Elizabeth Sumner Wafler's Blog

Is Your Writerly Baggage Still Bumping Along the Carousel?

I recently listened to the Were You Raised by Wolves Podcast. It’s a fun and witty perspective on manners, and never more needed than in today’s culture. An episode on baggage claim etiquette pricked my ears. I’ve been traveling a lot lately. Many a carousel I’ve stood by hoping my unwieldy old black Samsonite will be the next to drop from the chute, safe and sound. I’m ready to be on my way. Noodling on how our writerly baggage keeps we authors from moving ahead on our journeys, I found a takeaway.

If we don’t pick up our work and do something with it, it’s going to sit there losing its momentum, its all-important sense of urgency until the cosmic belt stops. First we need to CLAIM it, then screw up the temerity to polish it, rewrite it, publish it, query it, blog about it. (Or maybe jettison it if it wasn’t worth its weight to begin with. And stop fretting about it.) Otherwise, someone else is going to come along and snare it. Hopefully not literally–get out of town plagiarists!–but as there’s nothing new under the sun, someone else is going to come up with a riff on your idea and end up a best seller.

Lolling about in first class with free drinks.

Avoid Those Plot Holes! Unless they’ve been dug for a good reason.

Even famous authors can leave more plot holes than the pesky gopher in the movie Caddy Shack. But is it always accidental?

My husband and I (at our thirty-year-old daughter’s bidding) have just started watching the TV series Mad Men for the first time. I know, I know. How on God’s green Earth (as character Joanie would say) did we fail to watch this riveting, sophisticated tour de force of complex and absorbing characters in it’s heyday?

Betty and Don Draper on Mad Men

But even the brilliant writers of Mad Men failed to fill holes that have left me scratching my head. In the first episodes, Betty’s hands begin trembling uncontrollably. Aha! Something’s clearly going on with her. Possibly a neurological issue? She even fender bends her car with the kids unstrapped in the back seat–it is the sixties after all. Though she does see a psychiatrist for a few episodes, nothing is ever mentioned again about the physical reaction everyone was so freaked out about. Did the writers move on, underestimating our memory cache?

But the most profound plot hole in the early episodes for me was when ad man Duck Phillips’s ex wife brings Chauncey the family dog–a gorgeous Irish setter–to Sterling Cooper and drops him off for a permanent stay.

It definitely ruffles Duck’s feathers.

But when Chauncey gives his former alcoholic owner the stink eye as he ogles a bottle of booze, you worry the dog’s a goner. Later in the episode, Duck appears to intentionally let go of the dog’s leash in front of the office building, releasing him into the NYC night. “What the?” we said, sitting up in alarm. “Run it back!” But he did abandon the dog and never do we learn Chauncey’s fate.

In this instance, I believe the plot hole was an effective ploy. What did we learn about this man’s character? What kind of beast would abandon a dog? What else might Duck be capable of? We have a villain! And so we keep a closer eye on this “fowl” guy.

The dog was never the point.

But I still like to think that a kindly stranger snagged the leash and put Chauncey in the backseat of his Chevy Impala. That he played catch on the lawn with him for the rest of his tongue-lolling, long and luxurious life.

Unlatching the Music Box

I could relate to Kevin Kline (as Harold the perfect man) in The Big Chill, in the cleaning-up-the-kitchen scene, where he puts vinyl on the record player, and The Temptations “Ain’t Too Proud to Beg” blasts.

Jeff Goldblum as Michael shakes his head.

[image error] The cast of The Big Chill

Michael: “Harold, don’t you have any other music, you know, from this century?”

Harold: “There is no other music, not in my house.”

Michael: “There’s been a lot of terrific music in the last ten years.

Harold: *completely non-plussed* “Like what?”

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Though Harold was stuck in the sixties, for the last forty years I’ve been trapped in the seventies. After classic rock stations became “a thing” in the nineties, there was no longer any other music in my house. I happily leap-frogged over the new country craze, the dreadful dark days of hip hop and rap. So, my music box. I imagine pix of The Eagles, The Doobies, Fleetwood Mac, The Allman Brothers, Steely Dan, Heart, Led Zeppelin, David Bowie, and Tom Petty, Mod Podged to the surface, the lid securely latched.

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Then, last year I turned sixty. I found myself mellowing. I unlatched the box and opened it an inch or so. But what slipped inside took me not into the present but farther into the past, to folk rock. My go-to playlists are populated with Neil Young, The Mama and the Papas, Cat Stevens, James Taylor, Joni Mitchell, Bob Dylan, George Harrison, some really fabulous stuff.

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At sixty-one, I feel freer, more authentic, more open to exploration, empowered. Hopefully, wiser. And all of a sudden, my ears have pricked to some new tunes. Today my thirty-year-old daughter and I were driving and listening to one of her playlists. I heard the song “Flowers” by Cibo Matto and immediately downloaded it. Click here to give it a listen: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Z9gtG0hsYPw.

