Delilah S. Dawson's Blog, page 24

bang bang, kiss kiss.

So I'm working on this new book.
It's unlike anything I've done before.
Gritty scifi. Male protag. No romance. No magic. No carnivals.
No adorably bloodthirsty critters.
Plenty of guns.
So I needed to do some research.

I haven't gone to the range since 2005, but thanks to my magic Lasik robot eyes, my aim is even better than it was before. I filled that zombie rat and his stanky cheese full of holes.
Followed it up with a leisurely dinner on the side porch of a new restaurant. Duck confit spring rolls, lamb shank, chocolate torte with almond Chantilly cream. And this marvelous concoction of gin, St. Germain, simple syrup, and grapefruit that the bartender calls a Wild Blossom. It looks like a pink girly drink, but it packs one hell of a punch.
How fitting.
* * *
Anybody else shoot?
* * *

Help! I'm being held hostage! By Ryan Gosling and a sloth!

I'm over at Bitten By Books today for an ongoing interview/chat and giveaway.
Starting at noon, Central time, you can read my secrets, ask questions, heckle me aplenty, and enter to win an Amazon gift card, which you can use to purchase almost anything that has ever existed, except for baby sloths, because I CHECKED.
Here's the link to the event.
And here's a Rafflecopter giveaway.
And here's a picture of Ryan Gosling holding a baby sloth. 

I was going to just give you a pic of a baby sloth, but... 
HEY, GIRL. SLOTH IS MY FAVORITE DEADLY SIN, RIGHT BEFORE LUST. FOR YOU.
Stop looking at Ryan and the sloth and go to Bitten By Books and win stuff.
Yes?
Yes.
***
p.s. Yes, I'm assuming it's Photoshopped.
p.p.s. NO, I DON'T CARE.

upcoming

1. How amazing is this bludbunny pumpkin by Josette Bowsher Schaber? She posted it on my Facebook page yesterday, and I kinda freaked. My favorite. pumpkin. ever. Well done, darling!

2. Tomorrow, I'll be hanging out at Bitten By Books. There's an interview and a giveaway, and they've requested I haunt the comments to interact, answer questions, and possibly heckle with hugs. Here's the RSVP, which gives you 25 extra entries in the contest. Come play!

2. November 10 and 11, I'll be a guest at the Dahlonega Literary Festival in the scenic north Georgia town of Dahlonega. If you're in the Southeast and love fall in the mountains and books, please stop by. It's free. And pretty. And there's a general store where you can buy rabbit feet, hand-carved canes, and kitana swords. And you can eat lunch with me at a Mexican restaurant. I'm looking forward to seeing A.J. Hartley and Faith Hunter again and meeting Cherie Priest for the first time. I drove up for a few hours last year just to meet Deanna Raybourn and had a wonderful time.

3. I'm in the thrall of a shiny new idea and am furiously first drafting. I might not look up for a while, so if you need me, ping me on Twitter. And please remind me to eat and sleep, because I tend to forget.

Happy Monday, everybody!

* * *

a toast

I have a bad habit of saving things for "the perfect time".

Dresses, shoes, a new piece of jewelry. I'll put it away and wait for a party, a wedding, a conference, some sort of event where I want to feel special. Sometimes, I have to wait longer than I like. But I'm trying to get over this affectation, because, frankly, I'm sick of postponing joy.

That's why I opened the Roussanne tonight.

When I first tried it at RoxyAnn Winery last October... well, read that blog post, and you'll see how a simple glass (or two) made me feel. It was magic. And when they sent me a bottle, I was really excited. I made grand plans. I put it away for the ultimate celebration.

And it sat on top of a shelf for nearly a year. I sold two novellas... but didn't open it. I sold two books to Germany... but didn't open it. I sold a YA... but didn't open it.

And you know what?

SCREW THAT.

It's my birthday. I've had a lot to celebrate in the past year. And I'm 6,000 words into my next book, something entirely different from anything I've written before. I feel alive and awake and filled with fire. And I wanted to taste the Roussanne again.

Tomorrow, I'll buy some pears and cheese and sopressata and sit outside and taste everything slowly, thoughtfully, under an ultra-blue October sky. But now, I'm going to pound the keyboard and build words and sip, remembering the smell of wine in barrels and the warm glow of lights strung overhead and the feeling of being on an adventure that I don't want to end.

Today is my birthday, and the next year is going to be great.

Friends, let's rock this bitch.

Cheers!

