Ilsa J. Bick's Blog, page 29

Going All Joe Friday

By now, I think we’ve established that I don’t “do” vacations well.  I never know I’m supposed to be on vacation unless my husband tells me.  I simply can’t vacate my life because writing pretty much defines me these days and to the point where I no longer feel as, well . . . sheepish when people ask what I do.  Until fairly recently, I always qualified: Well, I’m a child shrink.  Started out in surgery, went on to child psychiatry, and did prison work, too . . . but now I, uh . . . well, I write YA novels.  Today at a wedding reception and then later at a high school graduation thingamabob, I flat-out said I was a writer.  No qualifiers, no explanations.  No feeling this need to apologize.  OTOH, I didn’t even realize what I’d left unsaid until the husband pointed it out.

Now, for those of you who wonder why I might have felt a little embarrassed or sheepish or whatever . . . really, it’s not that hard to understand.  I mean, for heaven’s sake, I went to school for ten trillion years to become a doctor which is–let’s face it–kind of a tough go.  In the early days of my gradual slide into full-time writer-dom, I felt like such a frigging fraud.  Everyone’s working on or written or had an idea for a novel, right?  And I think that by saying I was a doc first and a wannabe writer way, way second, I was protecting myself from what I thought was inevitable failure–because I couldn’t really do this; my stories were so damn bad–and trying to have it both ways: hanging onto a hard-won accomplishment and something that gave me an out just in case.  So it’s only been very recently that I’ve given myself permission to be a writer. 

I don’t know if that still feels tenuous to me or not, but I’ve got a sneaking suspicion that it might.  I’m always thinking that all this could disappear tomorrow, or the books I’ve published must be a mistake, a fluke, a snafu on a cosmic level.  That, someday, someone’s gonna wake up–DOH!–and realize that, no, no, there must be some mistake: that Bick character, she is outta here.

Perhaps that’s why I have a hard time letting go of work this go-round.  Most writers are always writing, whether they’re conscious of it or not.  They’re amassing experiences, thinking of a plot point, planning the next scene, stuff like that.  My husband says he always knows when I’m not really in the room because I become monosyllabic if not completely über-quiet.  (To some, I imagine that might be a relief.)  

This probably explains why these past couple of weeks in the UK have felt even less like a vacation than usual because I went for the express purpose not simply of researching the sequel to White Space, the first book in my new series set to appear next spring, but making like a human sponge: soaking up locale and ambience and period details.  Wherever I went, people were enormously helpful, and even more so when they found out that I was working on a novel (which, no, I didn’t say; the husband would always blab).  I went all Joe Friday: just the facts, Ma’am.

The experience was all rather overwhelming, actually, just the sheer volume of it all.  I could feel myself trying to remember everything.  I filled up notebooks; I studied arcane books that librarians lugged from storage; I took scads of pictures; if Kodak were still in business, I could be a major share-holder.  Man, my mind got so stuffed with information, I could’ve sworn those tink-tinking sounds were facts dribbling from my ears to hit the floor.  I completely freaked myself out, thinking that, shit, I’ll never remember all this.  Worse, I worry that I’ll never assimilate all this material or get to the point where describing something isn’t self-conscious.  

Like . . . you know . . . take turning on a light.  You just do it, right?  No one gives a rat’s ass about the excitation of mercury vapor in a fluorescent bulb, and unless your story centers around a homicidal maniac who goes around poisoning folks with mercury fumes, who cares?  Unless the quality of the light is important to establishing place or situation, you don’t worry about it.

But if you light a kerosene lamp, what’s the quality of the light then?  What color?  How bright?  What do the shadows look like?  Is the light from whale oil the same, or different?  Would the color depend on the grade of whale oil?  Would burning whale oil have a scent and, if so, what kind?  Would that be the kind of sensory detail that would “place” a story? (Hint: the answer is yes.)

I remember the author of this one monster of an sf trilogy–we’re talking years back–took a perfectly good story and completely ruined it by larding the narrative with so many facts the thing read like a treatise on rocket design, terraforming, and planetary ecology. I’m not kidding; every time I tried to read that thing, I’d glaze over.  My eyes would start to merge at the center of my forehead.  I’d think, Dude, I don’t frigging care about the obliquity of the ecliptic.

Now, though, and for the first time, I could appreciate why that guy and so many writers–even those with a ton of skill–might want to put all that knowledge down just to show you that, see, I know this, see?   When you’ve gone to that much trouble to immerse yourself in a period and place, it’s only natural to want people to appreciate just how hard that is.  

A month ago, I tried plowing through an historical thriller by this very well-published, best-selling author.  In interviews, the guy said that the research for his book took about a year and man, it was clear that he wanted to make damn sure you knew–that, by God, you should appreciate–all those hours and days and weeks and months of effort he’d put into this thing.  That book was so larded with facts, the writing was stale, the words absolutely leaden.  I finally gave up about twenty pages in, when the second chapter actually started out with that kind of deathless dry prose that makes you want to stab your eyes out with a fork: In such and such a year, this and that was formed for the purpose of . . . zzzzzzz.

But.

I know how that writer felt.  I also know what he forgot.

The best research is that which doesn’t call attention to itself.  Facts need to melt seamlessly into narrative.  Facts give readers a sense of a place; verisimilitude makes a world.  But a collection of facts is not synonymous with story–unless you’re Joe Friday.

A Page From Winslow’s Playbook

Okay, I’m going to be completely upfront about this: my brain’s been on total information overload.  Not exactly fried, but being the workaholic I am, I haven’t taken a weekend to do pretty much NOTHING for . . . well, forever.

Doing nothing wasn’t the plan.  Remember: ten days ago, I finished the first pass-through revision for WHITE SPACE.  Since then, I’ve been cramming in information and beginning to outline the second book in the series.  So I had every intention of hitting the stacks of books I’ve amassed and get on with it already.

But Saturday conspired to do me in.  I don’t know exactly what it was.  Could be that I was still pooped from dress rehearsal for the last symphony chorus performance of the season the night before.  When I woke up Saturday, I was cranky, worried about a couple pages, anxious that Brahms really would have the last laugh.  (Man, this guy was cruel when it came to count and syncopation.)  So I allowed myself to get sidetracked.  Listened to the whole piece again that morning.  Played around on an online site, making sure I had all the notes and the count down.



Then, I opened my email.  Big mistake.  Got into this very long discussion with a friend about the publishing world nowadays, and THAT led me to seek out a couple blogs I’ve recently neglected, and what THEY had to say made me even antsier because it was so CLEAR that I hadn’t thought about some of the stuff they were talking about.  So I read that instead of doing the other reading I should’ve been doing. (Really, if you could see the mountain of books I’m digesting before I leave for that research trip to the UK in a couple weeks–and I could’ve sworn I’d taken a picture at some point–maybe you’d understand the fast boil going on inside my skull.  I have got to write a blog post about researching a historical; I just gotta.)



Anyway, when I looked up, it was already afternoon, and I thought, hell, get something done.  I did–there was a whole bunch of stuff, information and whatnot about characters, stewing in my head–but not nearly enough, and I found myself breaking off to go give Brahms another run-through. O.o  And then it was time to exercise and then there was the concert and, yes, we DESTROYED that Boito and gave the Brahms Requiem a real what-for.

Came home.  Drank half a martini.  Ate some cheese and bread.  Had a good cry over a silly chick-flick.  Got midway into Hoosiers, saw it was closing in on half past midnight and thought, Jeez, Ilsa, go to bed.

And then it was today, Sunday.  I’m a good daughter.  Of course, I called my mom, and then my kids called and we all yakked–and when I looked up, it was almost 1:00 p.m.

