Katey Schultz's Blog, page 12

Revising the Novel: Getting Back In

[I actually enjoy revising...]Readers following my series of posts on Revising the Novel  know that I put my 4th revision away for the holiday season. Roughly 5 weeks away from those pages, I pulled them out again last week to glance at notes I left. That night, I tried freewrites in my journal about different outcomes and possibilities for various chapters. I looked again at my notes, talked out loud to myself, then settled behind the keyboard to make a loose outline of the remaining 5-7 chapters.

But today was the real reckoning--opening that document in full, re-reading the last two chapters to refresh my memory, double-checking my loose outline, then forging those first few sentences together. The process was very slow and I only had 2 hours. I'm not sure what I'll keep, but I got to thinking that it is this kind of revision--quiet changes done in the pre-dawn light at the desk--that are hardest to teach, point to, and name. For that reason, and because I have private students who I suspect will appreciate this in particular, I'm going to post a little bit of the "before" and "after" paragraphs to demonstrate what this kind of surgery can look like. Full disclaimer: These drafts are copyrighted, un-proofed, and all mine. :-)

BEFORE: I knew I needed to use the scene with the Special Ops soldiers and the Hazara translator from the short story in Flashes of War that inspired this novel. But many logistics, directions, and other details no longer fit into my novel. The writing in Flashes of War (the story "Aaseya & Rahim") for this particular scene was also quite sparse. In the novel, I'm trying to fill in the surroundings and my characters' reactions to those surroundings to make their world and lives appear full conceived--informed by their unique pasts. Here's a snapshot of the lead up to that original scene with the Special Ops and the translator:

