Laura Langston's Blog, page 43

Giving Thanks

 When I do author talks or school visits, one of the questions I’m often asked is what I like best about being a writer.  The question came up again the other day.  Until now, my answer has usually been twofold. I’m most thankful, I generally say, that I can write in jeans and slippers (there’s something incredibly freeing about not having to pluck, mousse, iron, and endure heels before plonking down at the desk). I also admit that because I’m a writer I feel entitled to spy on people at the grocery store. I do. Character is truly revealed in the generally mindless acquisition of food (is my subject buying Kraft dinner or quinoa? Wearing sweats or silk? Do they stack and toss? Smile or glare? Rush or linger? Treat the cashier with kindness or indifference?)

Since tomorrow is American Thanksgiving, however, I’ve decided to ponder the question of thankfulness more deeply.

I am most thankful to be a writer because:

I can ask questions of anyone, anywhere, and at any time, all under the guise of research (Although I do refrain at weddings, funerals and during bikini waxings).

I have a valid excuse for an extra twenty pounds since writing requires sitting for many long hours (given that I’ve just set up a treadmill desk, this sentence is subject to revision).

I get to read. A lot. And this I can do on a treadmill or an elliptical. At a stop light even. Until the guy behind me honks.

I can write anywhere and at any time. Though I don’t recommend mixing laptops and hot tubs. Especially after midnight. Trust me on this.

I set my own hours which means I can get a root canal in the middle of the day or take off to watch a movie do heavy, intense research. And I don’t have to ask my boss.

I am always learning. Fun, neat facts like ‘intelligent people have more zinc and copper in their hair’ and ‘women blink twice as many times as men do.’  Without these random bits of trivia my life would be seriously incomplete.

I’ve met many wonderful people through my writing, and I’ve made lifelong friends too.

I get to experience the thrill of the unknown twice a year when the royalty checks land in the mailbox. Sometimes I even get to shop afterwards.

I am allowed to daydream. Staring into space for long periods of time is mandatory. And my family understands that even when I look like I’m paying attention, sometimes I’m not.

I play every single day. And that, really, is the thing I am most thankful for. I play with words, with worlds, with people and emotions. In my slippers, on my laptop, at the gym or in my office. I play. Only everybody else calls it work.

 

A Block or a Blessing

The subject of writer’s block came up a few times this week.  One friend is writing again after a long bout of being blocked. Another writer asked a group of us for our suggestions on overcoming writer’s block so she could compile a list for a writing course she is teaching. I also had a conversation with a third friend about the gifts inherent in writer’s block.

Yes, gifts.

Taken in literal terms, writer’s block is an inability to get to the writing, to move forward with it. But that’s not my personal yardstick.  There have been times in my life when I’ve put the writing aside, sometimes willingly, sometimes with regret.  A few years ago, I was ill for three months and couldn’t do much of anything, never mind write.   I took time away from writing in those months after both my children were born too . . . and before and after the death of my stepfather as well.  Even though I may have wanted to write back then, circumstances made it difficult.  I wasn’t blocked. I chose to put my attention elsewhere.  Life comes first for me, then writing, otherwise there’s no life in the writing.

Having said that, writing is my job, and barring illness, birth or death, I show up pretty much every day.

My writer’s block is when I show up and the words don’t flow. Luckily it doesn’t happen very often, maybe because of my training in journalism.  As a reporter in the field, I’d sometimes have fifteen minutes to put a story together. As a news announcer I was on air hourly, and I needed fresh content for every newscast. I wrote or I lost my job. It’s amazing how unblocked you get when the clock is ticking and you need to eat.

That training comes in handy. Still, there are times when I’m working on a novel and I get stuck. Blocked. Sidelined. Enticed by Twitter, the squirrel outside my office window or the oven that suddenly needs cleaning.

Dennis Palumbo, author of ‘Writing From the Inside Out’ suggests writer’s block isn’t always bad. It might be a signpost, he says, of something we need to pay attention to.  He explains it in psychological terms as a call from our subconscious.

