Madeline Smoot's Blog, page 12

Overwhelming Numbers

Because even superheroes sometimes need to hide under a blanket and regroup.

So, I’m at this blogging conference that’s supposed to start in 10 minutes, and for some reason, they aren’t letting us into the room. They have us mingling in a small hallway with wine and food and tables, all I’m assuming, to facilitate networking.

I find it overwhelming, overstimulating, and downright uncomfortable.

Since I’m an adult, I can opt out. I can come sit here in the lobby and keep my eye on the door. I can disengage with the people around me and play on my iPad instead. No one tells me that I have to go mingle, that I have to go talk. I have a choice.

But I have to wonder: is this what it’s like for my kid every time we take him to school or therapy? Is this why he walks into the classroom with a blanket on his head? There’s only one or two other kids in the class when he gets there, but is even this few sometimes too overwhelming?

And my child is a child. He doesn’t have a choice. He doesn’t get to say that this is too much, that this is too hard, that he’s going to wait until the crowd shrinks to a more manageable (or at least more spread out) size. All he can do is throw a blanket on his head.

Getting Out and Mingling

I am not a people person.

Don’t all fall over in shock at once.

I’m not the kind of person that does well with strangers. Oh, I fake it just fine, but I’m very uncomfortable and spend the entire time trying to remember words. So I can talk.

Needless to say, networking is not my strong suit and conferences (where I’m not a speaker) are, in my opinion, a tiny slice of what Hell might look like.

But, life is about growth and challenging yourself, and today I’m going to take on a big challenge. I’m going to a conference for moms. Alone.

There will be no Tricia or Jessica to hide behind and let them do all the talking. This is not going to be about writing children’s books so I can’t just slip into the comfortable jargon of voice and genre and Hero’s Journey plotting. These moms are most likely the parents of neuro-typical children, so no one’s going to be comparing interventions or ATEC scores. These are normal moms of normal kids who have businesses of some kind that they will want to discuss.

It all sounds terrifying.

But, I am determined to do this. After all, the first session at MomCom 2014 is entitled “Embracing Scary,” and that’s exactly what I’m going to do. I will talk to strangers and compare parenting horror stories. And by the time this conference ends tomorrow, I suspect there won’t be so many strangers after all.

How are you challenging yourself this weekend? Let me know I’m not alone.

 

The Power of Daydreaming

The other day I read this blog post about the power of doing nothing, about how stopping for a break every now and then makes it that much easier to go. While I was reading, I was struck by a passage the author quoted, specifically this part:

And what do you “do” during these [stopping] times? Again, nothing. And just how do you do nothing? Just hang out, breathe, walk, sit, mess around, pace, gaze out the window, wander down the lane, observe, notice, daydream, take a break, slowly drink a glass of water, be still, practice smiling, stretch…. The list is limitless; it is limited only by our lack of comfort with what we might call “down time.” — From David Kuntz’s book, Stopping: How to Be Still When You Have to Keep Going

What really struck me was the part about daydreaming. It’s only a single word in the whole passage, but it called out to me. Because it turns out that I have been already stopping this whole time. You see, everyday I make the conscious decision to daydream, sometimes for as much as an hour or more a day.

I know. This sounds like a huge waste of what could be otherwise productive time. Trust me. I’ve thought this too.

I tend to daydream in bed. I do it as I drift off to sleep at night, and then I do it again after I wake up in the morning. It’s the morning daydreaming session that often seems the most wasteful, yet I’ve learned that the mornings I skip it are my least productive. It turns out that daydreaming is where I hone my writing.

Since I was a small child, I have daydreamed about writing and books. I loved the books I read so much, that I used to imagine myself as a character in some of my favorite stories. I would then mentally watch the stories play out with this new character. The Madeline in my daydreams never did anything that affected the story’s central plot, but she would influence the interactions around her. In fact, what I was doing was writing fan fiction — extremely narcissistic, self-centered fan fiction — but fan fiction none the less. The point is that nearly a decade and a half before I self-consciously put pen to paper to write my first story (I didn’t start writing until I was 22), I had been practicing writing and plotting and dialog for years.

