Hilary Fields's Blog, page 8

Good Review, Kick-Ass NaNoWriMo First Day… Who Says Mercury’s in Retrograde?

…Probably a poor idea to tempt the fates in such a way, but heck, I’ve had too much Diet Coke, I’m hopped up on a successful first day of doing NaNoWriMo, and a great rave review of BLISS from Woman’s Day Magazine online. (You can watch the video here.)

I’ve wanted to participate in National Novel Writing Month for several years, but a combination of factors prevented me.  1) I’m chicken-shit, 2) I’m not convinced “vomit-writing” is really a great way to write a viable novel, and 3) I usually spend the last week of November in a turkey/stuffing/yam/pie coma.  But this year I’m on el seriouso deadline.  BOOK 2 must make its debut (at least to my editor) in spring, and that’s no joke.  It’s going great, but a kamikaze balls-out dive into the deep end of my creative juices would certainly only aid my efforts. So I told enough people I was gonna do it that I’d feel like a chump if I backed out.  (Works great for quitting smoking too.)

It was exciting to make this commitment, though daunting, because I usually write closer to 1,000 words on a good day than the 1,667 one needs to average for the thirty days of November in order to “win.”  I don’t think I’m in it to win it, frankly. I’d rather have 30,000 carefully chosen words than 50,000 blurted-out stream-of-consciousness rambles I have to spend the next month sorting out.  But I hoped signing up would spur me to write something every single day.  So last night at midnight I joined my local chapter liaison at Denny’s, laptop in tow (and dressed like Spock because it was, after all, Halloween).  Seven hundred fifty one words and five mozzarella sticks later, I looked up and it was 1:30 in the morning.  Even most of the drunks in Miley Cyrus twerk costumes had headed home for the night.

After collapsing back in bed around 2, reading a bit of Stephen King’s DOCTOR SLEEP (in my opinion one of his good ones), and passing out to endure some very odd llama-and-psychic-vampire dreams, I arose a few hours later feeling like it was going to be a good day.  I added another 1,100 words to my count during the course of the day (and was surprised by a llama named Severus Snape playing Frisbee with Merry’s cowboy hat), all while baking a loaf of sourdough (pictured) and standing at my standing desk instead of sitting around.

So I guess success breeds success.  The more you do the more you’re capable of doing, and yadda yadda.  Speaking of success, it’s really been awesome to see the first reviews of BLISS trickle in.  I wish I weren’t too much of a moron to figure out how to post the video review from Woman’s Day, but a link will have to suffice.  It’s just amazing when someone reads your stuff and laughs out loud, relishes the characters, looks forward to your next work.

I can hardly believe the release date for BLISS is only 18 days away. I got my finished copies this week and I think they’re stunning (even if the picture of me in the inside front flap seems monstrously big).  It’s amazing to me that some readers–strangers, out there in the ether–have already gotten hold of copies, and others will soon.  Lots of others, I hope.  All of whom will of course want to plaster five-star reviews far and wide across the web.  Hey, a girl can dream, right?  So here’s to big dreams, and the ambition–and stamina–to bring them to fruition.

Cheers!

Tagged: bliss, book review, fiction, magazine review, nanowrimo, novel, women's fiction, writing

What IS it with Writing?!

I believe it was Dorothy Parker who said, “I hate writing. I love having written.”  (My favorite quote of hers is actually the one where, when asked to use the word “horticulture” in a sentence, she quipped, “You can lead a horticulture but you can’t make her think.”)

But I digress.  As I am wont to do, because, damn, writing is a weird occupation.

I can’t agree with Dorothy about hating writing, or say I only get joy from the completion.  I love the “Oooh, ooh, I got an idea” aspect, and the fun I have with alliteration; tinkering and toying with language.  I adore having characters make me laugh with their crazy dialogue, which totally arrived out of the blue and not out of my head.  It’s a rush, and a delight, and a privilege to spend so much of my time in my imagination.  So no, I don’t hate writing.  What I hate is how damn uncontrollable it is.  You can’t own it, and you can’t direct it.  You can surrender to it, try to trick it, bargain with it, or make a blubbering fool of yourself over it, but it permits no master.