I agree. And my subconscious usually calls because something in the story isn’t working.  When I step back, I’ll often realize something’s off in the plot or the pacing, or I’m missing something about the character. The block is a blessing, a gift, a way of calling my attention to an issue that needs addressing. It’s an amber light that says, ‘slow down, wait a second here.’

But waiting can be hard, especially when you aren’t sure why you’re waiting in the first place. So, while I wait and ponder and try to uncover what this particular gift means, here’s what I do in the meantime (aside from whining, moping, cleaning the oven or spending too much time on Twitter) :

Work on another piece of writing for a day or two.

Do something with my hands – dig in the garden, cut vegetables, paint a wall.

Get physical – walk the dogs, ride my bike, do yoga.

Feed my muse by watching a movie, reading a book, listening to music.

Reread what I’ve written, paying careful attention to the small details I’ve randomly thrown in.  There is gold in the details. Perhaps something can be fleshed out that will add depth or new perspective to my story.

Interview my character. Or write stream of consciousness stuff, in long hand, from the main character’s point of view (and sometimes the secondary characters too). What are they trying to tell me that I’m not hearing?

Finally, if all else fails and I still can’t fathom why I’ve come to a sticky place in the manuscript, I make myself write anyway. Even if it’s garbage.  Garbage can be turned into compost. Words can be revised.  Remember the words of Natalie Goldberg: “The only failure in writing is when you stop doing it. Then you fail yourself.’’

 

 

Overheard This Week

A poignant plea caught my ear as I visited Victoria’s new indoor market last week. Two women were bent over a plate of tacos and guacamole with corn chips. One of the women was marshmallow pale and her eyes were bloodshot with fatigue. She sighed, flipped a nubby brown scarf over her shoulder, leaned across the table and said:  ‘Can’t we just talk about shoes?’

No surprise there I guess. Wilma and Betty were big on shoe talk back in the Flintstone era. But this week the plea hit me with the force of a Louboutin to the solar plexus. Sometimes we want to set the serious stuff aside. That woman certainly did. Right now, I do too.

I’ll admit it: I’m drawn to the dark stuff. My books inevitably end up being a mix of light and dark. Life isn’t all sunshine and I don’t think it pays to pretend it is. But these last few weeks the happenings have been grim:  hundreds of thousands of people killed or impacted by typhoon Haiyan in the Philippines. The impact is being felt in my city where many residents are worried sick about loved ones overseas.  On a national scale, the mayor of our largest city has been embroiled in a Molotov cocktail of addiction, out-of-control rage and alleged ties to organized crime with widespread calls for his resignation.   On a personal level, a dear family friend died a couple of days ago and a step aunt is facing her last days too.  Needless to say, the nightly talk around our dinner table has been as heavy as braised short ribs and sweet potato mash, though not nearly as satisfying.

I guess that’s why I found myself repeating the plea from those anonymous women the other night: can’t we just talk about shoes?

Or maybe coffee beans? Okay, maybe not coffee because Teen Freud is sure to point out how child labor and exploitation is rampant in the cultivation of coffee in Colombia and Guatemala. Then how about we talk about the cute new puppy next door and how it falls on its bum every time it walks up the (basically negligible) hill between our houses?  No, Teen Freud, they did not get it from a puppy mill. Yes, Teen Freud, it is a pure bred Bichon Frise; yes, we are aware that there are many abandoned, mistreated and mixed breed dogs in the world.

As a matter of fact, I’m painfully aware of all of it. I read the papers (or those that are left).  I surf the ‘net (too much sometimes).  I talk about it and think about it and live it. We all do.  Our first two dogs were rescues from an abandoned litter.  I’ve witnessed (up close and way too personal) the devastating effects of addiction.  I’ve grieved more than one loss.

We all have. That’s why sometimes we need a few minutes to forget about it. That’s why sometimes we just want to talk about shoes. 