Nowadays,my daydreaming tends to center around the books I’m writing (and occasionally the ones I’m editing). In that thirty or forty or hour and a half that I lay in bed, I bring up the scene I plan to write that day and play it out in my head. Then I change something, and I play it again. And again. And again.

The result is that by the time I actually put my fingers on the keyboard to write, I’ve already written that scene as many as twenty or thirty times in my head.

Admittedly, daydreaming instead of physically writing and rewriting isn’t for everyone, but next time you’re stuck, try closing your eyes or staring out the window, and watch your book or scene like it’s a movie. You might see something new. At the very least, you’ll have the satisfaction of knowing that all those parents and teachers were wrong. Daydreaming is not a waste of time.

Just Do It: Overcoming the Fear of Rejection

Last Week I wrote about my own New Year’s Writing Resolutions. In the resulting conversation on Facebook, I learned about the resolution that author Hope Ring had set for herself last year. I was so inspired that I asked her to write up her experience. Here is her tale:

Before 2013 I did a lot of writing.  I wrote one novel, several articles, some short stories, and a bunch of beginnings that I never got around to finishing.  I submitted…once…in 2012, and the inevitable rejection made me want to curl into a ball and never submit, never WRITE anything, ever again.

Fortunately, I had good friends going through the same thing.  I knew two authors—TWO!—who had not yet been able to sell what was, in my mind, the best novel they had yet written, in spite of already being published.  I knew people who had self published, people who had gone the “traditional” route, people who were still trying to break in.  They had all survived this first rejection, and I became determined that I would, too.

In January of 2013 I entered the Amazon Breakthrough Novel Award Contest.  Next I entered a SF short story contest, for which I actually wrote a short story—and finished it!  Then, while I was waiting for those rejections, I started thinking about the picture book I had written, and in February I sent it off for its first rejection.  By March the novel and short story had both been rejected, so I sent them out again to new markets.  It still hurt, but not as much.  By August my first thought at a rejection was “where can I send this out next?”  I submitted something every single month, and it got…easier.

Over the course of 2013 I submitted 11 works to 20 different markets; two were stories I had made myself finish, six were entirely written this year.  I submitted to contests, agents, and publishers.  I got incredibly lucky, as submission #25 was actually accepted.  (Famous authors have often been rejected literally hundreds of times before making their first sale.  I was planning on 500, with moderate faith that I would sell SOMETHING by then.)  But successes depend on these two things: keep writing, and keep submitting.

Wen Spencer (see her on Facebook) has said repeatedly that publishing is an extremely subjective process.  Put ten authors, agents and editors in a room with a bunch of manuscripts, and they can pretty quickly agree on the top 50% of stories.  Give them some time, and they’ll agree on the top 25%…but they will NEVER agree on which one is actually best.  If you send your work out only to one agent or publisher, and they reject it, that tells you nothing.

On the other hand, the writer who sends out fifty works to ten markets has a much better shot than the writer who sends out ten works to fifty markets.  The only way to get better at writing is to…write.  Reading about writing is helpful, revising is crucial, but no matter how much you polish your first work…what you can write now that you’ve written that one is better.

So for 2014, try this: submit something.  While you are waiting to hear, write something else, and submit that.  Keep a file, so you know where each thing has gone and when.  When it comes back, reread it for obvious problems, then submit it again.  Write enough, and submit enough, that you need a spreadsheet to keep track.

I promise, it gets easier.

Hope Ring is the author of a big bad wolf story in the upcoming Stepmothers and the Big Bad Wolf: Fairy Tale Villains Reimagined from CBAY Books.

And remember, here on Buried in the Slush Pile, I have a free submission workbook with a worksheet you can use to track your submissions. Download yours today.

Writing Resolutions

A fresh year is upon us giving us a chance to approach the new year with a fresh slate. And like everyone else, I’m going to take the opportunity to make some new writing resolutions for a new year.

However, this year my, resolutions aren’t going to be about specific goals. It’s not going to be about the number of words I write during the year or the number of books I complete. No, I’m going to take James Clear’s advice and focus on my process instead.