And I thought, hell.  (Actually, I thought something much stronger than that.)  Because, see, I really wanted to hammer on that outline, but I also wanted to make a cake because doing so always makes me feel like I’ve actually accomplished something.  There was exercise still to do as well, and then the husband was scheduled to come home from his week-long business/family trip.  We were supposed to go out to dinner.

I had an attack of the guilts like you can not believe.  Honestly, Catholics have nothing on Jews when it comes to guilt.  I was going to slink over to my desk and work.  Just forgo the cake and all that.

But then I saw this:

And I thought: Ilsa, for God’s sake, take a page from Winslow’s playbook and cut yourself a break.  Let it go.  Kick back, make your cake, let the day and the weekend go . . . just this once.

So I did.  I made my Sunday cake, Strawberry Bundt with White Chocolate Ganache:

My husband came home just as I was turning it out, and we went to the gym.  He took me out to dinner.  We just got back, and he gave me a fab assortment of fancy vinegars.  [Two of my endearing qualities, he claims: I am a) a cheap date and b) very easy to please.]

So that’s that.  I’ve officially blown off the day and the weekend, something I almost never do.  I’ve nothing profound to say, although I honestly do believe you guys ought to take a gander at the following blog posts from Dean Wesley Smith and Kristine Kathryn Rusch because I think they raise interesting questions about where we, as writers, might be headed, and in the very near future.  Don’t wait for my next post to comment either; if you’ve got feelings about what they’re talking about, let’s hear ‘em and we can go from there.  I know they certainly got me thinking.

But, for now–this very rare weekend–I’ve let my overheated brain take a rest.  Pretty much.

I think it’s time for a cat nap.

Not All About You

This past week, I had the great good fortune to be part of the TLA.  Meeting librarians (some of my favorite people), other authors whom I admire, and fans aside, I also got to sit on a sf/fantasy panel with some fabulous writers, all of whom give me the green envies: like . . . why didn’t I think of that? (And, crap, they dress well.)   In hindsight, there were also several questions where, after I’d heard a response, I thought, I wish I’d said . . . x, y, z.

One question, though–really, two questions bundled into one–got me to thinking.  Specifically, how much does a dystopian or apocalyptic scenario reflect the writer’s personal vision, and why is it that adolescents seem to groove on these books so much?  I’m perfectly happy with the answers I gave–which, yeah, I’ll partially recap here but have written quite a bit about in other venues–but I was struck by how different my personal vision is/was from my fellow panelists.

Look, here’s the skinny on the personal vision stuff: the reality is that if a book didn’t reflect a fairly substantial chunk of what a writer believes, the book wouldn’t work.  Period.  You just can’t fake this stuff.  You have to truly believe what you’re writing; the book must reflect your personal vision, regardless of genre or circumstance.  Readers can spot a faker a mile off.  So if you don’t invest your narrative with every drop of conviction, you might as well hang it up.



What I found pretty interesting was that of my fellow panelists, I seemed to be the only pessimist in the bunch.  (Maybe the others were lying; beats me.)  Now this might be what comes of being a Freudian or from personal history . . . probably there’s some truth to that . . . but it was striking and, honestly, a little troubling, mainly because I think that if anyone has paid any attention to history, you realize that people are really a) quite savage, b) selfish, and c) not all that nice when the chips are down.  I mean, God, turn on the news; go read about how many elephants were slaughtered last year just for their tusks, if you don’t believe me, or which species is teetering on the brink of extinction this week.



Now, it’s also true that people like reading stories (and seeing movies) where things work out, or there’s some semblance of hope.  No one likes an eternal downer as entertainment (which, you have to remember, is what we writers are doing: providing entertainment).  It’s the reason I like going to the occasional chick-flick; I couldn’t live on the stuff, but I do love that little break and a good cry.  It is just as true that teens love dystopias and apocalyptic books because they provide a vicarious avenue for grappling with seemingly insurmountable odds–and winning.  Surviving.  And not only winning or surviving: doing the right and noble thing.



I recognize this; I truly believe that there are a few good and noble people.  But I guess I’m still quite pessimistic, and most especially about the idea that, no matter how bad things might get here on Earth, we humans will adapt, somehow.



Now, the reason I find that a little disconcerting is that while it might be correct–and I think the jury’s still out on that; there are plenty of civilizations that have come and gone before us, and species, too–it reflects a vision of the Earth as something that matters only to humans.  It is an anthrocentric point of view.  Sure, okay: maybe we’ll adapt and discover new tech and wander around breathing with special filters and living under domes, but I don’t think anyone would much enjoy the world as, say, imagined by Phillip K. Dick, or one where the only forests exist on space ships (as in 1972′s Silent Running).  It is, in fact, a view that ignores the reality that while we might adapt–and that’s a big might because if we don’t curb population growth and stop outstripping the carrying capacity of the planet, we will drain our aquifers, period, and there are huge regions of the planet without enough water right this very second–this isn’t only about us, about people. It’s about all the organisms with which we share this planet: living beings that will not adapt because the changes are too rapid and the alternatives, too few.  They will die, as they are dying now; as we destroy and decimate their habitats, species will continue to vanish at an alarming rate, as they are vanishing now.  That is reality.



Let me give you a disheartening example of just this kind of antrocentric thinking: if you’ve been following me on Twitter or Facebook, then you know that I’ve been watching a mother fox and her litter of five kits for the past couple of weeks.  The mom just happened to make her den under a neighbor’s deck, and watching this little family was so special I can’t tell you.  It was a true gift and opportunity not many people have, and I know that several neighbors felt the same way.  Yeah, fine, so my cats couldn’t go out; BFD.  A couple neighbors even thought that, cool, the rabbits won’t eat their lettuce.

Unfortunately, the guy whose deck it was . . . he was pissed.  And, no, before you ask: no chickens, no pets, no kids.  In fact, the guy and his wife are rarely home.  The foxes weren’t in his house.  They were under the bloody deck.  The mom chased my cats twice (the first indication I had that she was around), but that was it, and she really only barked at them.  (Winslow, that stinker, was much more interested in being friends, I think.)  When I wandered outside, that mom just sat down and we had a good long look at each other, and we did that several times.  She watched me every morning at the bird feeder; our coversation was a bit one-sided, but she was polite about it.  She brought some of the kits over to our yard to hang out.  It was lovely.



Anyway, the neighbor guy wanted to get rid of the fox and her kits.  I have to say that I was floored; we live in a rural area; the woods are literally across the street and all around; there are coyotes and raccoons and opossums and foxes and deer and . . . you get the picture.  So this guy called the DNR (they wisely said forget it); called a pest control guy (ditto). Then he decided, fine, he’d scare the hell out of the animals: blasted rock music all day and put on big bright spots at night.

And, yes, before you ask: I went over to talk to him.  Nicely. Just to feel him out.  His primary thing was it was his land, his property, and he wanted those animals gone.



So . . . sad to say, he succeeded.  The foxes cleared out.  I spotted mom a couple times after I got back from Texas, but only one kit, curled up next to the shed maybe thirty feet from my back door.  Sweetest little guy.  He was there last night but gone this morning, and my guess is mom-fox told him to stay put until she got back, and then they went off together.  (I’ve found out from a wildlife rehab person that this kind of thing–planting the kids and telling them to wait here–frequently happens.)



But when you have a reality like that–this sense of entitlement that man has about what is his versus what he shares–it’s hard not to get, well, a little discouraged.  To be a little über-sensitive when you hear that we humans will “adapt.”  Yes, perhaps: but at what price?