 

 

My November Reads

 

We set the clocks back this past weekend. While some people don’t like to see the darkness settling in earlier, I do.  For one thing, I’m a morning person and I like waking up to brighter skies.  For another, if it’s dark outside I’m not tempted to work in the garden. Instead, I’m happy to curl up in my favorite chair and read a good book after dinner. Here’s what I’m reading right now:

 

At the gym: The Last Original Wife by Dorothea Benton Frank

On the Kindle: In the Midnight Rain by Barbara Samuel

Beside the bed: Beyond Belief: My Secret Life Inside Scientology by Jenna Miscavige Hill

Filling the Well, Fall Style

After the wettest September on record, October has offered up a series of foggy mornings and brilliantly clear afternoons. And though I’ve been indoors a little more than I’d like to be, I have managed to sneak outside now and then to appreciate the beauty up close.

 

Early morning walks in the fog  . . .  

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Give way to afternoons in the country before the fog rolls back in.

 

 

 

 

A trip across the water to the big city . . .

 

 

 

 

 

 

Where there are touches of color in the concrete jungle:

 

 

 

Planning dinner with the fall mushrooms in the market . . .

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

And leaving room for dessert too:

 

 

Watching a movie crew transform Art Gallery Square on Georgia in downtown Vancouver to a square in New York City . . . 

 

 

 

 

 

And going back later that night to see Seth Rogan shooting scenes for his movie The Interview:

 

But for us . . . the day is a wrap.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Forget the Pheromones, Bring on the Chicken and Dumplings

Certain smells can make me cry. And I’m not talking trash that’s been sitting under the sink for too long.  The truth is, while some people are moved by commercials, I’m far more touched by scent.

The smell of sweet peas reminds me of my son’s birth when the neighbor brought over a huge armload of flowers from his garden.  Given that I was overwhelmed by hormones and lack of sleep, his simple kindness made me cry.   A whiff of chicken and dumplings with plenty of sage reminds me of my grandmother and, depending on my state of mind, it sometimes moves me to tears too.  I miss her still and I only use Ivory Liquid dish soap because the smell reminds me of her.

Here’s a piece of technical trivia: Our olfactory receptors are directly connected to the limbic system, the most ancient and primitive part of our brain, which also happens to be the seat of emotion. It’s no wonder smells bring up feelings, and those feelings will be different for every one of us.

For me:

The smell of the ocean is the smell of home.

The smell of diesel exhaust makes me smile. It reminds me of my first trip to England.

Wood smoke makes me nostalgic. It reminds me of camping with my kids when they were young.

A whiff of hairspray brings a wave of anxiety.

The smell of mandarin oranges is the anticipation of Christmas.

The smell of Earl Grey tea reminds me of my grandfather.

Licorice is the smell of freedom. It reminds me of ouzo and a beach in Greece.

The scent of chlorine takes me to childhood swimming lessons which makes me panicky.

The smell of rain makes me want to read.

The waxy smell of crayons brings an ‘anything’s possible’ feeling.

Corn dogs bring on a wave of nausea (don’t ask).

The scent of Love’s Baby Soft perfume takes me back to high school.

And the smell of anything baking – sweet, savoury, or savoury-sweet – makes me calm.

 

What smells do it for you?

One Step Closer

There’s lots happening lately ‘below stairs,’  in the office where I exercise my muse. I’m gaining traction on a new YA, finishing up a set of revisions on another and learning to do it all on a treadmill desk (more about that in an upcoming blog). Last week I took a break from both of those projects to read the page proofs for Hot New Thing. I’m pleased with how this novel turned out and I’m looking forward to the official launch in March 2014.   Meanwhile, here’s a sneak peak of the back cover copy and the striking cover produced by the creative folks at Orca Book Publishers. Everybody is thrilled with how it turned out!

How much is Lily willing to sacrifice for a shot at fame?

Lily O’Neal is thrilled when she’s discovered by a big-name director while auditioning for a role in a toothpaste commercial.  Even better: he wants her for his new movie, but it’s shooting in L.A. and Lily lives in Vancouver. With the help of her Chinese grandmother, she convinces her parents to let her go to LA.  When she gets there, however, Lily learns that if she’s going to be more than the flavor of the week, she may have to pay a price that’s far too high. 

