Terri Wallace's Blog, page 11

When I am Still

The ideas come quicker when I am still…in those moments when I let my mind be quiet.  I cannot coax them or force them.  When I try, I catch only quick glimpses of brilliance that flicker and fade away.  Some people thrive in chaos, pluck brilliance from turbulence, find their voice when the music swells around them.  I have to find my sacred silence; my ideas are attracted to the quiet.

I love those few minutes after I am up and showered, mug of hot tea in hand, before anyone else is awake…when the sun is just starting to glow in the horizon, and the day is only a possibility.

I revel in the water that streams over me as I shower, washing away the doubt and untangling my thoughts.  (No photo for this one…you’re welcome.)

I find solace in the hum of my car as I cut through the darkness–toward I-know-not where–yet, I drive onward with anticipation if not certainty.  My only music is the chirping crickets and the rustling wind.  My only companions are my thoughts.

Walking through the darkened house, long after televisions have been silence, I triple check the doors.  Trailing at a respectful distance, the cat’s claws tap along the floorboards as he joins me in my rounds.  The headlights of the odd passing car throws shadows across the walls, ricocheting light then a return to dark.  The moment of illumination as bright as inspiration, and just as fleeting.

I cannot force ideas any more than I can force love or loyalty.  But I have been blessed with both, and I take for granted that the ideas will also flow as freely…if I am patient and quiet.

Man Plans, God Laughs

I had planned to write a short story and be done with it.  But the characters kept whispering.  I ignored them as long as I could, but then I decided the only way to exorcise them was to write them free.  Since I had been writing quite a lot of short stories, it made sense to write some more short stories and let the characters have their say.

Perhaps, I thought, I will tell stories from some of the other characters’ perspectives.  Maybe I will end up with a whole collection of short stories build around a few core characters who all reside in the same small town.  But, apparently, that was not to be.  Sure, I wrote, but it turns out that one character in particular kept shouting louder than the others (she is bossy like that), so instead of writing from lots of different voices and perspectives, I wrote from one.  And the stories, which I thought would be from a random scattering of time, seemed to come in a very linear fashion.  But I kept writing, because that’s what “You Do.”  Finally, I had to admit to myself that this did not seem to WANT to be a collection of short stories.  This wanted to be A Novel.

It took me a little while to accept this.  Like a desperate parent with a rogue child, I seemed to think that if I could just get the story ”under control” it would behave the way I wanted it to.  It didn’t.  Finally, I decided to stop trying to create what I thought the story was “supposed” to be, and to write the story that way it was destined to be.

This is me NOT planning. Apparently my “not planning” expression is oddly similar to my “that food did not agree with me” expression.

I’ll admit it.  There is a part of me (perhaps more than I like to admit) that really likes the immediacy (read: instant gratification) of the short story.  I like being able to write something, to get it out of my system, and to move on.  Maybe I have commitment issues.  But this story isn’t done with me yet; I am not done with it.  And this story is going to require some serious commitment.  I feel compelled to see it from its short story infancy into the maturity of a novel, and that means that I need to stick my butt in a chair and write more and harder than I have ever written before.  It means that I need to be aware of my daily word count and to Keep. Moving. Forward.

And it means lots of editing, and revising, and cutting, and fleshing out.  It means beta readers, and critiques, and more revising.

It also means giving myself a lot of pep talks.  I have found that reading about the journey of other writers helps.  A lot.  It lets me see the light at the end of the tunnel.  I have bookmarked Veronica Roth’s blog, and I read it when I should be doing other things.  Like work, or writing, or blogging….  I don’t imagine that the light at the end of MY tunnel will be anything akin to hers, but it still helps me keep writing, so that is something.

In the interest of full disclosure, I am currently 10,627 words into my novel.  There is still plenty more to write.  I am hoping to have the first draft completed before the kids get out of school for the summer, and to spend my summer revising.  For this to happen, I need to be writing approximately 700+ words per day.  This sounds totally do-able in theory.  (Feel free to bookmark this post so you can mock me later.)

