Stephanie Verni's Blog, page 30

When You Majorly Alter Your Work in Progress After Writing 50,000 Words: The Hard Truth About Writing A Novel

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Today, my dear readers, I am going to give it to you straight.

Straight up, as Paula Abdul once sang.

And believe me, what I’m about to share with you is going to cause me to do quite a bit of work. Lots and lots of work. But in the end, I am hoping it will all be worth it.

And also, you must know this about me: if I didn’t love crafting stories and the agony that goes along with that job, I wouldn’t do it.

If you’ve been with me for a while, you know that I am a professor, writer, author, and as you see me here, a blogger. I’ve written four fiction books to date, and one textbook about Event Planning with my colleagues, Chip and Leeanne. I write a lot. And since 2009, I’ve been writing nonstop.

Participating in National Novel Writing Month in November, I was able to capture nearly 50,000 words of a new novel I had in my head that began as a short story. That short story, entitled Life with Nan, was published in my most recent work of fiction The Postcard and Other Short Stories & Poetry, which debuted in July this past summer. I had this story in my head, and as many other writers might tell you, the pesky characters wouldn’t leave me alone. I kept thinking about them, their backstory, and loving the relationships between the granddaughter and grandmother. I decided to pursue writing this story, which was originally set in the Cotswolds in the UK.

[image error][image error][image error][image error]After taking a break from it for a bit during the final weeks of the semester, something just felt off with the plot and the setting. I was struggling to find the much needed hook I was looking for, in much the same way that Inn Significant sat for nearly five years until I found the plot line of the grandmother’s journal that tied the whole story together. (As you can see, I love writing about daughters, mothers, and grandmothers, in addition to folding in a love story). Nevertheless, something was missing in my work in progress.

When that happens, you stall.

You pause.

You reflect on what exactly the hell it is you’re writing.

When I least expected it, yesterday morning as I was reviewing the manuscript and seeing where the holes were, a big, beautiful lightbulb went off in my head.

That lightbulb led me to the hook. The thing that will tie everything together.

And, if I might say so, I think this hook will make the readers of Inn Significant who are wanting a sequel very, very happy.

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If you’ve ever watched that TED TALK by Elizabeth Gilbert where she talks about where creativity comes from (it’s brilliant, by the way—a must watch for all creatives), that “thing,” that Dobby the House Elf-in-the-corner-of-the-room-mystical-thing, happened to me yesterday.

Out of nowhere, the idea for the book has evolved into something that I think will be pleasing to both me, as the crafter of the story, and to you, my dear, sweet readers who support me and my writing.

I promise to try my hardest not to let you down.

So the lesson today is this: if you’re not satisfied with the direction, plot, characters, setting, or momentum of the story—even if you’ve written 50,000 words of your story—it’s okay.
Those words were not wasted.

Storytelling takes time, and the best stories are given the room to breathe and grow and morph into something wonderful.

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Corny at Christmas

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Walt Disney was corny. He readily admitted it.

And so do I.

I am especially corny at Christmas.

Let me count the ways.