Transitions: Make Them Powerful, Not Harsh

Here in the Pacific Northwest, it feels like we’ve gone from summer to winter in the space of a week. One day we were sitting by the pond enjoying 16 degree sunshine and two days later we were inside by the fire as a fierce windstorm brought plummeting temperatures, hail and a power outage. The transition was harsh.

Though the weather has stabilized to more fall-like norms, I’ve been thinking about transitions lately. I’m in the middle of revising a YA novel due out next year. As part of the process, I’m making sure the transitions from scene to scene, location to location, and from one point in time to another, are seamless.  But it occurred to me as I worked that if you want to get technical, novels themselves are one big transition. At least most of them are.

Transition, by definition, is the process or period of changing from one state or condition to another. In my novel, The Art of Getting Stared At, the teen protagonist must come to terms with a disease called alopecia areata and the subsequent loss of all her hair.  In the process, Sloane learns about judgement – the way she judges herself and others – and she changes significantly.  She literally transitions from one state of being (both externally and internally) to another.  While the editor was pleased with the way the story flowed, she felt Sloane’s journey from discovering the disease to accepting it – and accepting a particular truth about her own character – should have one big exclamation point somewhere. In other words, she wanted a recognizable point in the story where the character makes that leap, that transition, to realizing she isn’t who she thought she was.

I do have that. It’s a big, black moment kind of scene, and I quite like it. But since I’m more of a gradual girl myself (I don’t like going from summer to winter in a week) I built up to it. And in the process something was lost. So now I’m back in the story, refining and revising so the transition is seamless but the point of no return is clearly recognizable. I don’t want a harsh transition. I don’t like power outages, plummeting temperatures or hail and my character doesn’t either. I’m trying for powerful instead.

Wish me luck. And please pass the cocoa. It’s cold in here.

Picture Book Lovers Take Note

Another well-loved picture book is now available in digital form. Crow Cottage Publishing has released the digital and audio enhanced version of Moonsnail Song, which was originally published in 1994.

Written by Sheryl McFarlane and illustrated by Sheena Lott, Moonsnail Song is the story of a girl named April who daydreams her way to her favorite place in search of elusive moonsnail shells.

Here is a short behind-the-scenes glimpse into how the book originally came to be and how it has evolved in its digital incarnation.

Q: Sheryl, you wrote Moonsnail Song after camping on the west coast with your family. What prompted you to write about a moonsnail?

A: My daughter found an empty moonsnail shell and on the way home she and her sisters took turns ‘listening to the sea.’ As a former science teacher, I explained that the shape of the shell simply distorted sounds, but they would have none of that. It got me thinking about the power of the imagination, and I found myself working on Moonsnail Song the next day.

Q: Sheryl, how did Sheena Lott become involved?

A: I really enjoyed working with Sheena on Jessie’s Island, our first book together. I knew we shared a passion for the west coast and I was sure she’d understand what I was trying to achieve in the text. I talked to my editor and she agreed.

Q: Sheena, can you remember how you felt when you first saw Sheryl’s text for this project? Did it resonate with you in some way?

A: Sheryl described the images so well in her poetic text and made it very easy for me to translate words into watercolor illustrations. I enjoy painting west coast themed children’s books and working again with Sheryl was an easy decision. Incredibly, the day before I received the text, I was scuba diving off my local beach and witnessed a migration of hundreds of moonsnails. I had never seen anything like it in 20 years of diving. It was a good sign.

In the summer of 2013, Stephen McCallum of Crow Cottage Publishing approached Sheena and Sheryl about releasing a digital version of the book. Both women were thrilled at the opportunity.

Q: Sheena, did you have to make changes in the art to take Moonsnail Song digital?

A: I didn’t have to make any changes to the artwork itself, though Stephen did crop a few images for the digital format. Through his computer wizardry he was able to add and blend simulated watercolour washes to increase vertical or horizontal dimensions. As well, he changed the layout of some of the text to balance the cropped format.

Q: Sheryl, this digital version also has enhanced audio. How was that process for you?