My Writing Resolutions:

To Make Writing a Habit.

According to To Do Doing Done, it “only” takes 30 days to make a new behavior a habit. So, for the next 30 days, I’m going to make the first hour of my day all about writing. (I’m making this achievable by not saying something crazy like I’ll get up an hour earlier to write. That ain’t happenin’.) Instead of compulsively checking email, Facebook, twitter, and the rest, I’m going to have a nice hour of writing instead.
To Start a Writing Schedule

I have a lot of things I need (ok, want) to write during that hour each morning. I’m working on a middle grade novel, short stories for a personal anthology, and then I have the articles I want to write for the CBAY site, my parenting blog and here. My plan is to start focusing on different items on different days. For example, Monday will be my CBAY day, Tues & Weds my novel, etc. These won’t be set in stone, but they’ll help me form a routine.
To Maximize My Writing Opportunities

Every now and then, I get a chance to write for stretches at a time without other obligations butting in. I’m going to try to find more of these moments.
To Find Writing Inspiration in My Every Day Life.

Certain, obvious things inspire me to write: attending a writer’s conference or a writer’s retreat for example. I want to start trying to find inspiration in other places as I go about the everyday job of living. I’m not sure how I’ll do this, but I’m going to keep my eyes open.

Now, for my challenge for you: come up with a resolution for your writerly life. Again, it shouldn’t be a specific goal (like write a novel in 30 days), but instead by something that can influence your daily writing life. Share your goal below if you like, or keep it to yourself. Either way, you’ve made yourself a promise. Let me know if there’s a way for me or the writing community to help you keep it.

 

The New “I Don’t Love You”

My child gets mad at me. My child gets mad at me a lot.

At bedtime.

When we turn off the X-box.

When we have to go to school (aka therapy).

Pretty much any time he doesn’t get his way.

Let’s face it. The kid is effectively three and a half behaviorally. This age isn’t known for its fantastic coping skills.

Last night, though, my child had a new response for me at bedtime. I had turned off the lights, tucked him in, gotten him his stuffed animals and a drink, and left him to sulk. As I walked away, I told him that I loved him.

“No,” he grumbled back with his little arms crossed and the biggest pouty face. “Don’t love me.”

It was all I could do not to bust out laughing. “Oh, buddy,” I said. “You don’t get to choose. Mommy gets to love you whether you want her to or not.”

A Little Morning Sunshine

This morning child came to get me up with a cheerful, “Mommy, Mommy, sun come up.”

I agreed that it had.

“Mommy, you want come play x-box with me?”

I had two edits, a couple of websites to update, and it sure would be nice if I could ever write again, but when faced with such a polite, articulate and optimistic question, how could I say no?

Plot Pitfalls

The other day, I met with my critique partner. Although he had some good things to say, there was one very glaringly epic fail with my draft: I had completely failed to elucidate my plot. Ugh.

Normally, this happens because the person in question doesn’t have a clear plot in mind. Perhaps they didn’t outline beforehand or the story took an unexpected turn during the writing.

In my case though, I had left out some significant details. Without them, it was hard to catch the key part of the plot — that the hero and her enemies had been tossed across the known universe and now had to work together.

This got me thinking about what else can derail a perfectly good plot. Here are some of the plot pitfalls I came up with.

Lack of Character Motivation

If your character doesn’t need or want anything, it’s hard to keep a plot going.
False Suspense

This is the topic of a whole ‘nother post, but basically it involves building suspense where no suspense needs to be. It also obscures your plot.
Lack of Significant Details

You’re plot might be there in a conceptual sense, but the reader can’t find/follow it.

What are some plot pitfalls you’ve seen? Let me know in the comments below.

I’m Back.

At the very end of November, right after Thanksgiving, my grandfather died.  Seeing as he was 95, had only stopped driving at 93, and was generally pretty hale and hearty up until the last few months, this was not exactly a horrible tragedy that had me lying awake at night.

However, it was a time consuming one. (Of the last 42 days of the year, I spent 23 of them in Dallas with the family.)

Now we writers are always telling people that you have to find time to write no matter what — that no matter the circumstances, you can always find a way to write.