* * *

pre-pre-birthday

It's the day before the day before my birthday.
And you know what that means.
My favorite things.
CAKE.

And exciting packages in the mail, like this antique magnifying glass from my Uncle Lee, Aunt Tammy, and cousin Drea in Phoenix. It's like it was always meant to be on my writing desk.

I also had a delicious lunch with Heidi and Stephanie, who doted on me in extremity.
Cake. Presents. Street tacos. A perfect October afternoon.
Who could ask for anything more?
* * *

the storyteller

"My home is a white house that is flowery. My Mommy, My Daddy, My Sister; that is my family lives in our house. Do not forget about my kitty cats! I have a lot of names that are in my house, because I have not told you about Troublehead, my shark, and Jakeface, my fish and Cheeper, my bird. So many names! That is why I love my home."

~my son, age 3


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He doesn't look like me, but he's definitely got my genes.

*

Adding for comparison and further OVARYSPLOSION: the boy as a babe.

Wednesday morning meeting of the Sherwood Bitch Club

So here's what I did this morning. And last Wednesday, too.






And I'm wearing these shoes: 


Conclusions:
1. I didn't thwack my wrist at all. Yay! No crackhead bruises!2. I need to hit the range on days I don't have workouts so my arms don't tire as quickly.3. Bow wax and target fluff can resemble awkward dandruff if you wear a black shirt to shoot.3. Next time, I'm buying one of the zombie targets.
* * *

THIS CON IS DEFECTIVE: or, how to manage your expectations as a writer

What, you mean that you went to a writers conference, but your wildest dreams didn't come true?

Yeah. Sorry about that. Mine, neither. Not yet.

See, I went to a fantastic writers conference a few weeks ago and enjoyed the hell out of myself. I came home inspired and reinvigorated, ready to dig my thumbs deep into the fried chicken thigh of writing and pry out the deliciously greasy bits. Who could ask for anything more than chicken and transcendence?

Lots of people, actually.

When you're on Twitter and Facebook and connecting with people after a conference, you can't help making note of the feedback. And while most of what's being said about this particular con is overwhelmingly positive, I've seen a few complaints that people didn't get the answers they'd hoped to find. And I'm somewhat annoyed, because you can't blame the con for your false expectations. I mean... if you walk into a Bojangles and ask for caviar, you're bound to be disappointed, but that doesn't mean you should go whining about it on Yelp.

Here's the thing: you can't worry about getting published/getting a million hits on your blog until you've perfected your craft-- until your writing is really damn good, and you're plugged into your muse, and you're networking, and you're constantly working your ass off. The people you admire in the writing world did not start last week and rise to stardom yesterday. It's taken them years, sometimes decades, to get where they are.

And they're all going to tell you the same thing: there is no one secret to success .

Life as a writer is about hard work, time, tenacity, embracing failure, taking risks, and never giving up. You apply that to your writing, and then to your editing, and then to your querying. And then to everything you do, ever.

You don't get to skip to the front of the line just because you went to a conference.

Most of the questions I heard during Q&A sessions weren't about how to improve one's writing and perfect one's craft. They were about how to get MORE STUFF. How do I get blog hits, magazine gigs, an agent, a sale, self-publishing success? Gimme, gimme, gimme. And, yes, these are questions asked by everyone who wants to be a writer. I would *still* like to know how to sell more books and get more deals and anthologies.

Believe me-- I feel your frustration. When you're still writing on your own, for yourself, hoping to get somewhere, you want the answers to the next step so that your current situation feels viable. After all, if you can't eventually level up, why are you working so freaking hard right now? You want to see success waiting on the horizon. You need something to run toward, proof that your blood and sweat and inky tears will be worth something, someday. You're looking for outside validation.

But you're not going to get that at a conference dedicated to insight and motivation.

So, here's my advice: when you pay to go to a conference, be realistic about your expectations.

If you want someone to critique your writing, go to a retreat or hire an editor or find critique partners.

If you want to connect with agents/editors and discuss your query, go to a con with agent pitch sessions.

If you want inspiration/a kick in the pants, go to a con that specializes in just that.

Do your research, and be honest about the return you expect on any investment in writing help, because anyone who promises you success/answers is probably lying to get your money.

And if, after all that, you're still not getting the answer to your particular questions, find the people at the conference who came the closest to satisfying your curiosity and ask more specific questions. Find their websites or blogs, stalk them on Twitter, whatever. They didn't purposefully disappoint you, and most people remember what it's like to feel lost and are glad to offer their encouragement and help, if not their agent's cell number.