Me: *Bobbing my head, feeling super hip* “I really like this new sound.”

My daughter: “Mom, Cibo Matto has been around for about twenty years.”

I’m keeping my music box unlatched. Maybe there’s hope for me yet.

The Unmasked

I know what you’re thinking. But this piece isn’t about those who eschew the practice of wearing masks to protect others against COVID. Rather, it’s about what happens when we take off the “masks” we wear as defensive structures, e.g., my Author mask, my Social Butterfly mask, my Badass mask, my Smile-At-My-Pain mask. My masks serve me, but I don’t want to confuse them with who I am.

[image error] Who Am I?

And who am I without my masks? Who are you?

I have a mask but I am not my mask. I have a story and I am more than my story. I have faith, feelings, beliefs, a history, dreams, habits (good and bad) and that is not the whole of me.

When we take off our masks we open ourselves to intimacy. We show ourselves, beyond the Good-Looking mask and into the darker masks: control, anger, prejudice, fear, doubt . . . The list is long and personalized, carefully crafted from the material of our own experiences and specifically from the fabric of our own wounding.

The path is not easy and it’s likely a life’s work. But the invitation is clear. We can continue to put on more masks, moving farther from our true selves, or we can let them drop away, revealing who God perfectly made us to be.

It will be a lovely day when we no longer have to wear COVID protection masks. When at last, we can visit and kiss and squeeze our family and friends to pieces. hen we can smile at a stranger who really needs a smile and they can see it. Until that great day comes, let’s think of the simple truth of who we really are as our only mask. We will achieve greater intimacy. And freedom. The capacity to love ourselves and others well. Then we can blossom and grow, in ways we cannot imagine.

Developing a Visual Setting for Readers

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While writing my first book baby, IN ROBIN’S NEST, I sat out to “show” readers main character Dean’s one-hundred-year-old horse farm, Villeneuve (French for new settlement) in Keswick, VA. A horseshoe full of luck led me to equestrian-born Shelley Payne. Over cups of coffee, Shelley educated me on all things horses, then arranged for me to visit lovely Willowbrook Farm “down the road.” One sunny Saturday, I bumped my SUV along the scenic lane, past the training paddocks to the eloquent Georgian of a main house, and then hoofed it, photographing the property.

Breathing the organic air to the sounds of the horses nickering in the barn, I knew I’d found my setting: where Dean would be born and reared; where he and Billy would work; where Mary and Leslie would train the event horses; where Robin and Lark would come to visit Dean that pivotal summer; and the only place for which my POV character Robin would leave her New York City. With the sensory experience in my rearview mirror and photographs for the bulletin board above my desk, I was prepared to create scenes that readers later told me made them feel as if they were there at Villeneuve and a part of the story. Btw, the big, handsome stud in the largest picture boards at the equestrian center near my home. I chose him for the character of Dean’s elegant Kirby.

Oh, the Places You’ll Go!

When you’re researching for a manuscript.

I’m seriously thinking of giving a nod to Google in the acknowledgements section of my new book. How the heck did writers accomplish their research before it? I feel like must have sat in libraries until they began to take on the scent of mildewed print. Google is fab. And it’s crazy interesting how many places you’ll go to find what you need to authenticate a setting or locate that obscure chunk of info.

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For TOPANGA CANYON, I’ve journeyed to site after site on intentional communities, learning how to purify a house with white sage and rose water and read a juicy story or two. I’ve visited mommy sites–that didn’t exist when I had my daughter–for info on everything from contraction duration, to Moses’s beds, to baby-moons, to gender neutral paint colors, and mommy brain. Even found a cute “How Big is my Baby” chart that tells what week the baby looks like an apple or a cauliflower. I’ve traveled to Columbian culture sites for common last names, quirky superstitions, comfort food, and how to say “Get the hell out of here” in Spanish. I’ve been to 3,682 flower pages. And an handful of real estate sites in Klamath Falls Oregon. I’ve learned more than I wanted to know about composting, metronomes, bronze casting, and n dimensional manifolds.

But readers are pretty good at seeing through nebulous references. Research is a time-suck, but an essential one, and still light years faster than before search engines.

Thanks, Google.

Signs

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In our family, if a vibrant male cardinal crosses our path, we take it as a sign that something great will happen that day. When it comes to my writing, I am hyper attuned to signs I believe mean that my work in progress will be THE ONE, the manuscript that's finally traditionally published. Oh, the signs I've received in the ten months I've labored over this book. But I'll include only a trio: a framed print of Jazzman Miles Davis, for whom I named a beloved young character, hung in my room at The Library Hotel in NYC; a front garden of brilliant sunflowers surrounding a bronze statue (both figure prominently in the story)captured my eye right across the street from the river rafting outfitters in Scottsville, VA, where my family waited for kayaks; and most extraordinarily, the tiny note clipped to the rim of a cocktail a D.C. bartender placed in front of me revealed a poem written by an author I cite in the manuscript.