I try to watch every damn Hallmark Christmas movie I can. Even though the plots are quite similar, I don’t care. They always remind me of love, forgiveness, and kindness during the holidays.
In the film The Holiday, Iris admits to loving “corny” and states she’s “looking for cony in her life.” I watch The Holiday every year. I won’t miss it.
I will watch every incarnation of A Christmas Carol I can find, but my all-time two favorites are Scrooge The Musical with Albert Finney and A Christmas Carol with George C. Scott. Both are excellent, but I’m partial to the musical because I’ve been watching that with my family since I was a small child, and now my kids love it. Albert Finney as Ebenezer Scrooge–it doesn’t get much better than that. Also, I read the book by Dickens each year, as well.
Midnight Madness in Annapolis (and previously in my former hometown of Ellicott City): Tomorrow night my friends and I will buck the cold and rain and celebrate shopping, eating and years of friendship in historic Annapolis.
Cutting down our Christmas tree at Pine Valley Farms is an annual tradition. Despite that my son is in college in Pennsylvania, we continue to make this a family tradition.
Trains–we have to see a train garden. We’ve always been a family who loves Christmas train displays, and this year, I found a really good one at Marley Station Mall. It’s quite good!
Sending Christmas cards is a must. I know that in today’s day and age of Facebook, Instagram, Snapchat and Twitter that it may not be necessary to mail a Christmas card, but I just stuck a whole batch in the mail and I love getting them in return. There’s something nice about getting cards in the mail.
A massive antipasto on Christmas Eve has been a tradition of ours since we married. It’s something everyone looks forward to, and my husband goes out of his way to get everything from an Italian shop in Catonsville, MD.
Watching It’s A Wonderful Life the night before Christmas Eve is now a standard of ours, and I would be so sad if we didn’t get to do this. Even when life deals you a stiff hand (and we’ve been dealt an interesting hand this holiday season), it’s a good reminder that life. is. good.
The crazy family photo at my mom and dad’s house on Christmas Day is a classic. We all know it’s coming, and we all dress for it, so don’t even think about coming to the house looking like a schlep. It’s picture day, after all!
One cool new thing: Each year, we pick one new thing to do that has a Christmas vibe. This year, we are heading to Asheville, SC, to see The Biltmore Estate. I have wanted to see this estate for years, and we are finally going to do that. And then, it’s off to Williamsburg to experience a Williamsburg Christmas.
Decorate our house the weekend of Thanksgiving: I always have to decorate the day after the Thanksgiving holiday because I have the time to do so, and therefore, it’s become a tradition in our house. By Friday night, we are lit up with Christmas joy.
Baking a ridiculous amount of Christmas cookies: Tomorrow is the day. I will start on my raspberry strippers, lemon cookies, ricotta chocolate chips, and Martha Stewart’s sugar cookies and will probably be baking all weekend. Delight!

There are so many more, but those would be my favorite corny holiday things to do. As a writer who writes “sweet” fiction for the most part, I revel in all the Christmas craziness, nonsense, and traditions. I bet, as Walt Disney said, that you all are right there with me, and doing your own version of a Corny Christmas.

God bless us, everyone.

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Conversations With My Daughter

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Several years ago, I would write posts about conversations I had with my daughter, Ellie, when she was younger. Some of them are hilarious, like when she thought I was actually having breakfast with Michael Buble and when she told me women could be anything they wanted, just not priests. I’ve provided some links to those conversations at the bottom of this post. She’s always had a pretty funny sense of humor and a good wit. She’s also incredibly strong-willed, and has been since the day I gave birth to her, a horror story in itself, because she was a stubborn little thing who didn’t want to pop out and see the world. Which is sort of ironic, because she’s always been a little impatient. Nevertheless, it was a grueling labor that landed me back in the hospital two days later.

Since she’s grown up and is now SWEET 16, she doesn’t want me writing about her on this blog. (She and my husband both have the same mentality rule of “don’t put it on the blog.”) And for the most part, I obey them. After all, I’m a fiction writer and not a nonfiction writer, and that means we tend to hide the truth in the fiction we write.

But I transgress…

Yesterday, I was reminded of a story that I haven’t told here “on the blog,” and I really don’t care if she’s upset that I’m writing about it because it is SO FUNNY and is SO HER. Her independent spirit has been something we have dealt with since she was little. My mother recalls Ellie coming over to the house to help set up the Christmas decorations when she was three or four, and my mother offered to help her with setting out some of the items around the house. As my mother offered to help, Ellie pushed her hand away and said, “No, Nanny. I do it.”

We laugh at that, because she’s still the same. Independent as ever.

When someone was telling me about her niece crying on Santa’s lap yesterday, I had to giggle, and it reminded me of my own TWO stories about Ellie and Santa when she was three. Except Ellie wasn’t crying because she was ON Santa’s lap; she was crying because she COULDN’T GET ON Santa’s lap fast enough, and tried to cut into the massive line that had formed in Columbia Mall. When I apologized to the families she was trying to get ahead of, I explained to her that we had to wait in line for our turn, and she cried because she wanted to see him right then and there.

She is not about waiting.

I had to tell my daughter that the world doesn’t revolve around her, and that she must wait in line like all the other kids.

She didn’t much like that.

When we took her to Midnight Madness in Ellicott City one year and there was a Santa in one of the storefront windows and the line was forming out the door, she just ran up to the front, once again, to try to butt into the line. Again, I had to tell her that we must be patient and wait in line for our turn to see Santa.

As we inched our way closer to the elves and Santa’s chair, she turned to me and said, “My turn,” as we waited for the elves to allow us to move forward. Again, we waited a moment until the child before her was done.

When it was her turn, she marched right up there, hopped up on Santa’s lap, and she didn’t want to leave. She was quite happy and content hanging out with Santa.