Someone once asked if I didn’t think my fiction was too “graphic,” the violence too “real” for kids.  Uhm . . . well . . . no, I don’t.  Nothing I include is gratuitous.  Everything I write, and this pertains to the violence, too, is no more graphic than a video game, a graphic novel, or the latest episode of The Walking Dead.  When I include a traumatic or horrible detail, it is to reinforce that, yes, actions have consequences.  Pull a trigger, someone may die, and it may be, in fact, a horrible thing to see.  It may, in fact, be more horrible to do.



But I do not believe that a writer has a duty to teach moral lessons or find “truth,” because truth depends on who you are and what you believe, and we all have parents.  Sorry: I’m a writer; I’m an entertainer; it’s not in my job description. Yet, at times, I do struggle with balancing out the reality that I see and know with the hope that, maybe, something will change.  Perhaps this is why I focus so much in my fiction on both the bad choices people make and their repercussions: because I do want kids (and adults) to stop a moment and consider before they act.  I especially want kids to understand that nearly every action has a consequence; every decision an effect; that we truly are connected to one another and this Earth, for better or worse, and you are not necessarily more important than anyone or anything else.  In the end, I want them to see: really, this isn’t all about you. 

That Blast From the Past

So I had one of those moments, both nostalgic and bittersweet, this past week when my author copies for WEIRD DETECTIVES: RECENT INVESTIGATIONS arrived. 

I knew the anthology was floating around because I’d gotten an email from someone who’d read my story, “The Key” (the first story in the anthology and something I didn’t know but which I’ll tell you why I’m tickled about that in a second) and wanted to let me know how much he loved it.  So that was nice.

When the books arrived, I flipped to the story and was sort of . . . Wow, long time no see, how you been doing?  The story is one I’d written back in 2004 and was a bit of a departure for me because I chose to write about a detective who was the partner of another detective I’d introduced in a story I’d done the year before, “Sarah’s Heart.”    That story made it into an e-anthology (Hauntings; L. Marie Wood, Ed.; Houston, TX: Cyber-Pulp Publishing; 2003) but not print.  I found that after writing SH, I was very. . . well, fond of the Jason Saunders character, the partner.  So I thought, I’d really like to see who this Jason-guy is, you know?  Who are his friends; what does he like; that kind of stuff.  I also think that the reason I chose Jason to spin off was because the story in which he was introduced was both finished and not; I don’t want to give away what happens in SH in case I ever decide to finally dredge it up and put it out there for folks to read. (HAH! In my copious free time.)  But, suffice to say, there are some MAJOR loose ends.

In retrospect, maybe I wrote Adam’s story (the POV detective in SH) so I could do Jason’s, I don’t know.  But I do remember writing “The Key” and then trying to figure out where to send it.  I tried all the regular mystery venues and have some very nice rejection letters from Alfred Hitchcock and Ellery Queen. (And, yes, guys, some rejections letter are okay to get because the editors have written something really NICE, like, essentially, God, this is great, but we can’t publish this kind of story.  Gotten more than a few, and while rejection is never pleasant, seeing an editor’s personal note . . . you know, they’re busy people. So you appreciate the time they took to tell you how bad they felt about having to pass, and why.) 

So I was sitting there, scratching my head, and then thought, Whoa, wait.  There’s SciFiction.COM.   

 

Let me explain: back in the Dark Ages of 2004, the SciFi channel (which was, yes, properly science fiction and fantasy then and DON’T GET ME STARTED) maintained a FANTASTIC website for original sf and fantasy.  (As of this moment, it’s been resurrected into something completely different, and if you go to the site, you won’t find my story or anyone else’s.)  The editor was Ellen Datlow, fabulous at her job, already famous by the time she was there, and–in person–an all-around really nice and fun lady, who shares my obsession for cats and also surprised the heck out of me by appearing in my signing line for DRAW THE DARK at the BEA.  (A confession: the first time I met her, at a Westercon back in . . . gosh . . . ’99?  2000? . . . she said my name was “familiar” and why was that?  Well, I’d only sent her like ten trillion stories she kept rejecting.  But I chickened out and just said something dumb, like, oh, I’m presenting a lot at the con.  I know: stupid.  I’m much better now.)

Anyhoo–I’d already sold Ellen a couple of stories, and I thought, Okay, why not?  The worst thing she could tell me was to get lost.  One thing I can tell you is this: when you make a sale to an editor you really admire and respect, it means the world.  There are some editors I would kill to sell to; a few I’ve managed; and most I’ve not–and it’s no slam-dunk either.  It’s not like you sell once, and yay, you’re set for life.  No, no: every story or book is a new hurdle, another chance for someone to say, Eehhh . . . no.  You’ve never really arrived unless you’re . . . well, I won’t name names, but I’ll bet you can fill in your own blanks with authors you think pretty much sell everything they write simply on the basis of name recognition, whether it’s “better” than the rest or not.  I’m not being catty or nasty; I’m just saying: they’ve produced to a high enough level for a long enough period of time that an editor would have to be INSANE to pass them by (and knows the author would probably find another venue in a heartbeat anyway).

Now I remember my very first sale of a short story.  I remember my first book sale.  I remember my first sale to different editors, and I very definitely recall what it was like to get an email from Ellen for the first story of mine that she took, “In the Blood”  (which, yeah, I really am in the process of dredging up and getting together, but other work keeps getting in the way).    So I knew that Ellen was a) an editor I respected and admired and b) someone open enough to look at something . . . well, kind of quirky.

So I shot off “The Key,” my weird little story about infanticide and soul murder and Jewish mysticism and guilt and redemption; and worried for weeks.  Tried not to think about it. Moved on with other work.  Had the nagging suspicion that, you know, regardless of what happens, I was really starting to like this Jason Saunders guy. I started having these . . . thoughts.  Like, hunh, what if I did a novel with him as a character?  Or another short story? Or a series of short stories?  (GAWD, so Holmes.  So Dresden.)  It was weird; I’d never had a character get under my skin like that before.

Long story short: Ellen took the story, which is why it shows up reprinted in this new anthology.  Now, have I re-read it?  No.  I know how the story ends.  But did seeing it in print revive a whole lot of memories and half-formed ideas?  Oh, you bet.  Specifically: I did do another Jason Saunders story, “Second Sight” for the anthology, CRIME SPELLS .  That story was published five years after “The Key,” but the character still felt immediate, fresh, alive.  By the time I was done with SS, which is pretty lonnng short story, I had populated Jason’s world with characters he cared about.  I had a introduced a recurring partner; a new and very mysterious woman-shrink with interesting, well, powers of her own and her enigmatic FBI dad; the shrink’s sister, a medical student;  a rabbi, who’d appeared in all three Jason Saunders stories . . . this guy, Jason, was getting a real life.

And I have to admit: I had plans.  I’d tried using Jason as a support character in another adult mystery, but it just didn’t work.  I know why now.  Jason was crying out to be his own guy and go back to the nebulous and fantastical territory into which I’d originally given him a voice.  He was never meant to be a bit character.

So seeing this story . . . well, I think my husband saw it before I did: that, admit it, Ils, you’d like to do some stuff with Jason.  And, sure, I would.  It’s funny, but I’ve not forgotten a thing about the guy; I know what the women look like; I understand what kind of music this guy likes and what beer he’ll drink , what he likes to eat, nd even where he lives and why. 

Will I do another Jason Saunders story?  I don’t know.  I do know that I had another idea for the very next story that ought to follow SS.  I still think it would work.  A short story  is a very different animal from a novel, and I would ultimately have to decide if Jason belongs in a short story format, or something longer.  I just don’t know.  Right now, because he was born in a short story, I feel like that’s where he belongs.  So, maybe . . . someday.