Not there at all and then, all at once, in front of them. A long snake, aimed tongue-first at Rahim and Badria’s hideout. They must have appeared on the northern horizon while Rahim and Badria were busy gazing homeward. This is what Special Ops does, after all, fanning out quickly across districts reportedly under Taliban influence. Hoping to find insurgents or dismantle landmines, or, if nothing else pester a few civilians into spewing information regardless of its veracity. Quickly, Rahim and Badria stash their guns and begin working the creek bed with their shovels. Moments later, the Special Ops convoy slows to a halt about twenty meters away. Four men step out of the first vehicle and walk toward Rahim and Badria. “Put down the shovel,” a soldier shouts in English. They’re close now, maybe ten meters. The soldier raises his hands in the air, indicating what Rahim and Badria should do. “Put your hands up! Show me your hands! Put your hands up!” the man repeats. If soldiers are anything, they’re loud. As though yelling repeatedly can make words translate mid-air. Rahim and Badria do as they’re shown, hustling up the slopes of the creek bed to stand in the middle of the road. Hands overhead, feet spread...they know the drill. “I am on your side,” Rahim says in English. It rolls off of his tongue smoothly, just like he’s practiced. “Your side, your side.” “Do you understand English?” Rahim shakes his head, then speaks to the translator who he knows must be the bearded man disguised in Special Ops fatigues. “Why are you here?” the translator asks. “We’re not doing anything wrong. We’re digging to make bricks,” Rahim says. “What’s he saying?” the first soldier asks. He’s short with sun-tinged skin and black stripes painted underneath his eyes. Along his collar, a crossed-arrow insignia.  “They’re going to search you,” the translator says. Rahim doesn’t recognize his face, but that accent. Undeniably Hazara. No telling where Special Ops found him though; translators are notoriously on the run and for good reason.  “Fine,” Rahim says. “They won’t find anything.”
“Let them search us,” Badria says. “Tell them they’re perverts.”
“What’s he saying?”
“Search them,” the translator says to the soldier. “Search for their wallets, too.”  One of the soldiers searches Badria. Another aims his automatic weapon at their faces. The first one, the talker, eyes the situation fiercely.  “How are your children?” Badria says to the translator. “Are they well?” He keeps his hands raised as the soldier pats each arm, then his torso, and all the way down each leg. “What about your mother? I haven’t heard good things about her.”  The translator does his best to ignore Badria.  “Ask them what they’re doing on the side of the road,” the talker says. “Tell them they’re not allowed here.”  “You shouldn’t be here,” the translator says.  “You shouldn’t be here,” Rahim blurts. He is annoyed, more than anything, at seeing this fellow Afghan pupetted by the Americans. Who do they think they are, buying loyalties like that, waving money to make a man risk his life? Rahim puckers his lips and considers spitting at the translator’s feet, then swallows a hard knot of realization. How different is that from what he’s doing here, now, greedy Taliban soldiers waiting somewhere in the wings to come down and give him his daily bread? If everyone could just leave and be done with my country.  The soldier searches Rahim next, not roughly but not kindly either.
AFTER: Notice that the references to Special Ops, by name, have been taken out (there's no way my characters would have known what the insignia meant). Notice, also, that Rahim's responses are more specific and visceral, the language is closer to presenting the way in which an Afghan might view an American soldier, and the landscape is utilized as a transformative aspect of home. For Rahim, in particular, his dependency upon the desert for a way of life is key during other scenes, so I wanted to work with that here as well.
Quickly, Rahim and Badria stash their guns and begin working the creek bed with their shovels. Three distant dots and then, all at once, right there in front of them. The convoy slows to a halt about twenty meters away, a gigantic scorpion aimed poison-first at Rahim and Badria’s hideout. Four men step out of the first vehicle and thud across the road. Their walk is something to behold, weighed down with body armor and bulging pockets, burdens a wonder to Rahim. Still, they move in an ever-straight line from one destination to the next, no room for wandering. No thought to change course. It is at once the most confident and quizzical movement Rahim has ever seen. Nervousness overtakes him and he stifles a laugh.“Put down the shovel,” a soldier shouts in English. They’re close now, maybe ten meters. A wash of kicked up dust blows along the roadway, coating Rahim in talcum mist. Strange, how something unwanted can give something back to you that you didn’t even know you loved. The desert. It is completely his. He imagines the sand melding into particles of protection, coating his face and neck, his clothing; an unbreakable glass armor.“Put your hands up! Show me your hands! Put your hands up!” the man repeats. If soldiers are anything, they’re loud. As though yelling repeatedly makes words translate mid-air. Rahim and Badria do as they’re shown, hustling up the slopes of the creek bed to stand in the middle of the road. Hands overhead, feet spread—they know the routine. Rahim hopes there aren’t any women in the other Humvees, tightly muscled figures cradling guns instead of babies. The humiliation.“I am on your side,” Rahim says in English. It rolls off of his tongue smoothly, practiced. “Your side, your side.”“Do you understand English?”Rahim shakes his head, then speaks to the translator who he knows must be the bearded man disguised in American fatigues.“Why are you here?” the translator asks in Pashto. “We’re not doing anything wrong. We’re digging to make bricks,” Rahim says. “What’s he saying?” the first soldier asks. He’s short with pink skin and a thick, black stripe painted under each eye. Along his collar: a crossed-arrow insignia in black and gold. “They’re going to search you,” the translator says. Rahim doesn’t recognize the man’s face, but the accent is undeniably Hazara. No telling where the soldiers found him though; translators are notoriously on the run and for good reason.  “Fine,” Rahim says. “They won’t find anything.”“Let them search us,” Badria says. “Tell them they’re perverts.” “What’s he saying?” says the pink-skinned one. Like a helpless pig, that’s what he is. Grunting and strutting. Rahim stares at the Pinky’s temple, a ropy, purple vein pulsing beneath the skin. “Search them,” the translator says to Pinky. A third man approaches and searches Badria. The fourth aims his automatic weapon at Rahim and Badria’s faces. Pinky eyes the situation fiercely. “How are your children?” Badria says to the translator. “Are they well?” He keeps his hands raised as the soldier pats each arm, then his torso, all the way down each leg. “What about your mother? I haven’t heard good things about her.” The translator ignores him. “Ask them what they’re doing on the side of the road,” Pinky says. “Tell them they’re not allowed here.” “You shouldn’t be here,” the translator says."You shouldn’t be here,” Rahim blurts. He is annoyed, more than anything, at seeing this fellow Afghan puppeted by the Americans. Who do they think they are, buying loyalties like that, waving money to make a man risk his life? His family’s? Rahim puckers his lips and considers spitting at the translator’s feet, then swallows a hard knot of realization. How different is that from what he does now, greedy Taliban waiting up the hillsides to come down and give him his daily bread? None of them should be here. None of them belong. His country is an open wound, a mess of parasites, everyone come to dig in and take their fill.

My 2014 Book List: Beyond Bests

I also read this--and loved every "punny," compassionate beat.One of the greatest habits I developed in grad school was reading one book a week, for a total of 52 books per year. As a part of the Pacific University MFA program, students read 4 books a month (and write critical responses to at least 2 of those). Doing that for two years in a row changed my relationship to reading for the better. Of course, I'm reading like a writer--not strictly for entertainment or information, rather, for craft, possibility, and inspiration. In the 6 years since graduation, I've maintained a relatively healthy reading pace. For me, anything less than 30 books annually seems like a drought. Anything in the 40's seems about right. And anything over 50 seems like the writer should probably be doing more writing and less reading.

