On the day we went to Laura's house to take pictures for the cover, my muse decided to stay home, stating she had the utmost trust in Rick's ability with a camera. I think she was more worried about her hair than the book at that moment. It was a brilliant shade of sparkling white, so bright it made me squint, and the snakes were furiously tying themselves into knots. She threw a scarf over her head, told me to have a good time, and vanished. I was a little worried about the stylist.
Laura had a vision in the middle of a sleepless night of what the cover should look like. From the excitement in her voice, I knew she was on the right path. It had to be a direct message from her own muse; a muse I haven't met but who must be kinder than mine. A few days later, we were at her house with one of her students, a four year old girl I will call "B" and my own daughter, "R." Immediately the two girls began to play with the water in the small fountain that hung on a wall in Laura's back yard. Rick pulled out the camera and started shooting, desperately trying to keep up with the giggles and grins of the two girls. Laura joined in and before long, B's yellow dress was drenched. Laura's original vision was of her holding B while looking up at sunflowers. We all traipsed next door where the neighbor's sunflowers were 12 feet tall. Rick caught more images of Laura and B looking at the flowers, touching them, pointing at them with the white cane, then showing them to R who watched while sitting in her wheelchair. The garden path was narrow and the shadows thick, so Rick struggled with the terrain, the other plants and how quickly the children moved. Children aren't very happy sitting still to "pose." And besides, we wanted it to be spontaneous. A mobility lesson is often that way; you start out with one plan and then the child or the world provides a different direction. Go with it, or lose the moment, and lesson, entirely.
We returned to Laura's garden for more pictures: B walking the garden path with her white-cane, Laura holding her hand, both girls picking black-berries, more splashing in the fountain. After an hour, B was showing signs she was bored with picture taking by whining, so we called it a day. Rick felt we had enough to work with, but also felt he didn't capture the one, perfect shot. Oh well, perfection is elusive and kids are even harder.
But when he downloaded the pictures, we discovered he had managed to take three very good images. Three out of 50 is excellent! And after some debate amongst the four of us, we chose one. An image of Laura squatting beside a laughing B who is holding a sunflower out to R. The image is perfect, because it shows what the book is about: Laura the teacher, who is supporting a child who is showing another child the object. Who is really the teacher? Laura, or the child? In my mind, all of them are.
Rick is now doing the layout of the cover with the picture. It's looking great! If my muse ever comes back from the salon, I'm sure she'll be happy too.
Sunday, July 29, 2007
Tuesday, July 17, 2007
Another Gravity Check
My Muse is stomping across the living room, eyes red with fury, every snake stretching out from under her dark hair, hissing and snapping. I stay far away from her. I just got off the phone with the lawyer I was referred to by California Lawyers for the Arts, a non-profit organization that helps artists with legal issues, and she doesn't like what they told me.
"Insufferable! Intolerable! This is an insult to my work! Our work! Laura's work! How does anyone write a book or paint a picture, or do anything artistic with lawyers breathing down their back?"
"He was very helpful and friendly."
She waves her hand at me. "Not him. I'm sure he was fine. I'm talking about the lawyers who could come after us a few years from now for publishing a book that might make someone, someday, upset. Scandalous! How can you work under this shadow of fear?"
"Carefully."
"The restrictions on what you can and cannot say. Changing names... intolerable! I mean there's a reason we kept the real names..."
"Yes. But now there's a very good reason to change them."
My muse crosses her arms and glares at me so intently I feel my feet turn hard and cold. "Why are you so eager to go along with it?"
I look away quickly. My feet tingle as if waking from sleep."I'm protecting the work. I'm not going along with anything." I cautiously walk toward her while keeping an eye on the snakes. "When a story is written down, it becomes tangible and isn't pure inspiration anymore. If you decide to share that story with the rest of the world, that means they get to read it and once that happens, the work is transformed into a living thing. It becomes a part of the reader. That's why it's important to protect the story from harm. Not limit the words or deny its truth, but strengthen the story's impact by giving it a foundation based on the physical world. The physical world is governed by laws, finances, budgets, taxes, and marketing."
"Disgusting! I can't believe I'm hearing this from you. I thought you were an artist!"
"I am."
"Then act like one!"
I stand my ground and meet her gaze. "I am."
She blinks. The red light in her eyes simmers and turns gold.