However, it seems like this is another case of Man Plans, God Laughs.  (Hello?!  Did I mention the full time job, and freelance writing, and the husband, and three kids?  What could possibly detract from my writing time?)

Fortunately, I have a solution to my time crunch.  Lunch.  Or rather, writing through lunch.  If I can sit down and write over my lunch hour, that is one hour of uninterrupted (in theory) minutes during which I can peck away at the keyboard.  If I do this religiously for the next eleven weeks, that is 55 hours of writing time.  If I can write 700 words per hour, that gives me 38,500 more words.  Plus, assuming I can also carve out two hours each weekend to write, that is 22 more hours, which = 15,400 more words.  For a total of 64,527 words.  Which, for a first draft, isn’t bad.  Especially since I know I am a flesher-outter, not a parer-downer (yes, those are words, or at least they should be), and that the final word count will undoubtedly expand during the editing phase.*

So, this plan idea is do-able, at least in theory…as long as I don’t mess up and call it “A Plan.”

____________

* Admission: when I try to “control” things, I tend to number crunch.  Bear with me.

About a Boy

About a Boy by Terri Wallace.

I have a piece of flash fiction up over at Postcard Poems and Prose today called “About a Boy.” If you have a minute (Yes, literally, a minute! Hey, it’s flash fiction!) go check it out.

About Wound Licking

I was fortunate enough to receive a wonderfully blunt and unequivocal rejection yesterday.  I have fairly thick skin, and I have received my fair share of rejection.  I firmly believe that rejection is necessary to keep a writer hungry–to make them write harder…write better.  I consider it a bit of a challenge, actually.  Ok, so you didn’t like that story.  Fine, I get that.  But wait until you see what I write next. 

I am aware that I am in good company.  History is full of writers who proved publishers/editors/agents wrong.  There are entire websites devoted to these (now) laughable rejections.  Apparently, one publisher advised Stephen King, “We are not interested in science fiction which deals with negative utopias.  They do not sell.”  Mwhahahahah! And, after we all dried our tears of laughter, we went for a midnight showing of Hunger Games.  (Good thing no one told Suzanne Collins about the lack of interest in dystopian stories!)

Actually, though, sometimes it is better to be harsh than to coddle.  Coddling doesn’t get up my ire.  It doesn’t inspire me to prove someone wrong.  Bah! Warm fuzzies are for friends.

Now, I have a lot of writer friends and, believe me, I cherish them!  They understand the sting of rejection.  They have felt it too.  And, sometimes, they feel your rejections even keener than they feel their own.  They know when to comfort and when to criticize.  But, whichever role they are cast to play on any given day, their words, their advice, their deeds are all done to help build you up–never to tear you down.

However, I am not a wound licker.  I am a writer.  So I will file this rejection away with the others.  It may be sharper in tone, but the result is the same: I take from it what I can, then I tuck it away and go back to the keyboard to write.

Perhaps the best part of all of this is that, in writing this post, I stumbled across a brilliant rejection letter.

This gives me Rejection Letter Envy.

So my wish for all writers is this:  May all of your rejections inspire you, and may all of your missteps create the opportunity for you to be “caught” by good friends.  Oh, and wine…a glass of wine never hurts.

Making Sense of Chaos

There is a lot going on over in my corner of the world.  I have been working on the follow up to my short story THE COLLECTOR (so if you haven’t downloaded it yet, now is the perfect time!).  The story follows Junie Rae as she learns more about what she can do and figures out that people want to put her abilities to their own twisted use.  If you like Southern Gothic, or horror, or creepy child protagonists, or small Oklahoma towns…this might be right up your alley.  (At a mere 99 cents, it couldn’t hurt to check it out!)