Yet things like book tour travel, falling in love, and fostering family take time. I had a lot of all three in 2014 (no complaints!) and wondered how that might affect my reading practice. Thanks to a monthly membership to Audible, promising me 1 audiobook a month for the entire year...and thanks to the frequented 2-hour drive between Mercy Me and Raccoon Ridge, I was able to read 44 books in 2014 (14 were audiobooks). For the full list, visit my 2014 Goodreads shelf and author page (shameless plug: If you haven't rated or reviewed Flashes of War on Amazon or Goodreads yet, please do so. It is surprisingly helpful, as organizers of prospective speaking gigs check these out frequently.)

"Best of" book lists are impossibly challenging, because they're inherently subjective, yet often upheld to objective expectations. I'm not even going try...but I would like to offer commentary on a few of the more notable books from my 2014 list. Food for thought:

Politically pertinent, inspiring, and revealing:

Sketching Guantanamo by Janet Hamlin: This is a collection put together by the only sketch artist with access to the military tribunals in Guantanamo. What I thought might be a "quick glance" coffee table book turned into an eye-opening pictorial expose with intelligent, brief commentaries by some of the today's most highly respected investigative journalists. Picture the masterminds behind 9/11 praying 5 times a day in the courtroom aisles, with prosecutors, jurors, and survivors of the 9/11 victims looking on. No joke. This book is a keyhole look into something largely locked away, something that should--in my opinion--be publicly accessible and highly visible to the masses.Fort of Nine Towers by Qais Omar Akbar: A memoir of an Afghan childhood before, during, and after the Russian and American invasions, this is simply one of the most profoundly touching and important books of nonfiction I've read in the last decade. If you long to "know" what it's like to grow up in Afghanistan...if you've wondered about what a "normal" Afghan childhood might be like...and what aspects of that life were changed by war and how, this is the book to read.
Most delightful discovery:

The High Heart by Joseph Bathanti: This collection of short stories drew me in immediately. It is so wholly of a time and place, of a particular voice and vision, that I repeatedly forgot where I was--losing myself in its pages in the best possible way. Bathanti's poetry-infused prose is nothing short of jaw-dropping, with at least one knock-my-socks off sentence on every page. Moments glitter and pop, images layer into 3D, and a world full of rugged individualism and tough love comes to life with compassion and precision. Hands down one of the most majestically written and influential short story collections I have ever read.
Oldie but a Goodie:

The Great Gatsby  by F. Scott Fitzgerald: No, not all writers were English majors, and not all writers have read the classics, me included. And no, I had not read this book before, despite numerous pleading recommendations thrown upon me by well-meaning enthusiasts. What matters to me most about this book is the way in which Fitgerald so precisely characterizes and describes the individuals in his novel. They are unforgettable in their strangeness, yet somehow not strange at all--as even their quirks are interesting and imaginable. For me, the affect of this skill culminated in the following paragraph, after which I knew I could never think of characterization and description in the same way (meaning, the bar has been raised):
“As I went over to say goodbye I saw that the expression of bewilderment had come back into Gatsby’s face, as though a faint doubt had occurred to him as to the quality of his present happiness. Almost five years! There must have been moments even that afternoon when Daisy tumbled short of his dreams—not through her own fault but because of the colossal vitality of his illusion. It had gone beyond her, beyond everything. He had thrown himself into it with a creative passion, adding to it all the time, decking it out with every bright feather that drifted his way. No amount of fire or freshness can challenge what a man will store in his ghostly heart.”

So Much to be Thankful For

For the past several weeks, I've contemplated the best way to express my thanks to the people who made 2014 a banner year for me, personally and professionally. I thought a personalized, real card to each of my Writer at Large students might be a nice place to start. Then, I received a pretty interesting e-card (it felt more like "real mail" than other e-cards) from a family friend and considered going that route. In the end, I chose to take 4 days off with family and make sure I was present for that quality time. I didn't carve out a few hours to write letters during, but I did reflect on the individuals who contribute to my well-being, my business, and my local community. I'd like to say a few words about those folks right here...