The image I most often picture is that of those weird water snake toys we had back in the seventies (cough-cough, I mean eighties) where you’d try to hold onto them but the tighter you gripped, the faster they’d squirt out of your hand.  The equivalent of that happened to me today.  Work on the new novel was slow going for most of the day, with me wailing and agonizing and, as I usually do when I’m fearful, merely editing old pages instead of getting on with the show.  (This isn’t wholly a bad thing, as it saves me having to do a zillion drafts.)  Then, just as I give up, head to the living room, and turn on CNN for my evening dose of “Hey, look how shitty the government is!”, I go back into my little cave… just to close up my computer, you see… and come out an hour later with five new, rather lively pages.

What. The everloving. Fuck.

Perhaps it’s time I learned to cede control over the process, and just accept that it may take me a whole day of banging about the house, being useless and catching up on episodes of Nashville (which is fucking fantastic, by the way, at least if you write romance), before my brain ekes out that elusive element I’m after… inspiration.  Yet anyone who knows me knows that “laissez faire” and I are not on speaking terms.  I don’t easily let anything ride.  (My calender reminders have calender reminders.)  I fear if I don’t wrestle, I’ll get nothing done, and frankly I don’t think I’m wrong about that.  I suspect that without the all-day grudge match, my unconscious would not have had time to percolate.  And the more often I apply Ass A to Chair B, the closer I get to producing Product C, which is the novel I need to write.

I guess that’s why they pay us writers the big bucks.  Ahahahahahahahahaha.

Seriously, it’s a privilege to be a writer, and I’m luckier than I have any right to be.  But it’s not always easy.  And boy-howdy, it’s one trippy gig.

Tagged: creativity, Dorothy Parker, horticulture, novel, writing

Little Death By Chocolate

Hi friends! Tonight felt like a chocolate-mandatory night, so here’s an orange-kissed chocolate mousse recipe inspired by BLISS. I hope it will help you find yours…

In-the-Mood Mousse

Rich, sensual, and totally lickable… Serafina knows a certain Israeli stud-muffin she’d like to slather in this mousse. You can use it however you desire…

In a cold bowl, whisk together:

1 2/3 cups cold heavy cream (more if you’d like some for garnish)

2 tsp pure vanilla extract or 1 tsp vanilla bean scrapings

1/2 tsp kosher salt

Beat until solid (but not all the way to butter!) then chill.

In a bain-marie, melt:

3 oz semisweet chocolate

3 oz bittersweet chocolate

Once melted, add ¼ tsp orange flavoring (optional)

In a stand mixer (or by hand if you’re brave):

Whisk 4 room-temperature extra-large egg whites to soft peaks.

Slowly add 1/2 cup sugar while whisking and continue until whites are shiny and stiff peaks appear.

Very gently fold melted chocolate into egg white mixture, then fold whipped cream into all (reserving some for topping if desired). Chill at least one hour, then enjoy with your hottie!

Thanks to Syna for the recipe and perpetual joie de vivre.

Tagged: baking, chocolate, chocolate mousse, chocolate mousse recipe, cooking, dessert, recipe, whipped cream

The Outline That Wasn’t

I lack discipline.

Absolutely and incontrovertibly this is so. Exercise regimens, vows to eat vegetables, promises to keep track of my budget–all are beyond my capacity to fulfill.  I can’t commit.  Can’t stay committed. It’s not that I want to conform for the sake of conformity, or be admired for my ooh-la-la adult-ish behavior.  Honestly, I’d happily don my old combat boots, shave my head into a mohawk, and shout “Fuck that noise!” if it weren’t for the fact that I actually want the benefits of a disciplined mind.  (And that I suspect I have an unflatteringly shaped skull.)

Anyhow, I wish I was some Stephen King type, a holier than thou “I write every day no matter what” dickbag.  I want more than anything to be regular in my writing habits, because, as my jealousy no doubt gives away, I believe that structure and sitzfleisch are some of the keys to great writing.  The more you plan ahead, the more focused your mind, the tighter your story weaves together and the better your book.

With pain, with wailing, hair-tearing and tears, I’m learning to glue my tuchus to the chair (I once had a roommate in college literally tie me to my desk with twine while I was trying to write an essay), but even once there, my mind won’t think in straight lines.

