Kate Leibfried's Blog, page 13

Countdown to a FREE Book!

Dear Friends and Readers,

Starting tomorrow, the 25th of September, an eReader version of my book, Elmer Left, will be available for FREE on Amazon.  "Why free?" you ask.  Because it is not about the money.  I want my book out there.  I want my name known.  I want to reach an entirely new set of people.

I have big dreams.  I want to be a full-time writer.  This is just one step on the way.

Will you help me out?

Sincerely,
Kate

Happy Birthday HG Wells

"If you fell down yesterday, get up today."
-HG Wells

Happy birthday to the Father of Science Fiction.  
Pacifist.  Humanist.  Socialist.  Feminist.  Genius.  Visionary.  Writer.




“Sometimes, you have to step outside of the person you've been and remember the person you were meant to be. The person you want to be. The person you are.”
-HG Wells






"If we don't end war, war will end us."
-HG Wells



“Every time I see an adult on a bicycle, I no longer despair for the future of the human race.” 
-HG Wells





"We all have our time machines, don't we.  Those that take us back are memories...and those that carry us forward are dreams."
-HG Wells

Samsara: A movie I hate to hate

I should like Samsara.  I'm the perfect demographic: a young, artist-type who believes the interconnectivity between humans and between humans and nature is of utmost important.  I should have left the theater awed by the camera work and elaborate visual effects of the film.  None of these things happened.  I left Samsara feeling exhausted, slightly confused, and upset that I spent $9 on something that fell completely flat for me.  "Why?" I asked myself.  "I was supposed to like this movie..."

Ultimately, Samsara came off as a jumble of shots from a National Geographic movie.  Yes, they were visually interesting.  Yes, they provoked emotional reactions (intrigue, disgust, wonder...).  But, they lacked coherence and a straightforward message.  I found myself wondering what this film was trying to be or what it was trying to say.  In one breath it told us through its images (there was no dialogue in this film) about meat packing factories, Victoria Falls, plastic surgery, robotics, Tibetan sand art, volcanoes, Hurrican Katrina, guns, LA traffic patterns, sex dolls, and Greco-Roman art.  I watched the elaborate time-lapse photography of stars in the desert or the still images of African tribal men holding guns and I thought, "Where is this leading me?  And why?"




Movie critic Ron Wilkinson might have summed it up best when he said, "[Samsara is] a rambling assault on the visual cortex that teeters between guided meditation and guided tour."

Agreed.

I will say this, however:  That damn film has been haunting me for a week.  When I'm out for a run or driving to work, I sometimes find images of dancing Indian girls or the theatrical clay man (probably the creepiest part of the film) sneaking into my thoughts.  The visuals stick with you (whether you'd like them to or not).  And maybe that's precisely what the filmmakers intended.


However, when the images fade and life rambles on, I doubt many people's lives will be changed by Samsara.  It simply doesn't have the sticking power of a film with a strong central message.  For me, it was like reading War and Peace.  I can now say I did it, but I won't likely do it again.

My Dog is a Jedi Master

Do you ever think your dog knows some grand secret of the universe that you do not?  That happens to me all the time...

Inspiration: Boundary Waters Canoe Area

In my blog, I have often talked about drawing inspiration from your surroundings, no matter how small.  Sometimes, however, I crave BIG inspiration.  When cracks in the sidewalk and tiny butterflies are just not doing it for me, I seek something larger.  Usually I get the hell out of town.

This time, my inspiration destination is the Boundary Waters Canoe Area in northern Minnesota.

I have been going to this magical land of pine trees and lakes since I was a little girl and still find it irresistible. It's the perfect mix of athletic activity, camping, paddling, nature, and pure quiet.  Since no motorized boats are allowed in the BWCA, it is the perfect place to let your mind relax and your natural thoughts flow.

I do not feel the need to belabor the beauty and peace of the Boundary Waters.  I'll let the pictures do the talking:








Creativity flows best in a quiet mind.

Writing Limbo

Sometimes I write something that I know is good.  I mean, earth-shattering, mind-blowing, gut-wrenching good.  Sometimes I'm not so sure.  Right now I'm experiencing the latter.  It happened in "Elmer Left" and it's happening in "10,000 Lines."  I call it writing limbo.