My Writer at Large students  are spread across the U.S. (and 1 from Canada!) and come from all walks of life: a geologist, a dentist, a nurse, a new mother, a middle school teacher, a professor, a visual artist, a psychotherapist, a homesteader, a speech pathologist, a former POW, a former CIA member, an acupuncturist, a former hair stylist, a gardener, a science writer, mothers, fathers, widows, siblings, and spouses...Their experiences span more than my imagination can contain. Month after month they entrust me with their newest writings, crafted revisions, and creative aspirations. They send me fiction and nonfiction, short stories and novels, flash pieces and essays, memoirs and manuscripts-in-progress. Likewise, their creative interests are as varied as their professions: global warming, personal faith, the natural world, life after death, life at sea, life on a farm, intentional communities, loss of innocence (growing up), technological threats, political facades, culture shock, family dynamics, identity, and more. A number of them experienced publishing successes this year, above and beyond their monthly or weekly writing accomplishments. More about that right here . I also deepened my relationship with poet, teacher, and friend Holly Wren Spaulding this year, as we extended our ongoing conversation into the realm of colleagues, discussing our self-employed business models, aspirations, and best teaching practices.
To each of you: thank you for opening your hearts and minds to the good work of writing, and for enriching my life with your words.
Coming off the book tour (which leads to entirely additional list of people to thank, most especially Alaska writer and friend Rose Austin ), I exhaled long and deep in the South Toe Valley, absolutely delighted to be home and get down to this business of "settling in." A particularly smart, funny, energetic, and creative group of women has been a part of that coming home, and they deserve a shout out here. To Nicole, Alena, Stephanie, Whitney, Jess, and a few other ladies up to no good in the valley--I'm so glad you're here. Your perspective and laughter fill me up each time we gather.
Last but certainly not least, my family (and newest family members--a delightful clan of in-laws!) and my Number One. This year we set things in motion to spend the rest of our lives together. Next year, we'll make it public and official with our May wedding. Every day I am sung to, lovingly teased into laughter, cared for, supported, and appreciated. Thank you, sweet Brad, for more than words can say.

What is Flash Fiction?

A few years ago, I guest blogged at Cheek Teeth Blog about the defining characteristics of flash fiction. The post quickly went to the top of that sites hits, and soon thereafter became the first link listed on most Google searches pertaining to flash fiction. That URL has since been sold out and locked down, the post no longer available. But since that time, I've travelled and lectured on flash to various audiences across the country, refining my understanding of the form and--most notably--successful approaches to teaching flash. We learn by example: by seeing what works, what doesn't work, and isolating the moment of creative decision that leads a story down either path. I teach to inspire and to help others isolate such moments in their own work, with the aspiration to empower writers to ultimately generate, revise, and coach themselves toward their own best work.

I'm delighted to announce I'll be teaching weekend and week-long courses at Interlochen College of Creative Arts on 4 occasions in 2015, the first of which is a very special weekend all about flash fiction, full scene, and how these skills can improve short stories and novels. Here's the full schedule and course registration links, and the flyer is below. It's winter, it's up north, and it'll be cold...but if you're like me, you may find that a blanket of white, a quiet artful campus, and all the permission that darkness affords are a perfect chemical mix for writing. I hope some readers of The Writing Life blog will consider joining me:

Jogging Writer: 10K Follow Up & Facts

Well...I ran the race and I answered one question: Can I do it? Yes, I can. But a whole host of other questions were raised, most notably, those referring to the actual distance of the race. A 10K is a 10K is a 10K, right? Wrong.
  Here's a partial map of Bays Mountain Park's 39 miles of trails. The 10K included trails like Fern, Lake, Chinquapin, and Big Oak, among others.
Apparently, in the trail world of racing, distances are estimates. This is for the obvious reason that if a race course organizer needs to end a race a 6.2 miles but there simply aren't any trails that lead to an efficient finish line in the distance needed, the organizer can't exactly build a new trail. For this reason, the owner of Kingsport's Fleet Feet (and sponsor of the Rocky Top XTERRA 10K last week) explained to me, racing distances for single track trail races are close estimates. He also reminded me that because no two trail races are alike in tread conditions, grade, and elevation, it's not a good idea to compare a PR (personal record) time on one course with any times from another course. In the same way, races run on pavement--which can be exact, and in the racing world are completely expected to be exact--should never be compared to a race of the same distance on single track trail.

"I'm hosting a 50K in April," the Fleet Feet guy told me. "That's 32 miles. The course I've charted is actually 36.4 miles...but it's still billed as a 50K, it's still scored as a 50K, and that's the working understanding every runner who signs up will have."