Oh, yeah, I know what I forgot: to tell you why it’s so great my story’s the first one you see (and, no, it’s not alphabetical).  Having been to a couple workshops where the task is to take stories and put together an anthology, I can tell you that story placement is important.  Specifically, you want to start off an anthology very strongly, right out of the gate.  It’s why, for example, stories by Stephen King are often the very first: they grab the reader and set the tone for the anthology while hopefully leaving you, the reader, wanting more.  (This is also why the middle’s important and why you find some very fabulous stories right smack-dab in the center: you want your reader, who may be getting a little tired by then, to get that little jolt, a KERPOW moment.  That middle story is a reward for sticking it out and the pivot point for the rest of the anthology.)  Ditto the last two stories of an anthology: you want something that eases the reader into the last story which should provide closure and satisfaction, a bit like a novel (well, except mine, I guess; if you know my work, you know I thrive on ambiguity).

It was a thrill to be contacted at all for this anthology; I was blown away that someone had read and remembered that story after all these years and liked it enough to want to reprint it.  But for “The Key” to be the first thing you see, for the editor to put that kind of faith in my work . . . guys, in my book, that’s an honor. 

Writing May Be Hazardous to Your Health

If you’ve ever read one of my novels, you know that I tend to put my characters through a lot.  To put it bluntly, their life expectancy isn’t the greatest, and finding yourself in an Ilsa J. Bick novel may be quite hazardous to your health.

Well, it turns out that my characters might be returning the favor because here’s a news flash for you: Writing is hazardous is your health. 

Let me rephrase.  It’s not that writing per se is bad; it’s the sitting all day that will kill you.  No joke.  NPR did a piece on this a couple years ago that’s worth reading and/or listening to.  According to numerous studies (including a relatively recent study in Medicine and Science in Sports and Exercise), excessive sitting–say, up to 23 hours a week–increases the risk of heart disease in young men by as much as 64%.  I’m sure it’s comparable for women.  The kicker is that all those guys?  A lot of them routinely exercised. 

So what the heck is a writer supposed to do?  From personal experience, I can tell you that I’m easily sitting 9+ hours a day, and I do that every day.  I also exercise 90-120 minutes a day, every day.  I’m not overweight, although–you know–once you’re past a certain age, things that used to defy gravity don’t.  

But I’m a doc.  So I know.  The less you engage major muscle groups, the lower your metabolic rate.  It’s one of the reasons why people can become quite obese even if their total intake is low.  Their metabolic rates slow to a crawl.  A slug is faster.  It’s one of the truisms of weight loss, too.  If you want a kid or adult to lose weight, you have to kick up the metabolic rate first by getting moving–and then you zip your pie-hole.

So if I believe the stats, and I do, then all this work?  All these stories?  These characters?  There are a lot of days when I think a story’s going to kill me, but the reality is that they really might be the death of me. 

Well, the solution is to get moving, right?  Or moving even more than I already do?  The problem is that the more time I spend doing that, the less time I have to write.  There are a couple solutions out there; in the current April issue, there’s a fine article  by Susan Dawson-Cook, “Better Health for Writers.”  The majority of the stuff she mentions you already know: the importance of proper ergonomics, ways to reduce discomfort while writing, and all that.  (Another news flash: I have NEVER had as many problems with my arms, hands, and–strangely–feet before I upped my writing time.)  If you want to fork over the money for a treadmill, you can build yourself a treadmill desk (or buy one).  Me, I actually considered that, but it seemed kind of criminal to buy a machine when I have access to plenty of them at the gym.  I also wonder how effective I can really be trying to both walk (even very, very slowly) and compose at the same time.

Yet, there is a long tradition of writers walking as a way of clearing out the cobwebs.  Thoreau once wrote: “Me thinks the moment my legs begin to move, my thoughts begin to flow.”  We all know some of literature’s famous walkers–Robert Louis Stevenson, Mark Twain, Virginia Woolf, and–my personal favorite–Dickens, a man who routinely walked over twenty miles a day.  (Of course, he was also an insomniac and died early of a stroke, but who’s keeping score?)  I know that I can write all day long, get my pages in and all that–and still I’ve done my best thinking while walking or working the machines.  (Swimming . . . not so much; I think it’s because I have to both count laps and breathe.  When I let my mind go, however, I do think relatively well . . . although I seem to end up swimming the same lap over and over again.  Same problem with spinning: if I’m listening to music to keep a cadence, there’s no way I can think about a story.  I love to bike, but I find it tough to sit for even more hours after I’ve been sitting all day.)  When I go for long walks, I always bring along an iPod to listen to an audiobook . . . but I’ve also noticed that when I’m deep into a story, I might plug in the earbuds but never turn on the iPod at all.  Or I’ll listen to the story, but my mind wanders because I’m very wrapped up in my own work.  So I lose track and finally turn the silly thing off.   I just don’t want any distractions.

So walking works for me in terms of freeing my mind.  (Ditto hiking; my husband once turned to me at the end of a fifteen-miler and remarked that I hadn’t strung together more than ten words the entire day.  He wasn’t miffed, but it’s a good thing he knows me so well, or else he’d think it was his breath.)  The question is . . . do I really want to take time away from writing to take a couple walks during the day?  Say, before I get started and at the midway point of my day, half hour at a pop, and in addition to the workout at the end of my workday I already do?  We’re talking about another hour, minimum, and more likely an hour and a half by the time you do the shoes, wash the hands, get a drink of water, blah, blah.  You know how time dribbles away.

Here’s what I’m really concerned about: breaking my rhythm.  Yes, yes, I often realize that I’ll have to kill the work I just did or change things in those last five pages just as soon as I’ve turned off my computer and walked away because that’s when it hits me that >, you idiot, that wasn’t the right place for that scene.  But it is just as true that I have a tough time getting back into writing after a break.  I can do it and certainly have done.  When the husband’s away on a business trip, then it’s not unusual for me to either work 12+ hours and then exercise, or work, break for my workout, and then slide back into a few more hours at night.  But that second chunk of time often feels less focused, quite possibly because I’m . . . well, tired.  I mean, I’ve been hunched over the keyboard all bloody day; I can tell I start to lose focus roundabout the 5th or 6th hour, but I also know that if I just keep going, that seems to diminish.  At any rate, I’m a little concerned that I’ll be shooting myself in the foot, work- and production-wise, on the outside chance I might live longer or, at least, as long as I might have if I’d never begun writing and sitting for such long stretches in the first place.

On the other hand, for my poor characters?  Given all the tsuris I put them through?

I’m sure they’ll think it’s poetic justice.

Women vs. Women

My fellow writer and friend, Emily Kristin Anderson, asked me to contribute a post to her celebration of International Women’s Week, and that’s her title up there, not mine.  But it was so good, I stole it just as I’m shamelessly reposting my two cents here.  If, however, you’d like to visit Emily’s page–and I’d encourage you to do so–you can see the post, in all its original glory, here.

* * *

So it’s International Women’s Week, and I feel . . . okay . . . so?  And?  Yes, you’ll read this and decide I’m the oddball here, the one ornery curmudgeon in the bunch when it comes to celebrating women and women’s accomplishments.

But here’s my dilemma: International Women’s Week means very little to me.  I had no women role models. No women inspired or mentored me.  No women helped me along the way.  Not a single woman was in my corner.  If I succeeded in medicine at all—my first profession before I turned to writing—I succeeded in spite of being a woman.

There you go, short and sweet.

Now, I’m not being woe-is-me here, nor am I one of those self-hating women.  But this was my reality in the late 70s, early 80s: there were women in medicine but not many.  I competed and lived and tried to get ahead in a world dominated by men.  Other than a single solitary female anatomist, I had no women professors in medical school.  Other than a few OB-GYNs, the attendings were, to a man . . . well, men.