She was not afraid. She was never afraid of Santa.

And while she may have been an impatient child, Ellie has a heart of gold. A big, beautiful heart of gold. She would bring her grandmother gifts of things she would find around the house and wrap them up as presents when she was little. She sobbed at the end of Phantom of the Opera because her heart hurt for the Phantom. She still hugs me as a teenager when she sees me.

As for Santa, she just genuinely loved him, and she knew he stood for giving and all that was good in the world.

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Other Conversations with My Daughter

Breakfast with Michael Buble

Friday Fodder: My Favorite Word—Shenanigans

Conversations with My Daughter

 

Don’t Forget to Put Some Books Under the Tree This Season

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For more about these books, visit the tab about my books, or visit my AMAZON AUTHOR PAGE. Click here.

And thank you!

Writing About Baseball: The Slump from The Postcard & Other Short Stories

[image error]Old Memorial Stadium. Baltimore. Eddie Murray, Cal Ripken GQ Photoshoot. With Jake Frego.

I’ll always have a little bit of baseball in my soul, even all these years later after having worked for the Orioles. The truth is, I grew up in baseball.

I did.

From the age of 19 through my early 30s, I learned so much from working for the Baltimore Orioles organization. That experience molded me and helped me in the careers I have chosen now. It also gave me some pretty remarkable friendships (and I also got a husband and two great kids out of the deal).

One of those careers I have today is that of a writer of novels and short stories. Today, I decided to share a story that is one of 22 in my most recent book that came out last summer, The Postcard and Other Short Stories & Poetry, and the only story included that is about baseball.

I hope you enjoy it.

I also wrote a novel entitled Baseball Girl, that is loosely based on my life in baseball. To learn more about my books, click here.

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the slump
by stephanie verni

copyright 2018 | Available in The Postcard and Other Short Stories & Poetry, Mimosa Publishing

The game ended at ten thirty-five on Friday night. It had been a long one, with numerous pitching changes. The opposing team hit a grand slam in the top of the ninth off of the star relief pitcher after he was brought into the game. The manager still had confidence in Moore, the reliever, but the sports journalist had very little left in him. Moore had been struggling on the mound as he’d blown the last four saves. The truth of the matter was that Jameson Moore was in a slump, and Devon McFadden had to write about it for the newspaper.

Grueling business, actually, when it came down to it. Writing on a beat covering a baseball team required sports reporters to cover and write about 162 games a year and travel with the ballclub on every trip they made. McFadden had lived out of a suitcase when he began this career, as he traveled all over the country to cover the games for The Herald, sacrificing a relationship with Estella in the process. She realized after a couple of seasons that she didn’t want to be alone most of the year, but at least she had the guts to be honest with him. Others would have made an excuse, but she—she was brutally honest.

“If I’m going to be in a relationship with someone, I actually want to be able to see the person more than I don’t see him,” she had said.

And that was that.

Last year, he had been promoted to a columnist, but it was too late to salvage the relationship with Estella. She had moved on to a young, financier and McFadden remained in the city writing about the team from his own perspective, where he could be both observant and critical.

McFadden wasn’t devoid of emotions, and he tried to keep them in perspective in his new role at the paper. He knew what baseball was all about. He had played at a high level in college. There was even a point when he thought he might have a chance at the minors. But an arm injury prevented that from happening and he devoted himself to writing about sports. His career started with an internship at a small, local paper in his hometown, and then he made the jump to the top paper in the city. Before long, the beat reporter covering the team relocated to cover a team on the West Coast, and McFadden slid into his spot. After five years as a beat writer, and now serving as a sports columnist for the paper, he felt himself grow weary of it all.

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On Saturday during batting practice, the prospective Hall of Famer, Andres Martinez, walked over to McFadden on the field. It was sunny and warm, the clouds high in the sky, making it a perfect afternoon for baseball.

“Why you givin’ Moore such a hard time in the paper? Dude—he’s doing his best. You’ve got to go easy on him.”

McFadden looked up at Moore, as he had several inches on him and was built like a brick house, and said, “It’s my job, man. I’ve got to cover what I see happening.”

“But he’s not slumpin’—he’s just having a little rough patch.”

“Where I come from, after doing what he’s done repeatedly for a few weeks and getting a few ‘Ls’ in the column, we call it a slump.”

Martinez scratched his head. He liked McFadden—he’d always been fair—but he was unhappy with the way Moore’s playing had been scrutinized. That was his buddy he was writing about negatively.