I received my copy of Spark: A Creative Anthology in the mail this week.  There are a lot of amazing authors in there, and somehow I snuck in there, too, and in Vol. IV you can read my story “A Sort of Homecoming.”   It is definitely an honor to be among the writers included.  You can get your own copy of Spark here.  It will look a lot like this, but without the cute, enthusiastic children:

My short story “A Call for Courage” is up over at Page & Spine.  It is a quiet little story that makes me both weepy and proud.  If you have a minute (or if you just don’t feel like doing actual “work,” since it is Friday and all) go over and check it out here. 

A dear friend (A. K. Francis) and I have also decided to stop talking about putting together a literary journal and to start actually doing it.  So there is that.  The journal is called Drunken Muse Press.  The site is still under construction, but we will be publishing poems and prose (including short stories, essays, or whatever else you can cram under that category).  Works should be under 5k words (but if it is amazing, we are flexible).  We will have weekly online postings, plus one print anthology per year (hopefully going quarterly, if all goes well).  I will let you know more once we get a few more things in place.

Also, if you aren’t familiar with A. K. Francis–you will really want to remedy that.  Her work is dark, and twisty, and creepy.  It is the kind of stuff that torments your brain when you try to go to sleep at night.  Her latest short story, Midway, is available at Amazon.  Fortunately, she has agreed to allow me to interview her here, so you will get a chance to see how amazing she is for yourself soon.

Whew.  Other than that, I have been dealing with sick kids, sick husband, snow and ice, crazy cold weather, a firewood shortage, and your general not-enough-hours-in-the-day.  So, you know, it is the perfect time to decide to start a literary journal.  Wish me luck!

Writing, Life, and other Risks

It is easier for me to decide in retrospect which “theme” a year embodied.  For example, 2013 was “The Year of the Move.”  What with Life being Life, I am not sure if it is really possible to assign a theme to a year that is still in progress.  Don’t get me wrong, that doesn’t mean that I don’t start out each year with goals and lofty ambitions—because I do.  I really, really do.  I really want 2014 to be “The Year of Good Writing.”  Or maybe “The Year My Writing Takes Off.”  Or “The Year of Much Publication.”  I guess only time will tell.

Despite the need for large amounts of Kleenex and decongestant, January seems to be boding well for All Things Writing.

My short story “A Sort of Homecoming” is in Spark: A Literary Anthology, Vol. IV, which is out this month.  You can order a copy here, if you are interested.  I am in the company of a lot of talented writers, and I am a little nervous to be included among them in case someone realizes that they made a dreadful mistake and didn’t mean for me to be lumped among them.

I also have another short story available on Amazon entitled “Counting Crows” (which is in no way associated with the band, although I do love their stuff and make it a point to listen to “Long December” as each year wraps up.  I always lament the fact that I never thought to use the phrase “the smell of hospitals in winter,” since it is so incredibly evocative and makes me shudder a bit each time I hear it).  My story is only 99 cents, so if you have a little time to kill and a dollar that is burning a hole in your pocket, you should go download it.  And, when you are done, perhaps you could take a minute to review it, if you have time.  Reviews are so important to authors.  Partly, because we really like to hear what people think, and partly because other readers like to know what they are getting themselves into before they buy it.

Also, if you have not already read my short story “The Collector,” it will be available for FREE this January 10-12th (Friday through Sunday).  It is a creepy little story, and it is the first in a collection of other creepy stories.  You can read more about the stories here, and download your free copy here.  If you have already read it, maybe you could let your other like-minded reading friends and acquaintances know about it, just in case they need to add to their collection of stories waiting to be read on their Kindle.

I also found out about a really nifty tool on Amazon Studios called Storybuilder.  It lets writers create notecards/story boards.  It is free, and it is fun to use, and it has enabled me to work out the flow of the next story after “The Collector.”  I hope to the story completed soon, but I am currently getting sidetracked getting another collection of stories, all a bit dark in nature, ready for Amazon.  I hope to have it available in February.