I kind of float around--one toe dipped in heaven, the other scorching in hell--trying to find my niche, trying to find my flow.  Sometimes the flow doesn't come and I am forced to write and rewrite, write and erase.  Lately I have been struggling my way through a couple of pages, re-reading them, and ultimately scrapping them.  It makes me a little sad to see the words disappear in a cloud of electronic smoke, but it's better to kill them now before I get too attached.

My friend and editor, Jolene, once said to me, "Kate, sometimes the editing process is about 'killing your darlings.'"  So true.  A writer might grow attached to a particular sentence or paragraph or even a character and have a hard time letting them go, even if they clearly do not fit.  I have faced this problem before.  I have lingered lovingly over sentences thinking, "but it's so well-crafted!  Just look at the imagery in this sentence--it's beautiful!  I can't cut it.  Oh no, surely not this sentence.  I'll let this one go..."  But in the end, I know when something isn't right.  I know when a tumor should be removed...even if it is a particularly lovely tumor.

So, out with the editing knife.  Time to carve up my story.

Bit o' my artLately, I've been carving as I go, sculpting my story carefully so I will not have so hack away at it down the road.  I'm like a child with a wad of play-doh, rolling it into a snake and then deciding, "No, it should really be a dinosaur.  Wait--maybe a bird's nest instead.  No, I've got it!  A plate of spaghetti!"  Then I make and remake the spaghetti until it is perfect and then move on.

This kind of writing is tedious.  It's not fun.  I would much rather get a hold of a good flow and let it carry me from one chapter to the next.  The flow might not be perfect, but I can correct it at the end.  The snake can always be molded into spaghetti down the road.

But for now, I will write and re-write until the prose angels lift me up and carry me away from writing limbo.  Hopefully that will happen soon.  In the meantime, I think I'll take a walk...or watch American Beauty or paint my toenails or cook some Thai food.  And then I'll return to my writing, inspired or not, because writing is my job and I'm not going to love it every day.

But I do love it most days and that is enough to carry me through the sludge.  That is enough to make me sprout wings and rise out of writing limbo on my own accord.  Sorry prose angels.  I'm not waiting around for your help.  I've got shit to do.

Here's to My Hometown! (Thank you, Grand Rapids, Minnesota)

When I was in high school, I couldn't wait to get out.  It was too small, too claustrophobic. When I walked down the sidewalk by Central Square Mall or through the doors of Target, I would inevitably bump into someone I knew.  I wanted anonymity.  I wanted to spread my wings.  I wanted to get away from the constant vigilance of worried small town parents and teachers.  So I did.

I left Grand Rapids, MN and I hardly looked back.  I was ready for new adventures and a new life.  I was anxious to leave behind bad high school and middle school memories and move on.  The next eight years were a whirlwind.  In that time, I graduated from college, lived in Portland and Panama, broke the law, visited ten countries, fell in and out of love, had numerous jobs, wrote a book...


Only now, eight years later, do I look back with true appreciation for my small hometown.  I've been given time to gain perspective and reflect on my experiences in Grand Rapids.  I've also had time to heal and learn to laugh about things like getting ditched by my date right before prom or blowing up the debate office microwave or my painful awkwardness around guys I liked.  Those things were horrifying at the time and it was cathartic for me to get away for a while, but now I've had enough distance.  I've had enough space.


It is time for me to reach out to my hometown again.  It has been there for me even when I rejected it.  The local paper always noted (largely thanks to my mom!) when I made the Dean's List or received honors from college.  The parents of my friends who also flew the coop have welcomed me back time and again with open arms when I come to visit.  And now, after I have written and published my first novel, the town I grew up in has (once again) been nothing but supportive and  encouraging.  The Village Bookstore has even agreed to carry a few copies of "Elmer Left" on its shelves.