“Try to go easy on him. He’s strugglin’, man. He just wants to get his groove back.”

“We all want him to get his groove back. Management and the fans especially.”

Martinez walked away and into the batter’s box to take his swings. His bat looked good. He had a million-dollar swing, but more than that, Martinez had a multi-million dollar attitude. He was the leader in the clubhouse—all the guys looked up to him. He was a faithful supporter of his teammates, and a devoted friend to Moore. The two of them were inseparable. They had been since they’d both joined the team seven years ago.

McFadden walked closer to the batter’s box and leaned on the cage, watching Martinez take swing after swing, each one looking better than the last. He should write about that, McFadden thought. He should write about this seasoned player, his leadership role, and the way he works hard every day to be an All-Star and future Hall of Famer. McFadden pulled out his reporter’s notebook and started to jot down some notes.

“Why don’t you write about something positive tonight—like how these balls are flying out of this park,” Martinez shouted to him.

McFadden’s eyes narrowed. “Show me what you can do in tonight’s game, and I’ll think about it,” he teased back.

Martinez’s eyes grew wide, and he nodded his head. “I’ll show you,” he said.

*

            At game time, McFadden took his spot in the press box. His elevated status of columnist warranted a front row seat situated just a few chairs away from the public relations director for the ballclub. Night after night and day after day he sat there, his laptop plugged in, writing about a variety of things that were going on—from the play on the field, to the management changes and minor league call-ups, to timely topics such as analytics and defensive shifts. Sometimes it all felt new. Sometimes it all felt tired.

When he felt like this—worn out by baseball’s lengthy home and road schedule by August—he had to remember why he was here in the first place. It was because of this ballpark, with its classic, retro feel of ballparks of yore; it was because of this game, with heroes McFadden loved such as Gehrig and Ruth, Clemente and Robinson; and it was because of the aura of a night filled with scents of popcorn, Cracker Jack, and the more modern cinnamon pretzels and barbecue. He had to remind himself often that although this occupation had the potential to take its toll on people—he’d seen it happen to many people he knew over the years—it was a job done for the sheer love of it. The sturdy breeze blew into the press box from the outfield, and he fell in love with it all again, as he’d done time and time again when he wasn’t sure he could write about yet another game, another disappointment.

McFadden had his eye on Martinez that night. He was waiting for him to put his money where his mouth was during tonight’s match-up. He was poised and ready to construct something glowing about him. He knew the fans could use an article that gave them hope—that gave them something to cheer for as the season began to wind down.

Martinez’s first at-bat resulted in a triple—his tenth of the season. McFadden remembered what he had said during batting practice earlier: “I’m chasing Willie Mays’s triples, McFadden. A few more, and I’ll hit that 140 career-high set by Mays.”

“Maybe you’ll get there sooner than later,” McFadden said back to him, encouragingly.

This triple bagger tonight brought him to 135, closer to tying Mays’s career triples total. Martinez was obsessed with Mays—he’d been his grandfather’s favorite and he had met Mays as a kid. Both he and his grandfather could recite Mays’s stats. And although Martinez had a long way to go to break some of the other more impressive triples records, he set his sights on Mays’s 140 number to make his grandfather proud. It was yet another quality that made Martinez both likeable and a force to reckon with on the team. He was a goal setter.

The opposing team’s bats were hot that night, unfortunately, and there was little Martinez could do to get some runs on the board when he was the only guy hitting that afternoon. The rest of the team looked lethargic. It was going to be another long game, and McFadden began to fear it would be another painful night of disappointment as he repositioned himself to get more comfortable in the press box.

And then, something changed, as can often happen in sports. Martinez’s bat continued to stay hot, and some of the other players started a rally. The team bounced back in the seventh and eighth innings and scored six runs to take a one-run lead.

That meant Moore would come into the game.

That meant all eyes would be on Moore—the once stellar closer who was clearly smack in the middle of his first-ever slump.

McFadden felt his palms start to sweat, as they often did lately when this reliever was brought into the game in the top of the ninth, when his pitches were wild and his concentration seemed off.

Moore stood on the mound and warmed up. His throws looked a little more controlled, a little more confident. He adjusted his cap after every pitch to the catcher, looked down at his feet, and set himself up for the next warm up throw.

When the umpires were set and Moore was to make his first pitch, he threw it beautifully. The home plate umpire called it loudly—STRIKE!