He went on to tell me that the 10K I ran at Bays Mountain wasn't 6.2 miles, but 6.8 miles. I did a little math, figured out what my time would have been without that extra 6/10 of a mile, and further divided that by the number of miles in a proper 10K. What did I learn? That I ran almost exactly 1 minute per mile slower on race day than my personal record (also partially on single-track trail). That's a pretty safe and smart slow-down decision, if you consider the rainy and slick conditions that day.

All of that said, I logically concur that a race time for 6.2 miles on one trail shouldn't be compared with a race time for 6.2 miles on a different trail, but part me feels like getting roughly the same race time on either course is the point of training. After all, we train so we can consistently perform at our best, right? Same with my novel. Whether I'm writing with conditions of silence, solitude, and home baked lasagna or I'm writing in a crowded, loud, overstuffed Starbucks with burnt drip coffee...my sentences still have to pull their weight and achieve the same, desired impact in the end.

The point of all this exploration? Learning. Plus, I feel better. It's not that I felt horrible about my race time (I did finish, after all, and had more steam to keep going). But I did feel disoriented. Now I know why.

I also know that what's been missing from my training is one run a week where I run at my own preferred pace, slowed down about half a notch. I've been so strict about following Matt Fitzgerald's 80/20 running plan (which I highly recommend) that over-focusing on pacing, heart rate, and endurance cost me a little in intuition and personal accommodations. I'm one week into my Half Marathon training and every Sunday between now and March 28th will be my "long run" for the week. Unlike the other runs--which aren't given a distance limit, rather, just a certain number of minutes per heart rate zone--the long runs have time, zone, and distance limits. But the way Fitzgerald outlines the workout, there's no way I can stay in the heart rate zones he recommends and run the full distance in the time allotted. I simply have to run faster to get the job done, which is something I've been wanting to do all along. Today I ran 7 miles and it felt great. I'm ready for more.

Barter Theatre's "Jingle All the Way" and 1 Wish Worth Hoping for

One of the great things about being engaged is that, all of the sudden, I have a big family! Coming from a tiny clan of 2 parents and 1 little me, the idea of multiples still baffles me. When Brad's family wants to go out to eat, they have to call ahead and make reservations--table for 9 or maybe 11 if my folks come, too. That's still small for some people, I realize, but it's over 300% bigger than what I'm used to. I love it.

Of all the family, there's one grandchild, a curious, outgoing, energetic 6-year-old that I get to call my nephew. My uncles and aunts were awesome when I was growing up and I take inspiration from their investment in my life. Even though we lived 3,000 miles apart, they remembered special days and, most of all, were really "on" and interested whenever I flew across the country or my parents and I made a trip for holidays. For my nephew E, I'm trying to get a sense for the pieces that make up his world--karate, school, cub scouts, football. In first grade, liking your teacher and finding friends are big deals. I figured it was time to see what they were all about...

On Wednesday, I got to travel with my sister-in-law and my nephew E's 1st grade class to the historic Barter Theatre in downtown Abingdon, Virginia for a production of "Jingle All the Way." My first thought is that I can only describe a theatre full of several hundred 6-year-olds as LOUD. But in truth, their sounds guided my ears toward gems of conversation. Gentle, high voices competed with each other with exuberant exclamations: "Look at that big box. That biggest red one, right there in the middle!" and "Did you see the elves? Do you think they have candy?" and "I have to pee!" rang like a Christmas Carol as we waited for the musical to begin.


I'm no theatre buff, but I do know narrative and I love a good tune--so let me just say that in less than an hour, this production delivered balanced doses of humor, action, hyperbole, cheer, and that good ol' holiday spirit (which includes a requisite dose of cheese). In a small town, in a small theatre, you might expect that one of the actors or actresses would be the "weak spot." Or perhaps, that at least someone would sing slightly flat or sharp. But through and through, this cast of six stayed in step. They were not just pleasantly in tune, they were marvelously musical and gifted. Sparkles (Kelly Strand) and Glitzy (Annie Simpson) sang remarkably high and fast, enunciating like it was easy (which I'm sure it wasn't). They smiled like Olympic ice skaters, grins evident from my back row seat. Santa Claus (Joseph Matthew Veale) revealed a more complex character, not just the "jolly" St. Nick we've come to expect. Tick Tock (Sean Michael Flattery) acted through a likewise complex set of emotions (I especially enjoyed his "flashback" to the hand injury) and played the part well. Jingle (Hope Quinn) and Jangle (Michael Vine) offered delightful duets and the kind of Broadway glee that's hard to take your eyes off of. Notably, whether through careful direction or self-restraint, Quinn's ability to exude an operatic pitch-perfect melodious bellow was used wisely--and by that I mean that her booming talent appeared when necessary, but did not dominate, as appropriate to the narrative and overall stage direction.