I can now assure you that that is entirely untrue.  There are times (like the last 8 weeks) when the last thing you want to do is write (either on a blog or on your work) due to the overwhelming emotional turmoil being visited on you.  When that kind of thing hits you, I now say: Take a pass.  Put down your novel, abandon your blog, but don’t stop writing entirely.  I tried to write a little bit every day — from little micro-fictions to satires based on my family’s drama.  And of course, my pièce de résistance (and the only thing I’m willing to share with the outside world from that time) was the eulogy I wrote for my grandfather.

Now instead of a “traditional” eulogy, I wrote and read a piece of creative biographical nonfiction about my grandfather using details of his life told to me by my uncle.  Since a few people at the funeral asked to be able to read it, I said I would post it here, and now I finally am (six weeks later):

A Life Well Lived

On Monday as we sat around the kitchen table remembering my grandfather’s life, Susan mentioned that he had loved to waltz.

Waltz? I thought. My grandfather?

And as I sat there listening to Susan tell us about the times when he took her country dancing, I couldn’t help but realize that all of our memories and impressions of the man we all knew as James or Orvis or JO or Jimmy or even Dad or Bapa were going to be different.  And that makes sense since we all knew him at different points of his life.

For instance, I’m sure if his brothers and sisters were still here with us today, they would tell us all about my grandfather’s childhood growing up in Texas during the early part of the 20th century. I’m sure they would regale us with tales like the one where he used to sell newspapers, barefoot, on the corner in front of the county courthouse.  And Aunts Hannah Ruth and Pauline could tell us what he felt when their mother died in 1927 and the three of them went to live with Grandma Gant.  I don’t think any of them would claim it was an easy life, but it was one filled with family.

At sixteen, my grandfather left home to work at the cotton gin in Dallas. There his tale would be picked up by the Yates family. He met his future wife, my grandmother Gladys, there in Dallas on the steps of the Swiss Ave Baptist Church, and he eventually lived as a renter in her mother’s boarding house.  I’m sure the Yates could tell us all about him at that time: how he married my grandmother without my great-grandmother’s approval.  In fact, Great-grandmother Yates was so annoyed with the pair that she refused to let Grandma Gladys back in the house to retrieve her clothes.  Gladys was stuck wearing the same pink dress for over a week before Great-grandmother Yates relented.

The Yates could also share stories about the various jobs JO had during this period: everything from door to door Fuller brush salesman to brick layer.  But all that changed after the bombing of Pearl Harbor when my grandfather joined the navy.  From there, my Uncle Truman would have to continue the story since Truman was with him when he enlisted.  Uncle Truman went on to be a SeeBee at Guadacanal, but my grandfather made sure he flew in planes stationed out of Hawaii.  In fact, my grandfather was so determined to make sure he got a position he wanted, that he purposefully placed himself exactly in the right spot of the recruitment line (the navy was using a very sophisticated 1,2,3 placement technique) to ensure he got the job he preferred.

From there, he and Truman returned to Dallas and started a flooring business.  It was here that my grandfather discovered the love of his professional life.  No, I don’t mean flooring.  The two men had built the building that housed the business.  When they sold that building at a profit, my grandfather began on the career path he followed for the next fifty years.  During that time he built houses, schools, strip malls, and all manner of commercial real estate including the warehouses that support ten people even now.

During that time my grandparents expanded their family by having three children – a stillborn daughter and then my mother and my Uncle Ken.  These two could share all sorts of memories about family vacations and holidays, visits to various relatives, and countless birthdays and other celebrations.  In 1971, JO walked my mother down the aisle of the Park Cities Baptist Church. Only a few years later the whole family was back in the same church attending Gladys funeral after her untimely death from breast cancer.

This was a difficult time for my grandfather, but eventually his grief was mitigated when he discovered the woman who would be his companion for the rest of his life, his wife Susan.  I’m sure Susan has all kinds of wonderful stories she could share of their life together: tales of weddings and vacations, like their trip to Vegas, or of evenings spent waltzing or two-stepping to country music.