Thus, the outline that wasn’t.  Merry’s novel (AKA Book  2) is a series of great ideas, vignettes, and sample chapters right now.  She’s coming along great as a character, and the theme of the story is clear in my mind.  I know most of the important turning points, and have a store of hijinks just waiting to deploy.  But whenever I try to write a chapter outline to get all my ducks neatly in a row, I just…

SQUIRREL!

…go off on a tangent.  I get a few paragraphs in, determinedly denoting what makes each scene essential to the whole, delineating the important details, making decisions about what has to happen.  It’s incredibly helpful.  It clarifies concerns and opens doors, lays down the metaphorical railroad tracks ahead of my train of thought.  But then, just when I’m chugging along, I get a case of the “and then’s.”

You know: when you’re excited about an idea and you’re telling it to a friend, and you start spit-balling, and suddenly you’re saying, “and then… and then… a space cow flew outta the clouds and it started hurling plasma flops at everyone, and then… and then… um… Gary Oldman stepped up and whacked them with a cricket bat!  And then he saved the day, and then…”

Shit like that.

Next thing you know, your notebook has fifteen pages of Unibomber chicken scratch on it, with circles and arrows and a paragraph on the back of each one (points for knowing the reference there).  However, though you’re all fired up, you’re nowhere close to knowing exactly how you’re going to wedge cosmic cow flops and classically trained British actors into your story.  All you know is that you may as well just sit down and write a scene–any scene–and see where it leads you.

Because discipline ain’t leading me nowhere.  ‘Cept maybe the booby hatch.

Tagged: creativity, discipline, novel, outline, writing

Win a Free Copy of BLISS on Goodreads!

Hey fans! Just a quick post to let you know Redhook Books is running a Goodreads Giveaway for BLISS. Giveaway ends October 1st, so enter here to win one of 50 free copies!

Tagged: bliss, books, contest, free book, Giveaway, goodreads, novel, reading, women's fiction

A Room of One’s Own–Now With 100% More Lava Lamp!

A few days ago I decided to “claim my space.”  Hoo, doggy, does that ever sound pretentious.  But it’s kinda what I did.  And I swear, it pertains to writing.  Lemmie ‘splain…

When we moved from a 500-square-foot studio in Manhattan to a 2,500-square-foot rental in a Santa Fe subdivision (not counting the garage), I felt like Julie Andrews whirling around atop the Alps, arms thrown wide.  We had more rooms than we had people!  More rooms than we had cats!  (So we adopted another cat.)  A guest room and a room just for the treadmill I carted 2,000 miles knowing I’d never use!  A few Craigslist expeditions later, and I even had some secondhand furniture to fill them.

The little bedroom in the back was supposed to be my sanctum sanctorum.  My writer’s cave.  My room with a view (of scrub brush and cactus, but still).  Instead it became home to a litter box, an ugly hutch-topped desk, and the aforementioned clothes hanger (ahem, treadmill).  It was depressing.  And smelly.  And I hated the hutch.  So I never went in there.  I wrote at the kitchen table or out at a cafe.  Which made for a messy, paper-strewn dining table and a lot of overpriced coffees charged on my credit card.  And no space where I could properly focus on being a writer.

I’d say this went on for over a year.  Then suddenly–eureka!–I got a bug up my butt.  “C’mon, husbeast,” I cried.  “Let’s spend your precious Sunday night shifting furniture around and hitting things with hammers!”

I have a very gracious husband.

And a couple hours later, I had a very inviting space.  Hutch dismantled.  Desk moved in front of window for maximum bunny-and-coyote spotting.  Litter box, banished.  Treadmill, relegated to inconspicuous corner.  And the funky blue lava lamp my brother got me when I was seventeen dug out of storage and placed proudly atop my desk.

I haven’t turned it off since.  I freakin’ love that thing.  It reminds me of my essential ridiculousness, and the ridiculousness of what I do.  (Hell, I’m writing about a gal who gets exiled to a llama ranch right now…)  It’s useless as a light source, and a total waste of electricity, but for me it’s a beacon of silliness and creativity.  I watch it blub and bubble in my new, cozy office, and I feel like I’ve given my writing self a home where it’s okay to warm up, let thoughts burble to the surface, move mysteriously.  And for me, writing is mysterious.  As are my needs as a writer.  You’d think all I’d need is a laptop, or a pen and some paper.  Have muse, will travel, right?  Environment should be irrelevant…

Shouldn’t it?