But perhaps the real show happened just outside the Barter Theatre's doors when the audience was released to return to their school buses and minivans and SUV's, hellbent on Chik-fil-A and hand sanitizer. Adults squeezed through the doors to the theatre in an attempt to exit toward the lobby. A human traffic jam quickly formed. The source of the hold up? A little boy with a nametag that read Charlie. As soon as he spotted the actor Santa Claus, he rushed up to him with an urgent message. His pale cheeks and chapped, pink lips made his plea appear all the more pressing as he addressed Mr. Claus with all the focus and intention he could muster. I watched as the line backed up, adults confused about why they couldn't get out. I watched as the Elves listened over Santa's shoulder to little Charlie, making his plea. He talked and talked, admirably unaware of the world and its schedules and lines and open doors letting cold air rush into the lobby. About mid-way through his wish list, a toddler (perhaps Charlie's brother) waddled into Santa's arms, pressing his face into Santa's costume. But Santa was not distracted, nor was Charlie. The two locked eyes and the wishing continued. What could possibly be so important, I wondered? But the noise of the crowd made it impossible to hear.

Later, as buses of 1st graders pulled up to Chick-fil-A and unsuspecting adults on their lunch break soon realized the chaos that was about to descend (for my part, I had flashbacks to my public high school cafeteria, a place I prefer to forget)...I saw that little boy Charlie again. Nearby, his mother sat with other parents, eating her lunch. When I asked her what Charlie's wish had been, she told me he asked Santa for "a remote control with 1 button on it that makes everyone in the world fly when you push it."

On the heels of "Jingle All the Way," which longs for "the good old days" and preaches the ills of sugar addiction, I found Charlie's wish hopeful. (Side note: For "dessert," a whispy-haired woman in a Chik-fil-A apron handed out peppermint candies to the children...an ironic ending given Jangle's addition to said candy in the play we'd just seen.) Today's youth grow up with iPods and hearing about IEDs. They're plugged in and all the while, we're fighting war(s). I see many adults either plugged in next to them, or scratching their heads about how to "measure" a child's attentiveness and presence of mind in the digital age. But the imagination still runs wild. Some dreams and visions are still what they always were--the chance to fly, the chance to watch the world change one button and one little wish at a time. I jingled all the way home, plugged in the Christmas tree lights, and felt good about the world.

Jogging Writer: First 10K Race - 2014 XTERRA Rocky Top

After four days of rain, I woke on Saturday morning to...more rain! Determined to race anyway, Brad and I piled into the car in early daylight and headed for Bays Mountain Park. The Race, sponsored by Fleet Feet in Kingsport, TN, was held in a city park that has over 39 miles of trails and a reservoir. I didn't feel as nervous the moments before this race as I felt before my first 5K, and having Brad there as well as getting to start out with my running friend Zan really helped. Zan is 57 and has been running for many years. He's easy-going and genuine and when I asked if he'd run a 5K and 10K with me, he agreed. We run at our own paces, of course, but something in me wanted to be accountable to another runner in the same race, and the invitation rolled off my tongue before I really even thought through this whole "running" thing. Zan was a great comfort as we stood in the soggy trail waiting for the race to start.



I'd like to be that funny writer who expounds in great narrative detail about the lessons learned on my first 10K race day...but the early morning start to the race two days ago got me off schedule, then the celebratory pizza and soy ice cream threw me off that night (I don't eat much sugar, usually), then travel to Celo got me off my work schedule, and last night the full moon left me howling through fitful sleep. All the same, let's give it a try...

It's good to know these things, and now I do:

That you pin your racing bib on with 4 safety pins (not 2)That you leave the rain jacket behind and rely on wicking clothing and your own body temperatureThat you wear a hat to keep the water out of your eyesThat even in a points qualifying race people tend to be courteousThat lots of people show up wearing neon compression calf warmers and this doesn't necessarily mean they're Santa's elves on crackThat slick conditions are a good excuse to take it easy and have fun while still working hardThat you're not the only person who gets the running shits.
The running shits. Let's talk about that for a minute, because no one else seems to be addressing it. If runner's books are going to be as invasive and personal as to demand you evaluate your own body fat with calipers, why don't they also have a chapter called Race Day Running Shits? I know I'm not the only person who prefers to poo before a run and, based on the 22-minute line I stood in to go to the bathroom before the race, I also know I'm not the only one who gets a little nervous on race day and has to, well...deal with that.