And finally, the story of JO’s life can be taken up by Allison, Jarrod, Jesse, Mark, and me.  The five of us have all sorts of great memories of him from our childhood.  There were big Fourth of July pool parties and annual, elaborate Easter egg hunts.  There were all those years when the three families, JO’s, Ken’s, and ours, all lived next door to each other; when our cousins were only two gates and one yard away.  My grandfather kept our dog Saber when Mark proved to be allergic, and he spent many evenings with my cousins supposedly babysitting but really just having fun.  There were many happy milestones – like all of our first cars (I know my grandfather and uncle helped my mom pick out mine) and the various graduations he attended.  And of course, there were more somber occasions, most notably my mother’s death.  Although this was a devastating event for my grandfather, he eventually allowed the grief to pass and resumed spending time with the work and family he loved.  And when he finally retired from working two years ago (and only because he decided that at 93 perhaps he really shouldn’t be driving), he continued creating memories out in the sunshine on his back porch with all of us including his great-grandson, Miles.

In the end, it is all of these different people’s different memories that speak to a rich and varied life well lived.  For me the memory is of the grandfather who presided over the dinner table every Sunday night when he took us to the club to eat.  For my brother, it’s the man who lived with him for nearly 6 months so he could finish school that turbulent year our mother died. For Allison and Jesse it’s countless Christmases and holidays with the whole family together. For Jarrod it’s the time he “ran away from home” and walked all the way next door to Bapa’s house where he dumped all his toys in the entryway, and informed JO and Susan that he now lived with them. For my dad, it’s the memory of the meticulous business man who went to make sure every building’s foundation was properly poured and then came back to the office with the inevitable cement splatter spotting his suit.  For my mother and my Uncle Ken, it’s the dad that took them on family vacations, applauded at their graduations, and toasted their weddings. And for Susan, who was married to my grandfather for thirty-seven years, it’s the image of the man that used to twirl her in a waltz.

I'm Back.

At the very end of November, right after Thanksgiving, my grandfather died.  Seeing as he was 95, had only stopped driving at 93, and was generally pretty hale and hearty up until the last few months, this was not exactly a horrible tragedy that had me lying awake at night.

However, it was a time consuming one. (Of the last 42 days of the year, I spent 23 of them in Dallas with the family.)

Now we writers are always telling people that you have to find time to write no matter what — that no matter the circumstances, you can always find a way to write.

I can now assure you that that is entirely untrue.  There are times (like the last 8 weeks) when the last thing you want to do is write (either on a blog or on your work) due to the overwhelming emotional turmoil being visited on you.  When that kind of thing hits you, I now say: Take a pass.  Put down your novel, abandon your blog, but don't stop writing entirely.  I tried to write a little bit every day — from little micro-fictions to satires based on my family's drama.  And of course, my pièce de résistance (and the only thing I'm willing to share with the outside world from that time) was the eulogy I wrote for my grandfather.

Now instead of a "traditional" eulogy, I wrote and read a piece of creative biographical nonfiction about my grandfather using details of his life told to me by my uncle.  Since a few people at the funeral asked to be able to read it, I said I would post it here, and now I finally am (six weeks later):

A Life Well Lived

On Monday as we sat around the kitchen table remembering my grandfather's life, Susan mentioned that he had loved to waltz.

Waltz? I thought. My grandfather?

And as I sat there listening to Susan tell us about the times when he took her country dancing, I couldn't help but realize that all of our memories and impressions of the man we all knew as James or Orvis or JO or Jimmy or even Dad or Bapa were going to be different.  And that makes sense since we all knew him at different points of his life.

For instance, I'm sure if his brothers and sisters were still here with us today, they would tell us all about my grandfather's childhood growing up in Texas during the early part of the 20th century. I'm sure they would regale us with tales like the one where he used to sell newspapers, barefoot, on the corner in front of the county courthouse.  And Aunts Hannah Ruth and Pauline could tell us what he felt when their mother died in 1927 and the three of them went to live with Grandma Gant.  I don't think any of them would claim it was an easy life, but it was one filled with family.