In the meantime, I will make another hot toddy, pick up more Kleenex, and try not to make too many plans–life has a funny way of upending them when I do.  Best not to risk it.

What Doesn’t Bend, Breaks

“Buildings and bridges are made to bend in the wind.

To withstand the world, that’s what it takes.

All that steel and stone is no match for the air, my friend.

What doesn’t bend, breaks.  What doesn’t bend, breaks…”

~Ani Difranco, “Buildings & Bridges”

There is something to be said for standing strong, for holding your own, for bracing for the storm.  The thing about finally getting ahead, is that it is easy to get obsessed with falling behind.  Everything you earn becomes something that you can lose.  Everything you build is something that can collapse.

And sometimes…it will.  Sometimes things we create will collapse.  Perhaps the fall apart, or maybe they are torn to shreds.  That is the nature of life–it ebbs and flows, it gives and takes.

When this happens, my first reaction is to try to rebuild it stronger so that it can withstand whatever onslaught that life flings at it.  But stronger isn’t always better.  Sometimes loosening my grip actually improves my hold.

If I am so busy trying to plan for disaster, maybe I am forgetting to enjoy the lull.

The holidays are coming, and they bring all manner of potential disasters:  family visits, gluten-free feasts to prepare, gifts to buy or craft, traffic, illnesses, weather advisories…  While I hold out hope for a Norman Rockwellesque season, my reality is more akin to National Lampoon’s Christmas Vacation.

But now I am okay with that.  Or at least I am learning to be okay with it.

Because I have learned certain truths:  I am quite certain that someone will be inadvertently left off my Christmas card list, that I won’t get everything written that I had planned, that (no matter how many times I sweep) my house will be littered by those stupid Rainbow Loom bands that my kids are all obsessed with, and that I will spent just a bit more than I should.

But at least I have friends to send cards to, at least I can earn some money writing, at least we have a roof over our head and my kids are healthy (knock wood)…  (As for the overspending, well, I am working on that.)

Accepting it is part of learning to bend…to bend and not break…to grow wise, but not hardened.

Shifting Seasons

The days are getting shorter…darker…colder, and I find myself wanting to hunker down.  I seem to be stockpiling food, and firewood, and books–all those necessities to get through a long winter.  I can’t be sure whether this is the result of some sort of intuition or if it can simply be attributed to the fact that I actually like colder weather.  I like a cozy home, a pile of books, something cooking in the oven. 

I tend to write more in the winter months.  I am not sure that this is actually because I am more inspired.  Perhaps it is the fact that cold, wet weather makes for less demands on my time.  There is no garden to tend to, no yard to mow, nothing to distract me from the imaginary people and places that my mind conjures into being. 

I read more in the winter months, as well. 

This is as it should be.  I spend my summer months creating memories, and my winter months are spent mining those memories for inspiration, twisting and turning them into darker things, creating a finer edge.

Tomorrow is Halloween.  The children will put on their masks, trudge through the fallen leaves, and beg for enough candy to tide them through the next good while. 

Yes, it is the time for tucking things away, planning ahead, and hunkering down.  I am sure I will find empty candy wrappers tucked under pillows, stuffed in drawers, and crushed in the bottom of backpacks for weeks to come.  Like a squirrel hiding away acorns, the children will stash sweets for another day. 

They get it honest, though.  As I tugged out the winter clothes, I found a scrap of a story idea scribbled on the back of an envelope then stashed in my coat pocket.  The idea hibernated all summer long, only to be reborn as the chill took to the air.

Perhaps winter is a time of rebirth after all.

The Making of a Home

A few months ago, we finally were able to make our much-anticipated, but less than well-planned, move.  Finally, the boxes are unpacked, the cars can actually fit in the garage, and we are starting to obsess about repainting things.  We are home.  And yet, the kids (sitting in their much larger bedrooms) wax poetic about “the old house.”  Despite being smaller, older, and with fewer bathrooms, it did have its charm.  According to the children, it was “cozy” and ”homey.”