While there were women in my class, only one other woman, Annie, went into surgery.  Prior to that internship year, I groveled through rotations at various hospitals, and in all that time, I met exactly one female attending surgeon, an endocrine specialist at Yale. There were no female interns or residents in any of the surgical programs I was looking into, nor were there women in any of my various surgical subspecialty rotations.

Are you beginning to see a pattern here?  There were no women, anywhere.  There just weren’t, and the very few you did find were too busy scrambling to keep their footing.  Because here’s another truism: when you’re a women in a male-dominated world, you must do everything ten times better than the men to earn their respect and prove you deserve to be there.  It’s just that way.  You have to out-tough the men.

I finally got into a general surgery program, thank God, but I was the first woman they had ever accepted.  I also knew, virtually from Day One, that I would never make it to a chief resident’s slot.  See, many surgical programs operate in what’s known as the “pyramidal” system.  It’s exactly what it sounds like.  The program hires a bunch of interns—fourteen, in this particular hospital—and then, beginning at the end of the second year, starts to cut people from the program every year.  By the fifth year, there will be two—count them, two—chief residents.  Everyone else, those twelve other unlucky souls, will have gotten the axe along the way, and then they get to scramble around for openings in other programs.  Some of them get lucky right away.  A lot don’t, and have to grub around for years in part-time positions until they can land a slot.  Some never do.

Now, just as a point of reference, a typical general surgical program lasts five years; if you want to go into other subspecialties—say, neurosurgery—that’s a total of nine years of training, but you must complete all or most of a general surgery program first.  I wanted to do pediatric cardiovascular surgery, so we were talking, well, a lot of years.  But if I got cut—and I knew I would be—then those were more years spent trying to find my way into another program.  Those five years could become seven, or ten, and that’s all before subspecialty training.  And forget marriage or a family.

Since this program had never admitted a woman before, they didn’t have a uniform for me.  I went around in men’s smalls until I found a place to get women’s whites that weren’t designer.  (Nothing ruins those nice Adrianos like a bucket of blood.)  I got called nurse a lot, and honey, too.  Sweetie.  Pain in the ass.  (Sidebar: not once did I ever hear any chief resident dress down any other intern for questioning a call, and there were several.  Not once.  But me . . . I was a pain in the ass.  See, being a girl cut both ways: it was okay not to take me seriously, and perfectly fine to yell at me more, too.)  I even got groped several times by an infectious disease guy.  In all fairness to me, I was pretty sick with viral meningitis at the time.  Like, high fever, spinal tap, we’re admitting you sick.  (I refused and drove myself home.  That spinal tap was just what I needed.  I felt much better—until I tried to walk from the car into the condo.  I literally had to crawl into the townhouse and drag myself to the couch where I then stayed, pretty much around the clock, for two weeks.)  By the fourth exam with this infectious disease bozo, I was recovered enough to finally cotton on to the fact that, boy, this guy sure was being thorough, palpating every single solitary square inch of bare, naked, I am thoroughly nude flesh for those lymph nodes.  I think I was just too sick and then shocked to want to believe it.

But did I report him?  No.  Get real.  I was an intern, and a girl.  Who was going to believe me?  I didn’t want to make waves.  I was already enough of a pain in the ass as it was.

Not every attending was sexist; I remember two with great fondness.  They were excellent teachers, and secure enough to tell me I’d done a good job when I’d done something, like . . . well, save a guy’s life.  Like the time I just happened to be wandering through the recovery room pretty late one night and the anesthetist, standing over a neurosurgery post-op patient and looking really worried, said, “Hey, Ilsa, would you come take a look at this guy? Something’s not right.”  Uh . . . well, yeah, the guy’s pupils were blowing.  Which meant that his brain was getting squished, and most likely from something still bleeding in there.  So there I am, an intern, shouting at the anesthetist to page an attending, any attending, as I and a surgical nurse wheel the guy really, really fast into the surgical suite where I glove up, no scrub at all because the guy is tanking that quickly, and start tearing down his dressings and sutures—and then there’s a lot of blood bubbling out, and I’m thinking, holy shit, there had better be someone somewhere because this is an arterial bleeder for sure and this is a guy’s brain I’m holding.

Thank heavens, there was a general surgeon—name of KJ—who came busting in, took one look, started shouting more orders, and then said something that I will never forget: “Good girl. Now go scrub up and let’s save this guy’s life.”

The girl wasn’t pejorative; it was just the way it was, and KJ was a very kind and gentle guy for a surgeon.  But those moments, where my competence as a doctor was recognized without the haze of my sex, were rare.

The writing was on the wall, and I knew it.  I saw what happened to guys who got cut from the program; a ton didn’t find slots and ended up working in ERs.  (In retrospect, if ER medicine had been a specialty back then, I’d have jumped into that in a heartbeat.  Love that kind of medicine.)  To be honest, I didn’t have it in me to keep fighting for the very limited slots.

So I jumped ship to child psychiatry.  There were a few more women in that profession (again, not many; most women were social workers), and I was—again—the only woman in an all-male residency class.  I wish I could say that I found the very few female MDs to be warm and welcoming and encouraging, but they weren’t.  The reason is pretty simple, too.  They’d come up in the same system I had.  They knew the score.  When you’re competing in an all-male environment, you man up; those other women are your competition.  They’re not there to help you; you’re all trying to elbow each other out of the way, hoping to grab onto that next rung.

Whatever.  I got along fine with the guys.  I lucked out with a really great group of men, who helped me through some tough times with—yes—a female supervisor, a real competitive ball-buster that everyone, everyone, hated.  Things got so tense between us—and, of course, when you’re a resident, it’s always your fault—that I was finally handed off to a male supervisor midway through my second year.

Best thing that ever happened to me.  This guy was terrific: not only gentle and insightful but very accepting.  He was the one who encouraged me to pursue my interest in film and literature and go back to school for my masters; who understood that I was, yeah, kind of bored because a lot of what we were learning came pretty easily to me.  He’s dead now—a heart attack about ten years ago—but I will never forget him.  I’m only sorry he’s not around now to see what came of all the hours we spent talking literature and film and, yes, patients.

To be truthful, even when I finally began writing, my role models and teachers and champions were all men.  I can’t tell if I self-selected for guys because of my background—not only medicine but the military where I had to wear Wellies to wade through the testosterone—or it was just the luck of the draw.  In part, I think it’s because I started out in science fiction and work-for-hire in other universes—Star Trek, Mechwarrior, Battletech—which are still pretty heavily male-dominated.  Not all, not all, stop yelling . . . but you know what I mean.  Head to GenCon or a ton of sf or Trek cons . . . and there are a lot of guys.

So . . . what is the moral of this?  Beats me.  I can say that not only do I know a lot more women now, I know a lot more very nice women.  Like, we’re talking the kind of supportive sisterhood I wish I’d had way back when.  There is absolutely no way that any of the very few women I knew back in medicine would’ve been a tenth as generous as the women pros—writers, editors, publishers, agents, bloggers, librarians—it’s my privilege to know now.  I’m serious.

I guess the take-home message is, you guys, don’t take any of this, or each other, for granted.  Beneath this expert coloring job, there’s a lot of gray, and I’m here to tell you that, for me, it’s been a long, hard, and sometimes brutal road.  At this point, I can no longer tell if that’s been good or bad; it just is, and I am who I am, for good or ill.  But if you do anything from now on, remember this.  Pay attention now.

Regardless of gender, kindness and generosity matter most, and the truly kind are those with nothing to apologize for or prove.

Pay it forward, people.

 

At the End of a Very Long, No-Good, Very Bad Day

Ever have one of those days where NOTHING goes right?  Hello . . . I just suffered through one.  EVERYTHING, from the moment I spilled my coffee (sacrilege!) to the instant I realized that the lemon-blueberry bundt cake I LABORED over wasn’t coming out of the bloody pan (note to self: next time, don’t use the blueberries you froze last fall because they SINK to the bottom of the pan and STICK, no matter how much flour you coat those little suckers with)–to the bloody book that just doesn’t feel quite right . . . yes, it’s been that kind of day.