A: We spent a few hours laying down separate sound tracks for each page, sometimes doing multiple takes to ensure the narration was just right. The background seascape audio was layered over the narration later. Then Stephen sent me the file to proof. There were a few small tweaks, but nothing serious. The finished e book is so polished. It’s something we can all be proud of.

Crow Cottage has also released another picture book illustrated by Sheena Lott – Midnight in the Mountains written by Julie Lawson. Sheryl and Sheena plan more digital releases with Crow Cottage in the near future. For now, look for Moonsnail Song in the iTunes Store: https://itunes.apple.com/us/book/moonsnail-song/id713288514?mt=11

 

Author Sheryl McFarlane has written more than a dozen award-winning books for kids and teens. Many of them celebrate the west coast where she lives. If she hadn’t become a writer, Sheryl says she probably would have continued her career as a teacher because one of the things she loved most about teaching was sharing stories with children. Visit her website: www.sherylbooks.wordpress.com

 

Renowned artist Sheena Lott combines gallery exhibitions and children’s book illustration. Her watercolors and oils express her love of the outdoors and the coastal lifestyle.  Sheena wanted to be an artist by the time she was nine, and selling her first commissioned painting (a landscape in oil) to her teacher when she was 11, really spurred her on. Visit her website: www.sheenalott.com

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Memoir Love

 

I’ve read some great memoirs over the last month or so.  Right now I’m juggling three fiction writing projects all in various stages. At the end of the day I need to escape. I can pick up and read the kind of book I’m not writing – and I sometimes do – but even then I’ll find myself admiring a turn of phrase, or the pacing, or some element of characterization. I’m used to this (I’m a writer 24/7; there’s no ‘off’ switch), and I usually don’t mind. But once in a while, that admiration takes me out of the story I’m reading and slams me back into the one I walked away from a few hours earlier. It reminds me of what’s waiting at my desk.

I don’t have that problem with memoirs. Not the good ones at least. I’m usually too caught up in what’s happening to think about craft. That was the case with these five riveting reads.

 ‘Wild: From Lost to Found on the Pacific Crest Trail’ by Cheryl Strayed.  Strayed takes an impulsive three month, 1100 mile hike to deal with the grief of her mother’s death, the unraveling of her life and the end of her marriage. In the process, the 22-year-old faces down rattlesnakes, black bears, intense heat and record snowfalls. Raw and compelling.  I had trouble putting this book down.

‘Coming Clean: a Memoir’ by Kimberly Rae Miller. Miller’s story of growing up as the only child of severe hoarders and how it impacted every facet of her life. Honest and gritty. The love she has for her parents shines through, yet she doesn’t shy away from admitting her anger, frustration, embarrassment and shame.  A wonderful read.

‘Heaven is Here, An Incredible Story of Hope, Triumph and Everyday Joy’ by Stephanie Nielson.  Nielson seems to have it all – a beautiful young family, a happy, loving marriage. And then comes the crash of a small plane, co-piloted by her husband. Stephanie is a passenger. Burned over eighty percent of her body, Nielson is not expected to live. Her account of the accident, her near death experience, her grief as she struggles to recover and regain even a segment of her ‘old’ life, brought me close to tears more than once. A true testament to the strength of the human spirit.

‘The World is Bigger Now; An American Journalist’s Release From Captivity in Northern Korea – A Remarkable Story of Faith, Family and Forgiveness’  by Euna Lee.  In March of 2009, Lee and journalist Laura Ling were working on a documentary about desperate North Koreans feeling their homeland for China. Apprehended by North Korean soldiers, they were detained for almost five months before being tried and sentenced to twelve years of hard labor. Harrowing but ultimately uplifting, this is a rare glimpse into a little known country by a woman unique positioned to understand it.

‘Four Kitchens, My Life Behind the Burner in New York, Hanoi, Tel Aviv and Paris’ by Lauren Shockey. A great blend of history, culture, food and travel, as well as a humorous and honest look behind the scenes at what life is really like in a professional kitchen.  Shockey has an engaging writing style. Great anecdotes and recipes too. You will drool, guaranteed.