The hardest part about writing is that you have to do it by yourself. No one can force you. No one can give you ideas, stick your butt in the chair, or make you do the research that will help you reach your goals. You have to want it, chase it, long for it, and dedicate yourself to it.

And believe me-- you can get a helluva lot done, standing in this line, waiting your turn.

***
Looking for a writers conferences? Here's a list on Wikipedia. Looking for resources on how to get published? Here's what I used.Looking for the water cooler for other people waiting in line? It's called Twitter.

travelogue: Boxwood Manor

That, my friends, is one of the most magical places on earth.
It's called Boxwood Manor, and it's located in Pendleton, SC. Back in 1790, Boxwood began as a one-room shack, hand-built by the relatives of one of my favorite people, Annette Buchanan. Her family has been there ever since, adding rooms and charm and outbuildings to some of the prettiest land I've ever had the pleasure of walking. I met Annette when we both worked at the Anderson County Arts Center, and I miss seeing her smiling face every day. I also miss her famous chocolate pound cake.

This little wagon was Annette's great-great-grandfather's bachelor car. Notice how there's no room for a chaperon? Her family is known for a gorgeous line of Tennessee Walkers out of a famous stallion named Sun, and I've ridden a few of his descendants. They were the most amazing horses I've ever known, Shine and Kharma especially. I even got to help birth a gorgeous mare named Elektra. These horses-- they're huge and beautiful with big hearts and fluid natural gaits. Like riding on the wind. And those horses began here, in the pastures of Boxwood.


This is where I stayed, upstairs in the attic. When Annette refurbished the home in 2008, she didn't just slap another layer of wallpaper over what was there. She called in experts on historic building, bricks, and clay, and they lovingly restored the house to its original beauty. It's amazing. When you walk barefoot, you can feel the tradesmen's marks under your skin. You can run your fingers across handprints in that little fireplace.
And Annette's grandfather died on the pretty, swoopy little chaise.
It was strange, falling asleep alone, in the pitch dark, with windows open to the Carolina night. It was cool, but the crickets and cicadas were out there, somewhere. I was curious to see if I'd be haunted, because when someone's been living in a house since 1790, you know a lot has happened there. But Annette's family must have been as warm and happy as she is, because it was simply peaceful.

Here I am, getting suited up for the Steampunk Victorian Gala thrown at historic Woodburn Plantation by the Pendleton Historic Foundation. There's something giddy about primping in front of an antique vanity, the mirror slightly muddled and the light warm in your eyes.



This barn. Oh, this barn.
Remember those moments of mercy I talked about? I had one here. 
Back in 2002, I needed good pasture for my horse, and Annette still had a few horses on her land, so she was kind enough to let me bring Chantilly out here to fatten up. My little mare fit right in, and some of the most golden moments of my life were spent out at Boxwood, alone for miles, walking in waist-deep grass and swinging a halter, calling my filly and hearing her whinny as she galloped to me. I would ride, bareback with a rope halter, past the remains of tractors and the idyllic lake. I would eat blueberries off the bushes and pecans off the ground as she grazed. And sometimes, I would open the door of that barn and sit inside, my saddle next to antiques covered in spiderwebs, watching the sunbeams pool on a dappled brown mare and sketching her in my notebooks.
And I would think, "This is all I ever wanted."
I was wrong. But it was close.

In addition to the amazing work she's done inside, Annette has turned Boxwood Manor into a prime wedding spot. I've seen some pictures, and it's gorgeous, what can be done here. The old well was redone like a wishing well and works as a buffet. The 200-year-old boxwood tree rules over everything like an aging queen. And you can hire a horse and buggy to carry you away.  There's a company with drum horses in Pickens, one with Haflingers in Pendleton.

Please allow me to geek out over history for a moment.
See the dovetail joints on the left? The ones on the bottom all have an upward slant, which means they were created by Scotsmen. And then, halfway up, just above the chiffarobe, the dovetails go rectangular, which means they were made by Englishmen.
When you touch these boards, you can feel the care that went into them. No Home Depot here. Just Annette's ancestors with axes and adzes, hand-fitting a house where dozens of children grew up. The last time I saw Boxwood, everything was covered up in wallpaper. But this is so much better.


Remember when phones were pretty?