What I think about after a day like today is what makes me . . . afraid?  Worried?  Worried; I like that word better.  Afraid makes me sound like a wuss.  Worried. . . I’m only mildly anxious (even when I’m anything but).



Let me explain.



I’m doing this guest post for the Horror Writers of America blog, and so I get these questions.  Of course, one of the questions is about fear, and more specifically what frightens me now as an adult versus what might have frightened me as a kid.  I’ll tell you what I told them: when I was a kid, I wasn’t scared of very much except being alone, in a dark house, late at night.  I think it was the stillness that got to me.  So long as there was some kind of white noise—a fan, say, or some steady drone—I was fine.  But once it got ~~quiet~~,

every bump and creak used to freak me out.   I hated windows without blinds or curtains; who the hell knew what was out there, looking in?  So, of course, when I babysat, I made sure every light was on and the TV just loud enough so that when the homicidal maniac came through the door, I wouldn’t hear him until it was too late.  It was a wonder no one docked my pay to cover the electric bill.



One thing I didn’t mention, though, was that I was afraid of disappointing my parents.  It was just this global amorphous concern, and it completely freaked me out.  When you’re a kid, you work hard in school to tell the teacher what you know–and to please your parents.  So, not pleasing them, making them upset or not want to have anything more to do with me . . . scared me.  In my house, if you didn’t please a parent, you got one of two things: either a very LOUD talking-to (accompanied by other very LOUD and UNPLEASANT things)–or you got the freeze-treatment.  It wasn’t just that you were letting yourself down (in fact, YOU, as a kid, usually weren’t in the equation).  No, no, you’d disappointed your parents.  You’d hurt them.  So you worked very hard at becoming competent; you studied harder, learned more, did more than other kids.

This may explain why, as an adult . . . I crave silence.  I like being alone.  My circle of friends is small.  I protect myself.  I love the dark.  So, go figure.

Still, honestly, nowadays, very little freaks me out.  I wasn’t even all that worried for or about my kids, although I do remember turning all ninja-mom when some bozo spooked one of my girls.  Guy was lucky to leave that grocery story with his teeth.  (Anothertrue story: big old wasp—we’re talking something with BOEING written on the side—landed on my baby’s shoulder?  I bare-handed that sucker, threw it down, ground it to paste.  My husband’s eyeballs about fell out of their sockets.  Then we all went back to our burgers.)
In part, I think my tolerance for the horrific is because of my past life as a doc.  You know, hang around the emergency room or a psych ward or women’s prison for a while, and you see some pretty terrible stuff.   Now, it’s true: I really don’t want to be held up at gunpoint; I don’t think I’d care much for, oh, drowning, being strangled, or knifed to death.  A stiletto pointing at my eyeball would be right up there on my freak-out-o’meter.  (Come to think of it, maybe all those times I put my poor characters in those life and death situations, I’m really trying to work through things. You see, this is what comes of being a shrink.  You navel-gaze a lot. You think about the impact of your parents in your life.  Then you go see a friend or talk to your husband who tells you to get a grip.)
 
But, in reality, I guess there comes a point where, sure, you can be scared, but if you don’t do something, you’re dead.  So if I get scared, I work on getting competent.  A little anxiety is not a bad thing, by the way; anyone who doesn’t doubt herself before trying to tell a story is a fool.
 
At this point, the things that freak me out all revolve around things that make me mad (and sad) because there’s no way I can become competent.  Climate change and mass extinction are right up there.  Scare the bejesus out of me because I know there’s very little I can do except scream at politicians and be as environmentally responsible as I can.
 
Today, though, I’ve felt a tad incompetent, and from the get-go.  The book’s not coming together; the cake was a disaster (okay, not totally; it was scrumptious but not pretty); I can’t, for the life of me, see how I’m going to pick myself up from this mess.  It does no good for my ever-tolerant, ever-patient husband to remind me that I am ALWAYS like this when I write a book; that I am ALWAYS convinced it is drek; that I ALWAYS flail.
 
For the moment–this instant, tonight–I feel incompetent, and that freaks me out.  There is no help for it; I’m not some movie star, like Gloria Swanson/Norma Desmond, who can watch old films of herself when she was once someone.
 
All I can do is remind myself that I have been competent; I know how to do this (this being write a decent story); and if things aren’t coming together today, they either will tomorrow or the next day or at some point when I figure out why they’re not.
 
Someone once asked me if there was ever a story that defeated me.  I’ve written a blog about that, actually; and the short answer is yes and no.  Of course, stories defeat me; they humble me all the time; they take me down a notch or two; and sometimes, they punch me in the nose and laugh as I stagger and bleed all over the keyboard because, to their mind, I’ve no business in the ring to begin with.
 
But the one thing I have always done is get back in the ring.  I have always fought back, and I have always learned new tricks to best this beast.  
 
There’s this great mantra that Frank Herbert put in the mouth of Paul Atreides as he’s being tested by the Bene Gesserit in a trial of mind over feeling, and it’s worth repeating here:
 
I must not fear.
Fear is the mind-killer.
Fear is the little death that brings total obliteration
I will face my fear.
I will permit it to pass over me and through me.
And when it has gone, I will the turn the inner eye to see its path.
Where the fear has gone, there will be nothing.
Only I will remain.



Wish I’d written that.  If that’s too melodramatic for you–but, you writers out there, you know what I’m talking about; fear really will cripple you–then try this one for size.  It comes from an essay by Alexander Chee who wrote a fine piece about what he learned from Annie Dillard (a fabulous writer; her best work, to my mind, is An American Childhood, a book that still has the ability to make me cry): 
 
What I saw on the page was that the voice is in fact trapped, nervous, lazy. Even, and in my case, most especially, amnesiac. And that it had to be cut free.
 
So, I think . . . it’s time: time to call it a day, time for a good night’s sleep–and time to cut myself free and let my story find me . . . tomorrow.  Because I’m blessed with a tomorrow.

Permission to Play

So I got the sweetest emails this past week from a couple kids.  These were a little different from the very nice letters I normally get because the kids asked more or less the same question, and one I’d never have expected: was it okay if they wrote stories set in the ASHES universe?  More to the point, could they write about a particular character they really liked?  Could they make up new characters and run with them?  (One kid even said she’d modeled her Minecraft world on ASHES.)



In other words . . . these guys wanted permission to write fan fic. 



Well, knock me over with a feather.



As an unabashed but recovering Trekker, I’m no stranger to fan fic.  Heck, “A Ribbon for Rosie,” my first published story–and a prize-winner, to boot–was fan fiction set in the Voyager universe.  I’ve done a ton of work for hire, and I count many tie-in writers as friends and colleagues.  A couple, I recently tagged for the Next Big Thing Blog Hop because, in my experience, tie-in and wfh writers get too little respect and recognition for a lot of very hard work.  (And I know the work’s hard because I’ve been there, done that–and anyone who thinks it’s easy doesn’t know apples from their . . . well, use your imagination.)  What people forget: sure, the universe may already exist, but for a wfh-writer, every word is original.  Every plot is theirs, even if they must get a certain character from A to B by the end of the book.  They just don’t own the copyright.



No, this isn’t going to be a diatribe on a variant of wfh writers don’t get no (or enough) respect, even though they don’t and most especially not from big-name publishers.  All of us who’ve done wfh and tie-ins know that.    You learn to live with and come to a state of grace about that, while at the same time realizing that, to the fans of those universes, your books are a big deal.  Having gone to GenCon and a bunch of ST conventions, let me tell you: these fans are loyal; they’ll stand in line for hours; they’re dying for you to write that next book.