Huh.  When we were all squeezed in there like sardines, it never warranted such glowing descriptions.  No.  It was described as “tiny,” and “unbearable,” and “cramped.”  Three bedrooms and one bathroom housing five people, a dog, and several cats…yes, we had outgrown it.

The Cozy Old House…

But the kids are right.  It was cozy.  We had finally found the perfect color for the master bedroom.  We had added a generous amount of cabinets into the kitchen.  The washer and dryer had been moved from the garage (where many of the homes built in the early 1950s housed such modern add-ons) into the remodeled breakfast nook off the kitchen.  The garage was oversized with plenty of storage and an extra sink.  We had a cellar (which is a God-send if you live in tornado alley).  Yes, it was cozy, but it was also…well, home.

The new house has nearly double the space, with five separate attic areas for storage, and three bathrooms.  There is a large deck with pergola and lush landscaping.  There is a fireplace and a Viking stove.  (Suddenly, all my holiday daydreams seem in reach!)

But the walls are not (yet) a color of our choosing.  I still have to stop and recall where certain items are housed.  There are still blank spots–walls without photos, corners without what-nots, and floors without warm rugs to ward off winter’s chill.

Sure, a  coat of paint and a little more time will remedy these things.  Before long, the walls will smile back at me with photos of us in our new home, and I will find the perfect chair for the reading nook.  New things will merge with the old to create our new home, warm and cozy.

Like this life we have built over our fourteen years of marriage, building a home is a process.  Day in and day out.  Season after season.  This, too, will become a true home for us.  Every day, memories are being created.  Chilly mornings with hot cocoa on the deck, holidays around the hearth, and sleepovers with little actual sleep but with lot of giggling, and games of Scrabble, and pumpkin pancakes for breakfast.

The cats have found their warm sunbeam spots for naptime, and the dog loves to sit on the deck rail and bark at passing cars.  My new red tea kettle waits on the stove…ready for me to set my work aside and come home.

The Unlikeliest of Places

Strange, the places where we find inspiration.  The other day, I had to look up some legal statutes.  I clicked on the wrong statute link, and ended up on the page listing Arkansas statutes regarding embalmers and funeral directors.  Apparently, there are lots of law governing things like: eye enucleation, transportation of dead bodies, abandoned cemeteries, and unclaimed bodies.  Of course, there would need to be; however, these are not things that I normally dwell on–unless, of course, I stumble upon them.  Then, I tend to start thinking, and wondering, and speculating.  And then…a story is born.

Well, truthfully, it isn’t all the way born yet.  It is still gestating.  But several pages have been hastily jotted down, along with notes for several more pages.  The basic outline is in my head.  I hope to have it fleshed out this week, but there is still some more research to be done.  There are pathology procedures to confirm, and specifics about autopsies that I need to verify.  There might be a visit to a morgue.

It seems like a lot of research for a short story.  But a story worth telling is worth telling well.  And, who knows, it might end up being more than a short story.

I do, however, have new respect for authors who write historical fiction.  I can’t even imagine the amount of heavy-duty research involved in believably recreating scenes and settings and events while having to take into consideration historical accuracy.  Let’s just add historical fiction to the list of “Things I Will Never Write,” right up there with high fantasy and hard-core science fiction.  I would love to do it, I wish I could do it, but it is just not something I am likely to master–kind of like foreign languages, and knitting complicated patterns, and cake decorating.  Sure, I can manage a few rough phrases in Spanish, and I can knit lot of single stitch scarves, and I can bake a gluten free cake like no one’s business…but that’s about it.

So this weekend, as the first really noticeable cool front of the season brings in some crisp air and rain showers, I will scribble out some more pages, maybe tuck a few cupcakes in the Viking, and knit a bit on the scarf I never quite finished last winter.  I might even finish the last of The White Queen book that I really don’t want to see end yet.  Maybe I will find something else that peaks my interest–another side road to take.