At sixteen, my grandfather left home to work at the cotton gin in Dallas. There his tale would be picked up by the Yates family. He met his future wife, my grandmother Gladys, there in Dallas on the steps of the Swiss Ave Baptist Church, and he eventually lived as a renter in her mother's boarding house.  I'm sure the Yates could tell us all about him at that time: how he married my grandmother without my great-grandmother's approval.  In fact, Great-grandmother Yates was so annoyed with the pair that she refused to let Grandma Gladys back in the house to retrieve her clothes.  Gladys was stuck wearing the same pink dress for over a week before Great-grandmother Yates relented.

The Yates could also share stories about the various jobs JO had during this period: everything from door to door Fuller brush salesman to brick layer.  But all that changed after the bombing of Pearl Harbor when my grandfather joined the navy.  From there, my Uncle Truman would have to continue the story since Truman was with him when he enlisted.  Uncle Truman went on to be a SeeBee at Guadacanal, but my grandfather made sure he flew in planes stationed out of Hawaii.  In fact, my grandfather was so determined to make sure he got a position he wanted, that he purposefully placed himself exactly in the right spot of the recruitment line (the navy was using a very sophisticated 1,2,3 placement technique) to ensure he got the job he preferred.

From there, he and Truman returned to Dallas and started a flooring business.  It was here that my grandfather discovered the love of his professional life.  No, I don't mean flooring.  The two men had built the building that housed the business.  When they sold that building at a profit, my grandfather began on the career path he followed for the next fifty years.  During that time he built houses, schools, strip malls, and all manner of commercial real estate including the warehouses that support ten people even now.

During that time my grandparents expanded their family by having three children – a stillborn daughter and then my mother and my Uncle Ken.  These two could share all sorts of memories about family vacations and holidays, visits to various relatives, and countless birthdays and other celebrations.  In 1971, JO walked my mother down the aisle of the Park Cities Baptist Church. Only a few years later the whole family was back in the same church attending Gladys funeral after her untimely death from breast cancer.

This was a difficult time for my grandfather, but eventually his grief was mitigated when he discovered the woman who would be his companion for the rest of his life, his wife Susan.  I'm sure Susan has all kinds of wonderful stories she could share of their life together: tales of weddings and vacations, like their trip to Vegas, or of evenings spent waltzing or two-stepping to country music.

And finally, the story of JO's life can be taken up by Allison, Jarrod, Jesse, Mark, and me.  The five of us have all sorts of great memories of him from our childhood.  There were big Fourth of July pool parties and annual, elaborate Easter egg hunts.  There were all those years when the three families, JO's, Ken's, and ours, all lived next door to each other; when our cousins were only two gates and one yard away.  My grandfather kept our dog Saber when Mark proved to be allergic, and he spent many evenings with my cousins supposedly babysitting but really just having fun.  There were many happy milestones – like all of our first cars (I know my grandfather and uncle helped my mom pick out mine) and the various graduations he attended.  And of course, there were more somber occasions, most notably my mother's death.  Although this was a devastating event for my grandfather, he eventually allowed the grief to pass and resumed spending time with the work and family he loved.  And when he finally retired from working two years ago (and only because he decided that at 93 perhaps he really shouldn't be driving), he continued creating memories out in the sunshine on his back porch with all of us including his great-grandson, Miles.

In the end, it is all of these different people's different memories that speak to a rich and varied life well lived.  For me the memory is of the grandfather who presided over the dinner table every Sunday night when he took us to the club to eat.  For my brother, it's the man who lived with him for nearly 6 months so he could finish school that turbulent year our mother died. For Allison and Jesse it's countless Christmases and holidays with the whole family together. For Jarrod it's the time he "ran away from home" and walked all the way next door to Bapa's house where he dumped all his toys in the entryway, and informed JO and Susan that he now lived with them. For my dad, it's the memory of the meticulous business man who went to make sure every building's foundation was properly poured and then came back to the office with the inevitable cement splatter spotting his suit.  For my mother and my Uncle Ken, it's the dad that took them on family vacations, applauded at their graduations, and toasted their weddings. And for Susan, who was married to my grandfather for thirty-seven years, it's the image of the man that used to twirl her in a waltz.