But I digress.  What I thought about when these kids popped into my inbox was the fun I had, as a kid myself, making up my own stories about, oh, Batman, Star Trek, Lost in Space . . . even My Favorite Martian.  At a certain level, every child who’s ever opened a book or become a fan of a show or movie inserts herself into the narrative.  It’s inevitable; this is what it’s like to be lost in a book.  There’s a fancy name for it in media studies: textual poaching.  While the French critic, de Certeau, wrote about this first, I’m a bit more familiar with Henry Jenkins‘s work that focused on the Trek universe (and, at the time, while I didn’t find all his points that convincing, the theory’s right on–and, oh, I do love that cover).

  While I agree that this kind of appropriation is all about power and resistance–think, for example, of all that good, homoerotic Trek slash fiction out there–the reality is this: when people find a world compelling, they want to be a part of it any way they can.  The psychology that drives this is no more mysterious or different than the desire to dress up on Halloween or cut loose at Mardi Gras, both socially sanctioned opportunities to act out fantasies.  That this acting-out is limited; that there are boundaries you can’t cross . . . this is where the power inequities come in that Certeau and Jenkins are talking about.  You can create on paper what you can’t do for real.  You can enter a universe you desperately want to be a part of on your own terms.  It’s what drives the desire to write and the fun of reading fan fiction.  



So, is fan fiction wrong or bad?  Well, it depends, doesn’t it?  Copyright protections exist for a reason.  Can you write fan fiction?  Sure, without question.  What you can’t do is write and then show what you’ve written to your friends, or post it on the web, etc., for money.  But what if you share your story with only one friend?  Or two?  Or ten?  When does this sharing, this more-than-one-person experience, become a violation?  Is it a violation only when you do it for money? 



As you might expect, there are authors who fall on both sides of the fence about this.  I’ll tell you what I told those kids: I used to do the same thing when I was your age; I’m thrilled you love my stories; I’m tickled my work inspires you to try your hand.  

Now, did I encourage them to write their own original stuff instead?  Of course.  But do I understand the impulse?  Sure.  Can they sell what they write?  No.  Can they show it around?



Gosh . . . I’m divided about that because then you’re getting into the tricky slippery slope part.  On the one hand, all they’re doing is spreading the love, and that makes me feel good.  Honestly, if there’s enough love and drive out there, this kind of thing becomes unstoppable.  I know; I’m a Trekker; grabbing that narrative and continuing those stories was half the fun, and what eventually got me writing.  If fan fiction encourages kids to read and write, I’m all for that, too.  You can argue that fan fiction has a lot going for it and benefits you might not have imagined.



But . . . here’s the bugaboo: what about the people who may, eventually, charge a couple nickels for a story?  Who give folks a taste, and then tell them that if they want more, they have to pay?  See what I’m saying?  Now they’re making money off something that I– some other writer/actor/painter–own.  



So, yeah, the potential for abuse is there.  My gut is that most fans are polite; they’re enthusiastic; they understand that the sand has to remain in the box.  To be honest, I see more good coming of this than bad. 



Granted, I really don’t have to worry about this.  Stephen King has these problems, not me.  For the moment, I’m just tickled a couple kids out there like the series and want to play in that sandbox.  So long as they behave–now, Joey . . . no, honey, you really can’t throw sand in Jessie’s eyes–it’s all good, and maybe a lot more because what they build, they build from the ground up with passion and love for what I’ve given them.

Go for it, kids.

The Story of Your Life

DROWNING INSTINCT is set to come out on March 1 in the UK, and as part of the launch, I’ve been asked to do a couple of blogs, etc.  You know, it’s the whole marketing thing, and I’m fine with that, really.  I’m thrilled that the good folks at Quercus UK have chosen to put my work out there.

Right around the same time, THE SIN-EATER’S CONFESSION also makes its official U.S. debut, although it’s already available through Lernerbooks, Amazon, B&N, etc., and I’ll likely write an entry or two about it as well.

Both these launches got me thinking, not only about the books but blogging, in general, and my blogging, in particular.  I mean, seriously, come on: why blog?  Really.  There are a gazillion blogs out there, ten trillion of which–a trillion’s less than a gazillion, right?–are devoted to writing, the writing life, publishing, marketing, blah, blah.  Some are by writers who know so much more than I do, and yes, I’ll say it right now: if Stephen King chose to blog, which he doesn’t, I’d be reading what he has to say.  I might even print out and eat the paper.  But when you consider the people I think of as, like, these writing GODS . . . you have to look in the mirror and say–bear with me: as a shrink, I can safely say that I see a shrink on a daily basis–“Ilsa, sweetheart, just WTF can you possibly add to that conversation?”

And you know what that shrink has the GALL to reply?

Nothing.  That’s what she says: Ilsa, honey, you got nothing more important to say than any other writer, so shut your pie-hole.

I know: I have a very nasty shrink.  If I could afford it, I’d fire the old bat.

But, really, I’m completely serious here.  All I can offer is what has worked for me.  You know?  It’s not magic; it’s hard work; it’s the screw-your-butt-to-the-chair work ethic that got me through med school and then writing and now to the point of dithering about blogs.  Whether it works for anyone else . . . who knows?  I think the principle’s a little like the old joke about the cabbie and Carnegie Hall:

Passenger: “How do you get to Carnegie Hall?”

Cabbie: “Practice, practice, practice.”

And that’s it, the sum total of my knowledge about writing.  Practice.  Read a lot.  Write some more.  Then do it again.  And again.  And again.

So . . . blogging is stupid, right?  What goes on in my addled brain . . . who gives a rat’s ass, am I right?  If my blog falls in the forest, does it make a sound?  Is anyone out there to hear what amounts to a mosquito’s fart in a tornado?



To be fair, I’m also kind of a private person.  Blame all those years of training, when it was hammered into me that how and what I felt/feel is best left unsaid.  A therapy session isn’t about me.  Oh, it’s true that I used what I felt.  Any therapist worth her salt does that.  But the idea of a shrink sharing personal stuff . . . you do it very rarely and only if that might help the patient.  (And even then, a therapist in the grip of what happens in the space between her and a patient–that good old countertransference–you’d be surprised what some therapists can justify.)  The best therapists are welcoming but disciplined, and know when to keep their mouths shut.

So, I don’t know who cares about what I have to say in a blog; I really don’t.  What I can say is this: I seriously doubt that anything I’ve ever written ABOUT writing can even come close to moving a reader as much as WHAT I’ve written in a novel.  

Which brings me around to DROWNING INSTINCT, a book I’ve not blogged much about because, to be frank, I know the characters, in the very broadest sense, all too well.  I used to sit with them.  I watched them try to destroy themselves.  I watched them drown, quietly, all the time–and these are stories, confidences, secrets, dreams, and confessions that I, as a shrink, will not talk all that much about.  I just can’t.

I’m not being melodramatic here, either.  Writing about those who suffer–even if none of my characters is a real person-person–isn’t a joke.  I don’t do it for kicks.  I tell stories, and whenever I do write about pain and suffering and sacrifice and triumph, whether it’s for DROWNING INSTINCT or the ASHES trilogy or THE SIN-EATER’S CONFESSION or the forthcoming WHITE SPACE . . . here’s what I’ll tell all those people who think that these things don’t happen; that people don’t behave like this; that no one, no one, could be that stupid/self-destructive/gullible/bone-headed/blind; that shit like this can’t happen: get real.  

Honestly.  

Get.  Real.