Annette calls it "the little bathroom", and I called it "the creepy bathroom". 
It's fascinating. All these tiny dolls, carding combs, a miniature sewing machine, a spinning wheel. All things found in the house or attic or buried in the barn, artificats that hadn't seen the light of day in decades, sometimes centuries. Until Annette found them, cleaned them up, and made them shine.
She's really good at that.

This piano is from 1836.
It still plays.
I want Casper to play it...


Boxwood Manor was the basis of SCRITCH, the middle grade book that I was querying when I found my literary agent. It was about a little girl who lived in an old country house that matched Boxwood to the best of my memory-- except that it had creepy rat goblins and hidden rooms in the attic. That book didn't sell, but I can still see it in my mind.
And oddly enough, certain elements of Boxwood show up in my Blud books. For example, see those tiny demitasse cups? They're almost exactly what I describe as the serving for blood in WICKED AS THEY COME and WICKED AS SHE WANTS. That lavender one especially.
Except I'd never seen the cups or the piano until this weekend.

One of the things I love about Boxwood is that there's beauty hidden everywhere. This cane is just sitting in a corner, minding its own business. But it's beautiful. It was a gift to Annette's father, hand-carved. You can see the love the carver had for Arabians, the set of the mouth and the carefully dished face. That isn't *any* horse. That's one horse in particular.

I love old houses. So much. Everything here feels so real, so purposeful. 
So genuine, just like Annette.

It was hard to leave Boxwood Manor again.
I got in my car at sunrise, driving by the cemetery on the hill and pulling into the fog, windows down so I could smell the tilled fields next door. The air is so clear here, especially on horseback or motorcycle. 
I miss the hell out of it.
I'm not a religious person, but the closest I've felt to a higher power was trail riding in South Carolina. The way the sun falls through the trees, the possibility in the air, the feel of mountain laurels brushing across your face as you barrel through the woods and fly over logs. The hitch my mare used to get when she saw turkeys or deer and took to the chase.
I used to just want horses and painting.
Now, I want horses and writing and golden fields and the feeling of being in a place that calls to me.
* * *
Thank you, dear Nanook, for inviting me into your home. And if anyone is looking for a beautiful place to visit, enjoy a Southern luncheon, or get married in upstate SC, here's the Facebook page for Boxwood Manor. Annette also has a gorgeous cabin in Highlands, NC which she sometimes rents to lovely people.

What I wish I'd said at the Crossroads Writers Conference

I'll admit it: my Talk Block at the Crossroads Writers Conference could have been better. In part because it was my first time there and what I'd planned didn't gel as well with what I found I wanted to say. But if I had it to do again-- and if they'll let me back through the door again next year-- here's what I would want to say.

*WHAT I WISH I'D SAID AT CROSSROADS WRITERS CONFERENCE
For just a moment, I want you to forget that Amazon exists and simply think about a peach.

I want you to forget about 50 Shades of Grey and advances and agents and editors and SEO and Twitter followers and and blog tours. Because that's not what we're here for. That's not the important part of what we do-- of writing. That's like dreaming of a can of slimy peaches in Costco when you're holding a seed in your hands in a beautiful grove, standing over a hole you dug yourself, ankle-deep in dew.

Only an asshole would focus on a can.

If you want to be published, there's no secret formula that you're going to find here--or at any conference or seminar, no matter how much you pay. Because the secret isn't a secret: you have to work your ass off for a long time, develop a thick skin, put yourself out there, never stop learning, and never give up. You have to write every day, be obsessed, put in the work.

But hearing that doesn't get anyone excited. That's like telling you how the cannery works. No one cares about cans, and no one cares about canneries.

The most important thing that happens is that there is a seed, and the seed grows.

That seed is your idea. It can come from anywhere-- something that happened in real life, a dream, something you read online. It might hit you like a tornado and wreck your life, or it might sneak in, unannounced and insidious, like termites. It might seem ridiculous or impossible at first; the best ideas often do. You can't go find it, though. It has to come to you.

The good thing is that if you're curious-- and every writer I know is deeply curious-- there's a good chance the ideas will come. But you have to be open to it, sensitive to it. The ideas sneak in when you're unfocused. You could go for a hike and step on twenty peach pits and never look down. But if you want to write, you have to train yourself to respond to odd little pings. Characters in the coffee shop, or words in other people's books, or that niggling little thought you had in the shower. And when you find a little seed, you have to at least write it down, maybe think about it for a minute. It might not stick, and it might not go anywhere. But the more seeds you collect, the better the chance that your subconscious will start turning one over and over, contemplating the possibilities of what could grow from that bizarre, wrinkled piece of nothing.