Not so much.  For a while now I’ve writhed and wriggled like a kid with a wedgie every time I sat down to work on the new book.  I thought my restlessness and discomfort were never going to go away, or that I’d lost the knack for concentrating.  But since I claimed my space (there goes that obnoxious phrase again) I’ve felt a sense of renewed focus and energy.  I now love going into my cave in the morning, setting my coffee on the little warming disk, lighting some “Scents of the West” incense and listening to Neko Case or the National. When I’m in here, I’m a writer.

Turns out, I just needed a little, quiet corner to call my own.  And now I’ve got one.  Lava lamp and all.

Tagged: creativity, home decorating, lava lamp, novel, personal space, writing

When Your Heroine Does a One-Eighty

So my new protagonist Merry Manning is coming along… a six foot three redhead with a wry sense of humor and a cleanliness obsession.  She’s a blogger, traveler, and black sheep of one seriously uptight family. Great! Good fodder, fun to write.

Only, she’s not quite working.

Her past, her choices, her essential dilemma… not quite “there” yet.  So, suddenly, I’m whipping the character carpet out from under her feet and telling her she’s a different person.  Not entirely–she’s still a towering Valkyrie with issues to spare, only now I’ve given her gold medals and a badass career that’s just recently been ripped away, leaving her dealing with fresh wounds and challenges.  I think it’ll be a really beneficial change. It’s just that now I don’t know her anymore. I’ve got to get acquainted with this surprising new young woman, find out what makes her tick. This is an honor, of course. Any time a new character drops out of the clouds and strides onto the stage of one of my novels, it’s exciting to get to know her.  But I’ve got to say, now Merry is a lot further outside my own experience.  This’ll be a “growth opportunity” (gah, I hate that cheesy phrase) for me as a writer.  I can stretch myself to empathize with a foreign element.  It’s fiction, after all, and what is fiction but a chance to inhabit somebody else’s world, and do things you’d never do yourself?

So, Merry… lay it on me.  Teach me who you are now… and, woman, you better kick ass!

Tagged: changes, character, novel, writing

Two Months and Counting…

I just looked at the calendar and nearly snarfed up my coffee.  Holy time-skedaddling, Batman!  I’ve got a mere two months and eleven days (but who’s counting) until BLISS hits the stands. My fear is that it will do so with a distinct thud, but I know I should have more faith than that – in the efforts of my publisher, if not on the fates of fickle fame (or the enemies of alliteration).  I have so many hopes for my baby BLISS. Three years in the making, it’s crafted from countless nights of worry, nearly as many days of joyful coffee house writing sessions, and quite a few teeth-gnashing, self-doubting long, dark, teatimes of the soul (thanks, Douglas Adams).

Yet now it’s time to leave BLISS behind and focus on my new novel, with 99% more fuzzy animals, a towering, redheaded heroine, a grumpy hero and… a poltergeist. To say more would be giving things away without hope of royalties, but I will say that Merry is an adventurer with a lot to learn about the true nature of adventure, and there’ll be a lotta llama beans (you read that right), potential hot springs shenanigans, and a guy who knows how to make fire.

As I progress with this as-yet-unnamed but strikingly foof-filled book, I’m faced with the big questions about what makes for a satisfying novel – in my genre, anyway. I know what I want: each chapter to tickle me, charm me, or alarm me; a setting that isn’t done to death; and the chance to root for someone to accomplish or overcome things I myself would want to.  So how to accomplish this?

As a writer, I’m sure I’m not alone in puzzling over technical issues. Most of them have to do with the trick of being invisible while you orchestrate the whole damn circus — fleas, Flying Wolendas, and all.

“How do I cram this backstory into the narrative without actually being seen to do so?”

“Will this flashback completely confuse, derail, or utterly bore my readers?”

“Is Dolly’s accent authentic, and… wait, where the heck does she actually come from?”

Sometimes I forget this ain’t my first metaphorical rodeo. I’ve stared down these challenges before, and whipped, cajoled, and wept them into submission.  And I forget that it’s fun doing so. The worst day of writing is better than the best day in somebody else’s cubicle, and, until I’m offered a job sponge-bathing Benedict Cumberbatch or taste-testing world class pain au chocolat, it ain’t likely to get any better than this.

So I’ll remember my gratitude, and get to work.