Is this THE ONE?

I'll keep you posted. In the meantime,  

Send me a sign.

Signs

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Signs, signs, everywhere signs . . .
In my family, whenever an exquisite male cardinal soars across our path
we consider it a sign that something great will happen that day. When the sign bears fruit, we turn and say to each other, "It was the cardinal."
When it comes to my writing, I am hyper attuned to those signs that affirm that my work in progress (WIP) the work of my heart & soul, will prove to be THE ONE.
In 2018, I landed a dream of a literary agent with my third manuscript A CLEFT IN THE WORLD. Almost a year of submissions to publishers later, it became clear to us that CLEFT wasn't right for the current market. It was time to focus on my new story idea TOPANGA CANYON. (Click on the novel menu of this site for a tagline description.)
Oh, the bevy of signs I've received in the ten months I've labored over this book. I'll include only a couple: walking into a room at The Library Hotel in NYC and gaping up at a print of musician Miles Davis, for whom I named a beloved young character; and most extraordinarily, a D.C. bartender placing a cocktail in front of me with a tiny poem I cited in the manuscript clipped to its rim!
Next week, I'm turning TOPANGA CANYON in to my editor, who will read it. And hopefully fall in love. After I revise it according to her notes, she'll begin submitting it to publishing editors. I hope that God will grant me the desire of my heart. Send me a sign.

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Love in the Time of COVID: A fractured retelling of a classic Spanish novel

Like Fermina and Florentino, the main characters of Love in the Time of Cholera, Gen Z wannabe lovers of today may be forced to exchange letters, albeit while wearing surgical gloves and resisting that auto-reflex of applying tongue to envelope.

And if like Fermina’s father Lorenzo, our senorita’s dad gets (contaminated) wind of the relationship, our lovers may be forced to result to less prosaic, 21st century narratives of seduction: email, intimate voice texts, or a snappy app chat through which flirtations can be zinged back and forth like pinballs.

Personal meetings may be problematic. Open air get-togethers are a fairly safe bet, as long as a scrupulous social distance of six feet is maintained. A movie date may be an option, as long as the kids are counted as two of the only ten allowed to squelch across the floor of the dubiously-sanitized inner sanctum of 200-300 seats. A lunch date may be arranged, in which the food is purchased through an app, collected while maintaining the six-foot distance, and then consumed in separated vehicles.

Faced with never being able to fulfill her dream of making out with Florentino, our senorita comes to realize that the relationship was nothing but a dream since they are still, for all intents and purposes, strangers. She sprays down his letters with disinfectant, and returns them. Though devastated and convinced that love is both an emotional and physical disease, our Fermina falls for a wealthy scientist Urbino, who is committed to eradicating COVID-19. Working alongside him, it is our Fermina who discovers the cure for COVID, but at the same time Urbino’s many indiscretions. Once the ban on interaction is but a socially distant memory, Fermina eventually dumps Urbino and connects with Florentino via Facebook. Their love ignites. And yep, the two live happily ever after.

The Wisdom of the Drishti

In the practice of yoga, a Drishti is a gazing point, a means for developing concentrated intention. That point might be knot in the woodgrain of the floor, a light switch, a small design detail at the top of your mat, anything stationary. Keeping your eyes on your Drishti, increases your ability to balance, to hold a strengthening pose. During a practice this week, as I stood in mountain pose on one foot, the other off the floor and held out to the side—a super challenging posture for me–my instructor Carole reminded the class to “Find your Drishti.” And then she added something that resonated with me as a metaphor for my writing goals. “The longer you can hold on,” she said quietly, “you’ll find that your determination grows and the stronger you will become.” 

Since February, my literary agent has been submitting my third manuscript, A Cleft in the World, to major publishing houses. We’ve had eight very positive and encouraging rejections and five editors are “still reading.” This week, I had an unexpected opportunity to submit (on my own) my still unpublished second novel Georgie Girl to a small press for publication in 2020. That’s next year, my friend. What a heady feeling! Because, if you’re not aware:  

The traditional
publishing process moves at the pace of evolution.

Even if my agent sold A Cleft in the World tomorrow, it
would likely not be released until 2021 or 2022. I was sorely tempted to take
my eyes from my focal point of traditional publishing, to waver, to wobble, to
cave on my dream.

I wrestled with it for about a day. And then I hopped on the
phone with my agent. She reminded me that my job is to focus on the new manuscript
I’ve begun, my fourth novel Topanga Canyon, while she continues to find the
best home and deal for A Cleft in the World. My yoga instructor Carole’s words
flitted through my mind again. The longer
you can hold on, you’ll find that your determination grows and the stronger you
become. What wisdom.

I’m holding on. I feel more determined and passionate about
my craft than ever. With continued hard work, my writing skills will only grow stronger.

I’d love to hear about a goal you are working towards.

What’s your Drishti?

Elizabeth