Bodily functions aside, I was mostly pleased with my run because I finished, didn't fall, and had a good time. I was slightly displeased with my time, but I'm currently trying to figure out what distance I actually ran (more on that below), so I can't fully understand that disappointment as of yet. It was cold and wet and the course was hilly and completely covered in leaves. Wet, muddy, leaves--every single inch of the ground--just covered. Around mile 4, I started craving water and an apple--the first time I've really had a craving on a run like that--and I spent much of mile 4 at a very slow jog with my head bent and my arms pumping as I moved slow as molasses up the hills. A thickly-muscled woman about my age in a Cross Fit shirt (she had no hips, it was really quite amazing to run behind her and watch how legs move when a person has no hips) passed me on all the uphills, and in turn I'd pass her on the flats and downhills. At one point, I came across some runners actually walking (this is more common than I realized) and the Cross Fit woman hustled past them and let loose a warrior cry through the fog. "YOU GOT THIS!" was all I could make out, but I appreciated it. Like cattle caught in a storm, we responded to her bellow and collectively picked up the pace--the walkers starting to run again and the slow uphillers like me taking slightly longer strides.

I guessed that I must be somewhere near the end of the medium paced running pack, or at the front of the slow pack. I ran much of the race with plenty of elbow room, leap-frogging with the same six or eight people. I seem to find myself around 50-something men around 5'8" or 30-something women with bricks for muscles. I consider them good company. But during that mile 4...during that hill...something happened. I lost internal steam. I knew I'd finish and I knew I could push harder, but I just didn't do it. Why not? I'm still not sure. Yes, my hamstrings were objecting to the steepness and the cold. Yes, I was being cautious because I didn't want to injure myself. But where was that inner umph that I'd felt just four weeks prior when completing a test run on my own?

Then there was the distance thing, which I mulled over and over again in my head as I raced. I was running a 10K which is 6.2 miles. But there were also Half Marathoners competing that day, and they were told to run "two loops." We all started together and ran the exact same path and finished at the exact same finish line, but the 10Kers stopped at one loop and the Half Marathoners stopped at 2 loops...See the problem? A Half Marathon is 13.1 miles, so half of that is actually 6.55 miles. Did I run long or did the Half Marathoners run short? In this business of points, qualifying, personal records, and entry fees, that's not a discrepancy that anyone takes lightly.

In all the happiness of finishing the race, I forgot to ask officials about this on race day. I've emailed the race sponsor and will call Fleet Street running store later today. My time for Saturday's Rocky Top XTERRA 10K was 1:20:45. I placed 6th in my age group and 45th overall. Official results are posted here. My personal record for a 10K is 1:07:54 and before I began training, I ran one at about 1:20:00. So you can see why I felt a little disappointed by my time...but also a little disoriented. It's possible I ran more than 1/4 mile longer than necessary. It's also possible my pedometer is off. I know I moved slowly in the rain, but I thought I'd do at least a little better than that. Still--I finished with a fast sprint and a smile and have the bib, t-shirt, muscle, and memory to prove it!

Onward to half marathon training...yowzah!

Revising the Novel: Break Before the Bend

Last week, I met with my author friend for our monthly critique. We live across the river from each other and both write war fiction. Perhaps more important, although both our works are commonly described as war lit, we individually feel we're "just writing fiction." In other words, the wars are the backdrop or an informing force in our individual works, but not a limiting category. In either case, we're a good fit for each other in terms of providing critical feedback and creative support. She's written multiple novels, whereas I'm still lost in the middle of my first attempt and could use some advice. I've got a good eye for structure, where as she tends to write stories of the mind that could use some shaping.

What I learned from our last meeting is that I need to take another break. This wasn't in my "plan," so to speak, but as the novel has neared the bend toward its final third, I've grown more and more hesitant. I know what needs to happen in the concluding chapters, and even though I don't know every scene I'll write in order to get there, I find that this knowing can tend to make my writing more "plotty." As each sentence unfolds, I feel the weight of those actions at the end of the book pulling like magnets into a lead core. That makes for sloppy writing and un-crafted decisions on my part--because the action can pull, pull, pull when instead I still need to be thorough and clear about characterization, taking my time to reveal reaction on the page and work the metaphors that bubble up organically. With guidance from my friend, I've agreed to take a break before rounding that final bend to the climax and quick conclusion of the work.