Now, I receive a lot of fan mail.  (And I love it, guys, really; keep those emails and tweets and all that coming; it lets me know that all those hours hunched over a hot keyboard have been worth it.)  I know I don’t get a ten trillionth as much as Suzanne Collins or Maggie Stiefvater or Cassandra Clare or the gazillion more talented, better-selling authors out there.  I know that; I’m okay with it.  My needs are small.  All I care about is a) getting my work out there and b) yeah, okay, hearing that people have enjoyed a book. 

(And, yes, yes, uncle: I would like to be a New York Times bestseller; shoot me, already.  There.  Happy?)

The most touching are those emails I get from fans who’ve read a book that describes their lives, and DROWNING has provoked quite a few.  I’ve heard from some very sad and lonely people; I’ve heard from some very brave souls; I’ve heard from folks who tell me that I’ve written the book about their lives.

I take this all very seriously, too, and probably would even if I weren’t a shrink.  But I am, and I really have to work, very hard, not to become a shrink when I reply (and I reply to each and every email).  As much as I want to help, I know that it’s better for me not to.  Yes, there are all these ethical reasons to refrain–it would be flat-out wrong for me to engage in therapy, however well-intentioned–but I also know that it is far easier to confide in someone when there’s no blowback or repercussions (hello, can you spell t-h-e-r-a-p-i-s-t?).  It is easy to fall into the fantasy–the trap, really–of believing you are saving someone when, in fact, you have become merely a bit player in a movie being directed by someone else, mouthing lines written by a script-writer you’ve never met.

But I hope that I am always open; I trust that I am always welcoming.  If blogging and a web presence have accomplished anything, they give those who find themselves in my books a way of telling me so.  When they do–when I get those emails–trust me, the urge to ease your pain and suffering is very strong.  

So, no, I have nothing new or novel to say about writing.  I have nothing amazing to say in a blog that’s worth a millisecond of your time.  I don’t claim that my books are all that fabulous either.

But–if you read one of my books and find yourself in the pages and wonder how it is that I know what you’re going through, that I understand; that I won’t give you any bullshit about how it’ll all get better because, sometimes, we know–and we do, don’t we?–that it doesn’t unless you make some really tough, hard choices; are willing to take a risk, go outside your comfort zone and get help and really change . . .

I know.  I understand.  

And one more thing: I will not forget the picture you posted of your arm after you’d gotten done hacking at yourself, and for which you referenced DROWNING.  I get that, for you, this book was the story of your life.  

Now, listen to what I’m saying.  Read this into the story of your life.

Please, don’t do that again.  You really are more valuable than you allow yourself to believe and know.  Really.

Yes, you.  I’m talking to you.

 

The Next Big Thing Blog Hop

Tag: I’m it.

Welcome to the next stop on the Big Blog Hop. As you’all know, I was tagged by the incomparable Jordan Dane, with whom I also share space on ADR3NALIN3. If you don’t know Jordan, drop her site and give her latest project a look-see.

As you probably know, the blog hop’s designed for us authors to either gab about a work in progress or showcase one that’s forthcoming. I’ll be honest: I’m incredibly superstitious about wips. I hate talking about them because almost anything sounds stupid, especially when it’s in draft.

So, instead, I’ll give you the scoop on my latest stand-alone. Also, as part of the NEXT BIG THING, I’ll be giving away THREE copies through GOODREADS. Contest rules follow below after my Q&A.

Onward!

1) What’s the title of your forthcoming book?

The Sin-Eater’s Confession



2) Where did the idea come from for the book?

To be honest, I think it came from a couple different sources: a true story, courtesy of a librarian; the general mindset of where I live versus where I last came from; my sneaking suspicion that, while people may like to believe otherwise, the vast majority of the US population does not live in New York or San Francisco, and even there, the notion of people being open-minded and oh-so-tolerant is a comforting fiction. Really, city people aren’t necessarily all that tolerant either; it’s just that the bigots know how to be a tad more politically correct. People say a lot of things in private they’d never dream of saying in public (and vice versa); they believe a lot more they’ll never say, regardless.

That goes for kids, too.

Plus, erotic obsession also works both ways. Ask any kid who’s major crushing. In addition, just because a kid or adult might be homosexual doesn’t mean he or she can’t also be seriously screwed up. Gay or straight, people—and rumor—ruin other people’s reputations and lives all the time.

 

3) What genre does your book fall under?

Very gritty YA contemporary, darkly psychological and a tad thriller-ish, with a big helping of mystery. I think it was Kirkus that said the book is both a “page-turning whodunit” and “blistering confessional.” So, yeah.

 

4) Which actors would you choose to play your characters in a movie version?

Heck, I don’t know. If Matt Damon were twenty years younger, I can see him as Ben. Jimmy’s tougher . . . but Elijah Wood jumps to mind.

 

5) What is the one-sentence synopsis of your book?

Oh, crikey . . . I’m gonna cheat and give you part of the Kirkus synopsis: “When the tiny town of Merit, Wis., loses its football hero to a drunk-driving accident, his family needs help on their dairy farm. High school senior Ben steps up to help. His mother hopes it’ll give him fodder for his Yale admissions essay; Ben, unsure he wants to follow the path she’s laid out for him, just likes helping the stern Mr. and Mrs. Lange and their 15-year-old son, Jimmy. When Jimmy wins a national photography contest with sensual photographs of his own father and Ben (both taken without permission), rumors that the baby-faced Jimmy is gay jump into overdrive—and start circulating about Ben, who then distances himself from Jimmy. When Ben witnesses a horrific crime and does nothing, his life spins out of control; he begins to doubt himself, his senses, his motives…even his connection to reality.”

I know: more than one sentence.

 

6) Is your book self-published, published by an independent publisher, or represented by an agency?

The good folks at Carolrhoda Lab set the pub date as March 1. That being said, you can find the novel now on Amazon, B&N, Lerner Books (parent company of Carolrhoda Lab), among other places. It should be turning up in brick and mortar stores pretty soon, too.

 

7) How long did it take to write the first draft of your manuscript?

About three months.

 

8) What other books would you compare this story to within your genre?

YA psychological mysteries and thrillers by authors as various as Laurie Halse Anderson, Gail Giles, Nancy Werlin, Graham McNamee, and Blake Nelson.

 

9) Who or what inspired you to write this book?

That kind of dovetails with how I got the idea for the book to begin with, I think. It’s funny, but I’ve seen one reader comment that, oh, this isn’t such a big deal anymore and no kid would behave like this and make such dumb decisions.

And I say, HAH.

Kids make bone-headed decisions and dig themselves in deeper and deeper all the time. (So do a lot of adults.)  Coming out—or being the subject of gossip, whether that talk is accurate or not—is a HUGE deal, especially in more rural areas. And sexuality, as well as identity, is mutable. Kids break into hives just thinking about asking someone out (which, I’m convinced, is why no one dates anymore; instead, they “hang out”). You really think coming out is so easy? You honestly believe kids aren’t talking about you behind your back, or laughing? Or their parents aren’t gossiping about it? Get real.

 

10) What else about your book might pique a reader’s interest?

Because things like this really can—and do—happen. They really do.

 

Next up on the hop:

Emily Kristin Anderson

Michael Jan Friedman

Dayton Ward

Kevin Dilmore

Look for these writers–a hefty chunk of them not only terrific writers but blasts from my STAR TREK past–to post about their own Next Big Things next Wednesday, February 6th.

Okay . . . I, like, gotta go write something. Thanks for stopping by!

And don’t forget: enter for your chance to win a copy of The Sin-Eater’s Confession.  Contest ends on the book’s birthday, March 1!

Goodreads Book Giveaway


The Sin-Eater’s Confession
by Ilsa J. Bick

Giveaway ends March 01, 2013.

See the giveaway details

at Goodreads.

Enter to win