poem took the form of my darkened world and the sunlight that infiltrates it. 

I spent a few days worrying about the structure and theme and was it any good at all. And then I decided, screw structure and theme and goodness--it felt good to write it. I considered each word, each line, and made them mean something TO ME. It was MY expression. The "goodness" of it was in its creation.

I'm going to share it with you, not because it's good or I'm so proud, but because I am Creator and I Created, and everyone should share that piece of them. Do not fear. Share your work with the world. Let them see you.

Comforter

By Gayle Carline

Clouds fold across the sky

A blanket tucks in the land

Snug as a bug in a cliché

Shadows deepen

Hills are dark

Valleys cloaked

All is hidden

Sleepy eyes at rest

Pop—what was that?

Heartbeats quicken

Alert

Alarmed

The clouds thicken, rumble, roar

Hands raise, a-tremble

Thru the grey mist

It holds no weight

Keeps no shape

Yet holds fast

Smothering

Beyond the gloom, something comes

A shard of light, a glint, a ray

Slender as a cactus prick

Pierces through

One small hole, one punch

The blanket frays

Exposing the bright

Digging in the corners

The clouds sit heavy, stubborn

The sun is coming.

Bring the warmth

Bring the truth

Kick the covers off.

* * * * *

I guess I'm trying to say, write what you want, when you want to. It doesn't have to be good--it has to be yours.

I'm not pretending.

I went to the Public Library Association Conference for the first time this year. There were lots of great sessions with great information, and great speakers talking about the greatness of libraries. I heard Sally Yates speak so passionately about the ideals of this country, I wanted to run out and vote. Hasan Minhaj was funny, yet eloquent, about the need for E Pluribus Unum--Out of Many, One. 

And yet, it was Elizabeth Gilbert who addressed my immediate need. I will try to embed her speech here. It's buried under a bunch of "GO, PUBLIC LIBRARIES!" cheerleading, but fast-forward to minute 00:29:10 if you can. 

https://livestream.com/accounts/7595903/events/8120373/videos/172122946

Here's the meat of the talk: She was telling the tale of being a young woman, trying to get advice from a possibly-reluctant mentor about how to get her writing kick-started, and the mentor asked her the following question (PAY ATTENTION HERE--IT'S IMPORTANT):

"What are you willing to give up in order to have the life you keep pretending you want?"

Of course, her back arched in defense, as she countered with, "I have no time, I have 3 jobs, I have a boyfriend, I have (list more stuff here)."

MENTOR: "Everyone has 3 jobs, or has had, or will have. What's your favorite TV show?"

E.G: "Seinfeld."

MENTOR: "Must be nice to have time for TV. What magazines do you read?"

E.G: "Atlantic, the New Yorker..."

MENTOR: "Sounds like fun. What about authors you read? Oh, you have time to read others' books but no time to write your own?"

Color me slapped. 

I immediately found a corner and wrote how I would spend my perfect day. There were no distractions in it. There was meditation and stretching, riding my horse, writing, walking the dogs.* 

And I began to see things I will have to sacrifice for this life.

1. Meals and the TV.  I tend to get my lunch/dinner and sit in front of the TV, to "relax" while I eat. Somehow I think of this as multi-tasking. It's not. Two things happen: One is, I get absorbed in a show that does not affect my life in any way and is a time-suck. Two, after I eat, I fall asleep. Our furniture is too comfy. This madness must stop.

Meals will now be consumed at the proper table. Period.

2. Reading materials. I don't read magazines, but I do read books, and I try to read my friends' books because that's how you support one another. I love you all, I do, and I will continue to buy your books, but for the moment, I need to read OTHER books. Books on writing, certainly. And, don't take this the wrong way, but I need to read (or re-read) above my writing abilities. Seriously, I consider my friends some of the finest writers out there, and at this particular moment, I need to read the Masters, the Gods and Goddesses of Writing. As in sports, I need to play above my level, to make me reach higher. 

I'll be back, I swear. But I've got to up my game.

3. Other commitments. This will take some time, but I need to set a plan in motion to let go of my other "jobs." One of those jobs is my column. Yes, I'm writing. Every week, I set aside the novel I'm working feverishly on in order to write 600 words about my life, my family, and my town. I've realized I shouldn't do it forever. 