When she first made the suggestion, I'll admit that I felt an immediate sense of relief spread throughout my body. I think I might have even smiled. If that wasn't proof enough that her suggestion was spot on, I don't know what could be. It's the first week of December and I already feel the lifting. I can wake up each day and get my tasks done. I'm still pulling long days at the desk, but I can stop work after dinner and even take Saturday and Sunday off, in full. That's healthy and normal...and ultimately I strive to have that kind of schedule no matter how I fill the hours at the desk. But if this fall taught me anything, it's that I can't run my business and write my novel on just 40 hours per week. Someday--yes, this will be possible--when my rates go up and other literary opportunities provide more/different income.

For now, I have accepted that novelling and running Writer at Large at the same time means 10 hour days, 6 days a week. I can do that and I did for most of this fall. Now I need a rest. I need permission to take a bit of time at the holidays and do a spontaneous family activity or two, as well. December still feels chock full of business, no doubt--but that's better than how it felt before, which was impossible. The New Year will be a great time to give headlong back into the final bend of the novel with the hope of turning it over to an editor (for hire) in May. What else is happening in May? Oh yeah. A WEDDING! :-)

Holiday Book Sale

I'm happy to say that signed copies of Flashes of War can be purchased for $2 off the cover price via my website this week--that's just $15! Leave me a note in the "note to sender" box on your PayPal order and I'll even personalize the book, signing to whomever you wish. Fill out your order form, indicate if you want the book sent to your home or to someone else's as a gift, and voila! A book that's under $20 with tax and shipping, sent wherever you want, with free gift wrapping!

Going to a white elephant holiday party? Joining a book club? Need to introduce a voracious reader to a new writer? Know a veteran, military family member, or veteran advocate? In either case, I'd be delighted to sign and sell a book for these reasons and more. Let's get these copies moving and the masses reading!

Click the button below to purchase:

Revising the Novel: Plot Problem Process

Ten days ago, I hit a wall with the plot of the novel. Since this is my 4th revision, I know how the novel is going to end, but I'm fine-tuning how I'm going to get there. (To be honest, I've known how the novel would end for several years, but efficiency has been a challenge for me.)

The first issue I ran into was technical, so I emailed my war lit author friend Brian and asked: "Would it be possible that a platoon could be headed into a valley (in Humvees) on a day-long mission and that a special ops convoy could be headed to that same valley, without knowing it? In other words, could they run into each other there and not be too entirely shocked to find they'd both been sent to the same place, for different reasons? There's not going to be a friendly fire scene. It's something else entirely. But first I need to know if it's possible this could happen.." He replied and told me about Blue Force Tracker, which I had no idea existed.

Next, I had to find out what things might look like with an IED, depending upon who got there first. I asked Brian again: "So let's say the special ops guys roll into the valley first, and they disarm and IED en route. What would that spot--that physical piece of dirt road--look like after the IED has ben disarmed? I need to know because I think the "regular" platoon guys and their convoy are going to roll into the valley after the special ops guys disarm the IED and I want to know what the regular guys would see that would tell them someone with skill has disarmed that IED. They can see the blue dots via Blue Force Tracker on the GPS so it's no big mystery or anything, I just need to be able to describe what they see so they know it's disarmed (and also so they still get a little creeped out, because the road was supposedly cleared the  day before and this mission they're on is supposed to be a breeze)." Of course, the answer depended entirely upon how much of a hurry my characters were in, and also if they had an EOD (explosive ordnance disposal) guy on their team.

And onward down the rabbit hole I went...

Was I being lazy? Getting derailed and distracted by upcoming travel and holidays? Letting my plot get too complicated and my ideas get the best of me, failing to write through the barriers? It was difficult to tell. After two mornings of failed chapter attempts, I set the work aside for 4 days. When I came back, nothing felt right, so I printed my entire 4th revision to date and read it through from beginning to end--something I hadn't done yet. This resulted in chapter outlines:


It also resulted in a path forward. Staring at the cards, I got out my journal, moved away from the desk to physically put myself in a different perspective, and jotted potential ideas and outcomes down on the blank pages. Eventually, I settled on an outline I can follow, loosely, to get to the end of the book. I think. I still don't know exactly how it will all come together, but I know I can write that next chapter. That's more than I could say 10 days ago.



It's also worth noting that when I printed my pages and read them from start to finish, I did this in away from my desk as well. I sat at the kitchen table, an entirely different place in the house with an entirely different feel. That's subtle, but it's powerful. If we want to think differently, we have to be different. Changing up the process in even these small, accessible ways can invite ideas that may never before have come into being. I certainly believe in the power of these possibilities.