The second pitch Moore threw was on the inside edge of the plate. STRIKE! called by the home plate umpire.

The third pitch, well, McFadden could see what happened when it came off Moore’s fingers. It was a fastball, but it was thrown down the middle, perfectly aligned for the batter to hit it on the sweet spot for a double.

McFadden watched Moore shake his head. He watched the confidence get sucked out of him right then and there as it happened. Moore tried to settle himself as the crowd became suddenly quiet. Nervous. There was a visit to the mound by the pitching coach.

The on-deck batter stepped into the batter’s box. He stared down Moore with a look of sheer power. He was a huge guy and was leading his team in RBIs.

Moore set and then threw.

The sound the bat made indicated it was a good hit. A damn good one.

It soared over the head of the centerfielder and into the crowd behind him. The homer scored two runs.

Now, Moore’s team was down by a run, and Martinez might not bat in the bottom of the ninth.

The crowd grew sullen and the energy inside the ballpark dissipated. Fans began to exit the ballpark, either expecting their team would lose or simply not wanting to watch the tragedy continue to unfold.

McFadden, himself, moved to the back of the press box to stand as he watched the final half inning. He knew the focus of his piece for tomorrow’s column couldn’t be about Martinez and his stellar talents and the chase for Willie Mays’s triples career total, but rather it had to be about Moore’s collapse—about the star reliever who had lost his confidence and was experiencing an excruciatingly painful, undeniable slump.

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            It was Sunday at the ballpark, and despite the sunshine and crisp blue skies, the tone surrounding the club felt dismal. It’s neither fun to play for a losing ballclub, nor is it any fun to write about a losing ballclub.

McFadden walked into the clubhouse early, as players were suiting up for the early afternoon game and preparing for batting practice. The music was already thumping in the ballpark, and the vibrations could be felt in the clubhouse. The morning newspaper had been delivered.

“Get him out of here!” Moore shouted, directing his instruction to the clubhouse manager and pointing to McFadden as the guys were dressing and doing their media interviews.

The room became silent. Still. Everyone looked at McFadden.

“I don’t want him in here, and I don’t want to talk to him!” Moore shouted again.

Martinez, watching his friend become unglued, walked over to McFadden and put his arm around him, and guided him away from his upset friend.

“Stop talking to him!” Moore shouted at Martinez.

“I got this,” Martinez said, turning around and addressing Moore, gently escorting McFadden in the direction of the door.

“You had to go and write about him again, didn’t you,” Martinez said quietly as a statement rather than a question.

“It’s my job. His job is to get saves and wins. Mine is to write what’s happening. You can’t fault me for it.”

“Maybe just lay low for a while. Let him get his mojo back.”

McFadden looked at Martinez, who was a nice guy. He understood that Martinez just wanted to protect his friend, his friend who seemed to be experiencing a bit of a mental block—and breakdown.

“Today, I’ll lay low,” McFadden said. “I like the guy. It’s nothing personal,” he said.

“But to him, it’s only personal. You gotta understand that,” Martinez said.

“It’s a game, Martinez. You’ve got to take the good and the bad with it. You can’t ask us writers to coddle players. It’s not the media’s job.”

“Well, let him take the bad by himself today. He don’t need you asking him questions about what happened out there yesterday. We all know what happened out there yesterday. I want to win some games, too, and I want to catch Willie Mays.”

McFadden patted Martinez on the back.

“Then go and do it,” McFadden said. “I’ve got a piece ready to publish when you get that 140th triple.”

“You go polish that piece,” Martinez said. “I’ll take care of the rest.”

©Stephanie Verni, 2018

All rights reserved.

Deciding to Be A Hallmark Movie in Annapolis, Not Just Watch One

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Last night, my college roommate and dear friend, Elizabeth, and I took to the streets of Annapolis for the annual Parade of Lights. Our husbands were engaged otherwise, and so we were on our own. A resident of Shady Side, south of Annapolis her whole adult life, she had never been to see the boats parade in and out of City Dock and Ego Alley, and so we decided it was the proper thing to do, seeing as how we watch a helluva lot of Hallmark movies and love the quaintness of the towns featured in them. As someone who grew up and still lives in the area, I had been several times before, but we knew it was time to get off our duff and not watch from afar the fictional happenings in these towns and cities, but to actually be a part of it: to be a Hallmark movie.