Tagged: adventure, bliss, llama beans, new novel, novel, publishing, writing

Retreat!

Ever have trouble disconnecting from the internet?  Clearly, I do, or I wouldn’t be blogging when I should be churning out pages on my new novel.

To aid me in tearing myself away from Facebook, the news, heck, even my phone’s weather app, I headed up to Abiquiu, NM, to spend a few days at the famous Ghost Ranch, where Georgia O’Keeffe (practically New Mexico’s patron painter saint) created some of her best works, and which she considered her spiritual home.  It’s not hard to see why she liked it.  Red sandstone cliffs, quiet areas for contemplation, hiking trails and… supposedly no internet!But then I headed to their little library, and guess what… internet!  It’s gonna be challenging to shun it for a while, though I’ve already written several pages this first afternoon during the short period before I caved and connected.  Still, I’m actually glad I succumbed to temptation and checked my email this one time.  Becauuuuuuuse… I just got word I won second place in the essay category of the Southwest Writer’s 31st annual contest!

Do I wish it were first place?  Do I scowl a little bit because the first place winner isn’t even living in the southwest?  Er… no!  Of course not.  I’m tickled, thrilled, tittering with jollity.  And the prize might even pay for dinner at a mid-priced steakhouse, once I’m done retreating.

Anyway, it’s a nice affirmation.

I’m off to try and earn my keep.  Farewell from Ghost Ranch!

So You Call Yourself a Writer…

One of the biggest challenges I’ve faced as a writer is actually calling myself a writer.  Maybe you’ve felt this same way?  I mean, who am I to claim the name and mantle of an artist?  Shouldn’t I get a “real job” and stop being pretentious?  (I do have a day job, folks.  Just getting a contract to write a book does not instantly catapult one into the realm of “sayonara, suckahs!”, believe me.)  Nor does scoring a book deal come with a beret and a turtleneck, or a free pass and reserved table at a smoky bohemian coffee house.

Nope, I’m just still me, with thirty-mumble years of Jewish parents whispering in my ears about how it’s safer to have a job that pays regularly, who cautioned me that I was in for disappointment and failure, no matter how talented I might be.  Not that they weren’t proud of my skills, such as they are.  They just wanted me to be safe and self-supporting.  And society at large, I think, both over-venerates and undervalues those of us who discover creative impulses within ourselves and–gasp–think that’s what we should do with our lives.  I’ve always had a sense that “the world” thinks I should stop putting on airs and just get to work.

Two things about that.

1) The world doesn’t give a shit about what you do.  Very, very few people are actually looking at you or judging you (except your parents).

2) Writing IS work.

So.  Here I am struggling with phantoms.  My mother, who was famous for comments like, “Oh hey, that’s great that you’re getting an article featured on ___.  Too bad it doesn’t pay.” died three years ago.  She did get to see my first three novels published, and I know she was proud.  She won’t get to see this new one come out, but she would have bragged to her friends about it, definitely.  My dad just got his advanced reader copy of BLISS in the mail yesterday, and, wonder of wonders, is actually sitting down to read it.  Even my brother promises to do so.  My friends and my husband couldn’t be happier for me.  And, for heaven’s sakes, I live in SANTA FE, where every third person is an artist of one kind or another.  I should be able to self-identify without feeling like a doof.

Speaking of Santa Fe, I decided to “do as the Romans do” yesterday, and went to see an energy healer.  I did this because I hold myself back as a writer.  I don’t simply flow, and I don’t feel comfortable making it my priority, even when I’m on contract (and on deadline).  Writing, though it is the one occupation that ever makes me feel RIGHT, is also a deeply difficult thing for me to sit down and do.  Now, as a poster child for the AMA, I felt beyond skeptical visiting this woman.  “How woo-woo!”  I thought.  “This is never going to work.”  But it was a very powerful experience, opening me to feelings I rarely let myself expose.  I’m glad I went.

Truthfully, writing is scary. You don’t know where you’ll end up when you begin.  As I said in a previous post, it requires a sort of voluntary possession.  And what if–dread of dreads–nothing comes out when you try?  So it’s a fearful thing.  It requires courage.  Fortitude.  Sometimes I don’t feel up to all that.  But if I want to be this thing (and I do) I have to treat it like any other job.  Which would please dear old mum, I’m sure.

Tagged: writing