Enough perspective and distance for me.  Here's a message to you, Grand Rapids:

You were the perfect place in which to grow up.  You offered me soccer games, piano and french horn lessons, 4-H meetings, hundreds of lakes, skiing, horseback riding lessons, and a top-notch education that has served as an incredible foundation for my life.  Thank you to the people and places that make Grand Rapids such an admirable little town.

I've been unappreciative and indifferent for too long.  It's time for me to say thank you.

This made me laugh...

A bit of humor for a ho-hum Monday.  This is my favorite thing at the moment...




















Tee-hee!

10,000 Lines: A Snippet

Hello reading world,

  "Elmer Left" is out there.  It's fending for itself (until I get on the ball with a bit more marketing).  To be honest, I'm a little sick of Elmer.  That will happen when you've read it through four times back-to-back-to-back-to-back.  In the meantime, I've been writing again (thank god!) and I am hard at work on "10,000 Lines," a dystopian novel inspired by the lyrics of Ben Cooper.  Specifically, I'm using his self-titled Electric President Album to create a story.  Don't worry...I got his permission.

Here is a snippet from my writing (coming to you in its first, unedited draft)...



The nighttime digger heard the rumblings amongst the Council members; he sensed their trepidation and unease.  He knew they didn’t like the idea that had been proposed to them that afternoon.  He saw it in their wide eyes and frozen jaws.  He heard it in their choking throats as they forced down bits of sweet rolls and crepes.  They pushed the food aside.  Their appetite for sweet rolls and crepes quickly diminished.  They stared at the speaker with disgust, their faces tinged green.  Had they heard him correctly?  Had he actually suggested what they thought he suggested?
He had.  And that was why the nighttime digger was digging.
There weren’t many shovels in Superbia.  Not in private households anyway.  There were maintenance crews, after all, and they would take care of any garden plot, fence post, or sidewalk damage that needed fixing.  They were fast and efficient.  Well-trained.  They made owning a shovel obsolete.  But the nighttime digger had one anyway.It was an old shovel.  It had been passed down through his family, just like the forbidden knowledge had been passed down: fathers to sons, mothers to daughters.  Old mouths to young ears.  Desperately sharing everything they knew, resuscitating the feeble truth that tenuously clung to life.  He was part of that family line: the truth-sayers, the knowledge-passers.  And that was why he was digging.
He dug quickly, silently, sweat beading up on his forehead and neck and sliding down his chest and spine.  His hands began to blister and chaff, but he dug relentlessly, thrusting the shovel into the hard ground, stomping on its shoulder, heaving the dirt into an ever-growing pile.  The sweat slid, the hands chaffed.  The digging did not stop.
Whenever the nighttime digger thought about quitting, he closed his eyes and conjured up faces of the people he cared about.  Father, mother, grandparents, members of the resistance, her…When he thought of her, he dug faster, harder.  He needed to do this for her.  He needed to protect her.  Not that she really needed protection.  She was fiery and smart and could fare just fine on her own.  But he liked to think that she needed him.  He liked the idea of doing something for her, of easing her pain a little.  He dug.  Faster, harder.  He dug.  Finally, he hit the wires.
The nighttime digger straightened his back; he smiled.  The wires lay prone at the bottom of his six-foot pit.  They reminded him of food tube spaghetti: dull, lifeless, staring mildly at the human hovering over it.  He raised the shovel and brought the blade crashing down on the mute wires.  His green eyes flashed with fire; his teeth gritted.  Again and again and again he struck until the wires lay in mutilated bits and he was out of breath from his surge of anger.  He looked down at the bits of copper and rubber casing and absentmindedly rubbed his forehead with a sleeve.
He breathed in and imagined his lungs filling with good, clean soil and hard work and fresh night air.  He breathed out and imagined all the poisons from his body—his pain, his tragic thoughts, his sore muscles—exiting his body and floating into the hole to rest beside the murdered wires.  With a shrug, he picked up the shovel again.  His blistered hands gripped the handle; he steadied his shoulders.  Trying to ignore the sharp pains that shivered down his spine, he hunched, thrust, scooped, and emerged with a shovelful of black dirt.  He stared indifferently at the dirt for a moment, taking in its blackness, feeling its weight in the cup of the shovel.  He flung it into the hole.