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After a delightful dinner at Middleton’s Tavern, a historic landmark and restaurant near the City Dock, we bundled up in our coats, hats, scarves, and gloves for the Eastport Yacht Club’s annual event. The streets were crowded, the city was lit up with Christmas spirit, as the boats proudly showed off their decorations to adoring Annapolitans and visitors alike. We found a spot along the dock and planted ourselves in order to have the best vantage point of the boats. Some blared Christmas music, some had timed lights to the music, and some toasted us with Champagne as they floated by.

We had dropped ourselves into a Hallmark movie right there on the streets of Annapolis.

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Having fun with strangers on the street, listening to the live music played by musicians, and going in and out of shops was all we needed to get into the Christmas spirit, and to realize that wherever you live, there are Hallmark moments just waiting for you to partake in to get you in the holiday spirit.

As I stood there taking it all in, I realized how happy I am that I set my first novel, Beneath the Mimosa Tree, in my hometown, and much of it takes place during the Christmas season. It is a special place filled with tons of memories for me. In that novel, I did my best to bring Annapolis to life, to let readers feel its magic, and hopefully, to make readers want to visit if you have not done so yet. Voted over and over again as one of the best small cities in the United States, and particularly on the East Coast, Annapolis sparkled last night, and made me proud of its never-ending charm, worthy of novels full of love, romance, and family.

To read more about my books, click here.

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My Travel Writing Class and Their Work: Feeling Like a Proud Momma

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Wow.

It’s hard to believe we have come to the end of another semester. My group of writers in our travel writing class published their stories today on our WordPress site called MORE THAN MARYLAND that I set up as a place to house of all of my All-Star Travelers who have taken the course at Stevenson University.

As the students made some of their final presentations in class, a lot was discussed, such as what they learned from taking a travel writing course, which pieces from renowned travel writers were their favorites, how this course has helped them see travel differently, and what they will take with them into the future having taken the course.

Travel writing is experiential. It’s a mix of telling us about a place and the writer’s own personal experience in the place. Travel writing is intimate; it’s an exploration; and it’s a time to discover and find things out about you and the world around you.

I love this class. For years, I’ve said that this course is a true culmination of all the things we learn in communication courses on campus, such as classes in writing, interpersonal communication, intercultural communication, small group communication, and journalism.

Those of you who are teachers can totally understand the pride I am feeling at this moment. So, without further adieu, let me share with you the link that will take you to the latest stories written by the students of Special Topic in Travel Writing at Stevenson University.

Very proud of the following students for their great pieces:   Troy, Christine, Brian, Andrew, Arielle, Wornden, Olivia, Maya, and Quinn.

Keep traveling.

To visit the site, click here for MORE THAN MARYLAND.

The Ache That Happens As Your Kids Grow Up

[image error]Pink’s Hot Dogs in Los Angeles, CA. Summer 2018.

In August, we dropped my oldest off at college. He is living on campus at a university that is almost two hours from our house. It’s not that far, but far enough to feel the distance.

As we moved him into his room and helped him set up his dorm, even running to Target at the last minute for some things, we were in the heat of the moment. Our kid was going away for the first time, and my husband and I were coping with it okay (and I’m a college professor, so you would think this would be easy as I’ve been around it as my occupation). My daughter, who some wondered if she would deal with it well, handled it great. She was now Queen of the Castle.

As we said goodbye to him, my husband and I both swallowed hard, hugged him, and wished him well. My friend and colleague, Leeanne, had told me not to cry when I bid him goodbye—that he needed to feel good and not sad about us saying “so long” for a while.

We didn’t break down. We went about our lives. We keep in touch with our devices and check in weekly. Sometimes more.

Then, my son came home for Thanksgiving.

Honestly, I don’t know if it was the holidays, being together with my parents and my husband’s parents, all of us sitting around the table telling family stories, but over those few days, I was dreading the thought of him being gone again.

My son adds a wonderful calmness to our house. He is kind and loving and is a good person—a good man.

I got choked up hugging him goodbye when he had to return after Thanksgiving, and I cried. I can be a sentimental sap sometimes, an incurable hopeless romantic, and a person with a heart that is tempered with a great deal of emotion.

Growing older has been something that I fight with constantly, if I’m being completely honest. Aging and watching time fly by—I’m not a fan of it. I don’t like my nagging hip problem, the lines around my eyes, or the extra weight around my tummy that is stubborn and seems to love me more than I love it.