This year, I'm spending far more time as a library trustee than in years past. I'm committed to seeing our project through, to ensuring we have a strong and vibrant board. And I need to look at how many terms I am willing to do this, when each hour spent is an hour I'm not writing.

It looks harsh in black-and-white. Perhaps it is. The bottom line is that there are lots of books I want to write, and I have a finite number of years. Time to get 'er done.

What are you willing to give up?



*Okay, truth is, I mostly hate walking the dogs--they go different directions at different speeds and stop at every tree/bush/light pole. But I WANT to LOVE walking my dogs, so it's in my perfect day.

A new workshop is exciting...and frightening

I've been asked to teach a new workshop at the Southern California Writers Conference this month (in beautiful San Diego, click here for details) about story. The workshop came about after my hubby and I visited Michael Steven Gregory (conference director) and his wife Chrissie (conference behind-the-scenes organizer-problem-solver) over the summer.

Michael and I stayed up late a few nights discussing books and movies that we liked and didn't like and why we liked or didn't like them. We talked one night until the wee hours (I think it was, like 3 am) about Star Wars: The Force Awakens. Although I liked the re-immersion into the Stars Wars world, I had a couple of problems with the movie.

First of all, I wasn't sure who the main character was. At first, I thought it was Finn, the black guy who turned from being a storm trooper and joined the resistance. Then it seemed like maybe it was Rey, the orphan girl on the planet Finn crash-lands on. Or was it Poe the pilot? My problem with not having a main character is that I have expectations of being able to relate to the MC and experience the movie through them.

Maybe I need to adjust those expectations.

My second problem was that, with all the battles and attacks and dodging and weaving, I couldn't tell what this story was about. In one sense, it was about seeing old friends Luke and Leia and Hans again (and thanks for ruining it, J.J. Abrams), but it needed to be more. Just announcing with the title, "The Force Awakens" is not SHOWING me the story. It's TELLING.

What are the rules, kids? Show, don't tell.

So I'm teaching a workshop called "What's the Point? Story, Subtext, and Plot." I'm excited to do it, but I'm frightened beyond reason that I won't do the subject justice. If you come to the conference (why wouldn't you?) and you take my workshop, be warned that I will be my usual maniacally overachieving self and will ask you to do a few exercises while I throw mass quantities of information at you. 

It'll be fun.

In the meantime, I'm going to put up two movie trailers here. One is for The Big Sleep. The other is for Star Wars: The Force Awakens. Watch them both.







Now...what is each one of these movies about? And, if you've seen both, did the movies live up to your expectations, based on the trailers?

Feel free to discuss.

Long time, no see

It's been a while, yes?

Here's what happened: In August, I got incredibly sidetracked by my latest WIPs, not to mention my horse (see Snoopy's blog). The manuscript I thought was ready for its closeup turned out to be not-so-photogenic. Every agent passed. So many agents...but a few of them gave me solid comments, which I am taking to heart and using to revise. 

In the meantime, the three other books I plan to write are in various stages of 1) I'm 2000 words in and I don't like the way I started this; 2) I've written an outline but I'm not certain if I'm on the right path; and 3) the idea is swirling about in my head if I could find time to open a file and begin.

It was business as usual, until October 21 rolled along. I was giving a riding lesson to a 7-year old, when I tripped and fell backward, breaking my left wrist. The upside is that it was my LEFT wrist and a clean fracture, not displaced. The downside is, I couldn't bend my left wrist in a position to type. I managed to type out my columns one-handed, but any attempt to work on any WIP was impossible--I was thinking faster than my right hand could find the keys, and getting frustrated.

So I stopped writing. Yes. Stopped. I didn't work on anything. Mentally, I wrote a blog every day without actually trying to get it onto the screen. Weekly, I pecked out my column. But no words were added to any of my novels. 

I've experienced short periods of extreme sadness. Who hasn't? I've never gone through anything that could be called depression. These last three months come close. Not only didn't I write, I began to think I might not write any more. I still "showed up" for my columns, gave them my best, but I didn't look at the words with any sense of pride or ownership. I simply did my job.

Today I'm in my office, at my computer, and not playing on Facebook or Twitter or anything. I'm opening my manuscript and creating. Is my long shadow of sadness over? Almost. I at least see the sun peeking over the horizon.

I'd love to stay and chat, but I've got work to do.