I love my subconscious. If I could, I would kiss the damn thing. If I just step out of my way and stop saying no to things, the answers somehow rise to the surface. Sometimes I have to go driving with the right music or take a long bath, but with the right prompts, what's supposed to happen, happens. Your brain wants it to happen. It's almost looking at a Magic Eye poster. But instead of relaxing your eyes, you relax your brain.

The point is that just as a tree can't grow overnight, stories take time and lots and lots and lots of thought. You might get a crazy-good hook in your head-- it's like Twilight for narwhals! But that's not enough. You have to know where it starts, where it stops, and a few mile markers in between. You have to know these characters like they're annoying neighbors. I write romance, and while I'm writing, I'm always crushing on the male lead, trying to make myself swoon with everything he says. So this is the part where you take the seed and plant it. Water it and fertilize it. Tend it carefully. Don't let a day-- don't let an hour-- go by when it's not with you, on your mind. Even if it's just one page, one sentence, one word a day, even if it's just some notes on a future scene-- write it.

The first thing you will do is bang out 10 fierce pages like you're being chased, like you're on fire. All 10 pages will probably suck. Don't let that stop you. It's going to suck for a good, long while. Just keep typing, straight on through, with idiotically dogged determination. To me, a first draft is a lot like barfing. You just get it all out, as much as you can, as fast as you can. Worry about fixing it later. But you can't fix an empty page, so you might as well fill the blank space. Just glorify in the mess. Spread it around. You're going to have to get back in there and pull the guts apart, anyway.

I heard so many people at Crossroads ask how to keep going at this point, and here's the ugly secret: for me, the middle of the book is an enormous pain in the ass. I like the beginning, that electric scene where the heroine meets the hero, the slow burn to the first kiss and the sweet fire of the bow-chicka-wow-wow, and then the climactic end. I don't like writing the piddly in-betweens, and sometimes I'l even put a *** and write "insert character building here" or "talking scene where we learn about tragic past". And then I move on to the next scene that excites me in the moment, because maintaining that excitement is the only way to slog through the swamp. Or orchard. Or Costco.

Call it whatever you want. You just have inch toward daylight, as Matt Stover says.

And some people will tell you to keep your eye on the prize, whether that's typing THE END or mailing that paper baby off to your dream agent. But I think that's bad advice.

Forget the end. Keep your eye on the seed.

Never stop thinking about the seed that excited you about the story in the first part. Roll it around in your mouth a little. Whether it's the world or the characters or the twist at the climax, there was something that moved you so much as a conscious being that it elevated you above your basic dinosaur-brain functions and told you to do this ridiculous, awesome, painful, troublesome, heartbreaking, exhausting, sleep-depriving, family-annoying thing. Keep it in your pocket like a worry stone. Listen to the songs that make you feel it. Immerse yourself in what you're creating.

And if you do that *and* you put your ass in the chair every day and write, you will eventually type THE END.

Will it be any good?

No, it will not.

Even Stephen King admits that his first drafts suck. I don't let *anyone* see anything until my third draft, and nothing hits my agent's desk until at least the fifth. And then, do you know what happens?

She takes three months to read it and sends back a six-page edit letter so honest and brutal that it often reduces me to tears.

For three days, I rant and rage and balk like a mule.

And then I usually realize she's right and figure out how to fix it, because writers are often blind to their own faults. When I think she's wrong, I lay out the most logical argument possible and promise to send her cupcakes.

But as I'd like to encourage you to finish your first book, I'm not going to talk about revision, because that's honestly the hardest part. To follow the analogy here, if the seed is the story idea and the tree is the book you're writing, then here's how revisions work. You stand back and admire your tree for five minutes to six weeks. Then you go over every single leaf hunting for blemishes, turn every single peach. You throw away the rotten ones. Mark the green ones. Trim the bum twigs. Scream and jump up and down because you set out to grow a plum tree instead. Cut off half the branches and rearrange them and sew them back on with a needle and no thimble until your hands are a bloody mess. Maybe set fire to the damn tree.

Forget I said that. 

Just remember the beautiful tree, hung with golden peaches. Remember the seed. Keep it close. Treasure it. Nurture it. Worship it. Love it.

No matter how many books I write, the feeling of finding a seed, the electricity of falling in love with an idea,  never gets old.

You are filled with boundless possibility. All you need is time and hard work to turn it into something amazing. But all of the work comes later. There are no Costcos, no cans, no peaches, no trees...

...without that seed.

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