And I certainly don’t like the speed with which my kids have grown up. I miss them being little, of their eyes at Christmas when they woke up to Santa’s delivery, of hearing their voices when we came through the door from work and they were excited to see us, and of the wonder that filled them as they discovered new things and we shared experiences. Working a lot, going to graduate school, and being generally busy with community things in our daily lives made time move so fast; if you don’t force yourself to stop and engage in the moment, you’re in danger of missing so much.

And what you have to learn for yourself as parents is that you’re going to miss them as they grow and become independent, and a little ache of longing for times gone by will take up residency in your heart.

[image error]Duck, North Carolina. Vacation, 2007.

 

Borrowing Character Inspiration and Traits From People You Know

[image error]Photo by Tirachard Kumtanom on Pexels.com

The million dollar question writers are asked at book talks is this: How much of your characters are you or someone you know?

It’s the question that has intrigued readers with every book or story they read. So, how does one answer this question?

Very carefully.

We can’t help it as writers if we borrow things from people we actually know or have heard of or have met along the way. There is typically some truth behind fiction, whether big or small, but as observers and keen admirers of the world and the people in it, we are apt to take a few notes here and there. So if you see me jotting down a few things the next time we have lunch, beware.

That’s a joke.

But the story I’m going to tell next is not…it’s real…and it’s a good example of how people we know or meet or eavesdrop upon can provide the best fodder for stories.

Many years ago, as an experiment to see how much “story” and “character” we could glean in one night, my friend Jenny and I set out for a bar in Ellicott City. We sat at the bar and we just listened. We listened to people talking, telling stories. As we leaned in, we learned about people, what they were up to (both the good and the bad), and the response that the listener provided. Story ideas are everywhere…and in a bar, forget it. It’s like a billboard saying “WRITE ABOUT ME.” In normal conversations, we take turns as listener and speaker, and in those moments, storytelling unfolds, and if you dig in well enough with a finely tuned ear, you can learn a lot about others.

And this is just what you can learn from people you don’t know.

Imagine what character traits and inspiration you can take away from people you do know.

Sometimes in my stories, my characters are an amalgamation of many different people. Sometimes, I base a character on someone I know or knew. Sometimes, the character is entirely made up, but if we’re being honest, we’re still pulling from folks we know—or wish we knew or wish we still knew. And sometimes, we take a hopeful approach to a character who in real life holds no redeeming qualities, but in fiction, we can give that character a different ending.

A tip I like to share with beginning writers is to write character sketches of your main characters who will be prominent in the story–most especially the main characters. You should know everything about these characters, including the following: what they like, what they don’t like, their hobbies, their interests, their schooling, their jobs, their family life, their friends, where they have lived, what’s happened to them, their faults, their attributes, their failures, their overall demeanor, their stance on life, and so many other facets about their makeup. If you can fully write a synopsis of your character and know them as well as you know your best friends, you will do well with turning those characters from a sketch on paper into a fictional living, breathing character in a story. While it may be fiction, the truth is we like realistic characters.

 

[image error]A short character sketch of a character in my upcoming novel, Gemma.

When I re-watched The Man Who Invented Christmas the other night and watched Charles Dickens’s characters come to life and speak to him, that’s actually not too far off from what happens as we draft characters and intimately know their inner workings. We become attached to them, even if sometimes they behave badly.

We love our characters, and that’s because they come from us.

From all of us.

 

 

 

#NaNoWriMo Tribe: Proud of Us as the Finish Line Approaches

 

[image error]A little tired this morning having stayed up late working on my novel and trying to hit my word count, but happy with the work and the challenge. How are you all doing, fellow writers?

I know this doesn’t mean a lot to many people, but for the few of us who adore telling stories, I’m very proud of you. I wouldn’t be much good to anyone as a writing cheerleader if I didn’t actually participate in National Novel Writing Month and help encourage others to do the same.

Haven’t you ever done something just for the love and sheer joy of it?

While I’m still 7,000 words short of my goal, with tired eyes and a lot of coffee, I’ll continue until the bitter end…along with thousands and thousands of others of us who are all doing the same. Bonding with other writers on Instagram as we share our word counts and progress has been a ton of fun.

Honestly, it’s made me proud to be associated with people who share the same passion as me.

I’m proud of all of us.

Keep going. There’s still time left.

#nanowrimotribe

#nanowrimo

[image error]My WIP (work in progress), Life with Nan, standing right now at over 43,000 words.