"I am acting like an artist who believes in this work so much that I am willing to do whatever I have to do to get it out into the world where people can read it. There are too many artists who ignore the rules that govern the art world so their work is never seen..."
"Revolutionaries!"
"Yes. Many are. And they take the risk that their work will cause pain. But if they are smart, they do it with eyes wide open. They don't hide behind the idea that since they are artists they don't have to know the consequences of their actions. They can stand beside their work and say proudly they understand the work may be controversial but they consciously chose to show it anyway. I respect those people enormously." I am standing beside my muse now, within striking distance of her snakes. "We are publishing this book and we will deal with whatever may happen in the future. But we are publishing it with eyes wide open and we are protecting ourselves not by changing the message, but by changing a name. That's all."
I wait. She is silent. The snakes look at me. Then slowly, she nods. "I see. Alright. I'll trust you on this." I take a deep breath. I won't be bitten, at least not this time. I rest my hand on her arm and my muse turns to me, her eyes back to green. Then she smiles a slow smile that makes me nervous. "But if I think for a moment you're giving in to lawyers out of fear, I will leave you immediately and you will never write another word again. Clear?"
"Absolutely clear."
"Good." She grins and pats my hand. "I'm off to get my hair done now. You'd better get to work on that manuscript. " She disappears with a wave.
I wonder where muses get their hair done?
"
"Insufferable! Intolerable! This is an insult to my work! Our work! Laura's work! How does anyone write a book or paint a picture, or do anything artistic with lawyers breathing down their back?"
"He was very helpful and friendly."
She waves her hand at me. "Not him. I'm sure he was fine. I'm talking about the lawyers who could come after us a few years from now for publishing a book that might make someone, someday, upset. Scandalous! How can you work under this shadow of fear?"
"Carefully."
"The restrictions on what you can and cannot say. Changing names... intolerable! I mean there's a reason we kept the real names..."
"Yes. But now there's a very good reason to change them."
My muse crosses her arms and glares at me so intently I feel my feet turn hard and cold. "Why are you so eager to go along with it?"
I look away quickly. My feet tingle as if waking from sleep."I'm protecting the work. I'm not going along with anything." I cautiously walk toward her while keeping an eye on the snakes. "When a story is written down, it becomes tangible and isn't pure inspiration anymore. If you decide to share that story with the rest of the world, that means they get to read it and once that happens, the work is transformed into a living thing. It becomes a part of the reader. That's why it's important to protect the story from harm. Not limit the words or deny its truth, but strengthen the story's impact by giving it a foundation based on the physical world. The physical world is governed by laws, finances, budgets, taxes, and marketing."
"Disgusting! I can't believe I'm hearing this from you. I thought you were an artist!"
"I am."
"Then act like one!"
I stand my ground and meet her gaze. "I am."
She blinks. The red light in her eyes simmers and turns gold.
"I am acting like an artist who believes in this work so much that I am willing to do whatever I have to do to get it out into the world where people can read it. There are too many artists who ignore the rules that govern the art world so their work is never seen..."
"Revolutionaries!"
"Yes. Many are. And they take the risk that their work will cause pain. But if they are smart, they do it with eyes wide open. They don't hide behind the idea that since they are artists they don't have to know the consequences of their actions. They can stand beside their work and say proudly they understand the work may be controversial but they consciously chose to show it anyway. I respect those people enormously." I am standing beside my muse now, within striking distance of her snakes. "We are publishing this book and we will deal with whatever may happen in the future. But we are publishing it with eyes wide open and we are protecting ourselves not by changing the message, but by changing a name. That's all."
I wait. She is silent. The snakes look at me. Then slowly, she nods. "I see. Alright. I'll trust you on this." I take a deep breath. I won't be bitten, at least not this time. I rest my hand on her arm and my muse turns to me, her eyes back to green. Then she smiles a slow smile that makes me nervous. "But if I think for a moment you're giving in to lawyers out of fear, I will leave you immediately and you will never write another word again. Clear?"
"Absolutely clear."
"Good." She grins and pats my hand. "I'm off to get my hair done now. You'd better get to work on that manuscript. " She disappears with a wave.
I wonder where muses get their hair done?
"
Thursday, July 12, 2007
Covers
Figuring out what the cover of your book should look like is a lot like trying to figure out exactly what outfit to wear to the interview for that job you want so badly that if you don't get it you'll slit your own throat. Should you look subdued and dress in gray? Is a suit too professional, or professional enough? Would a soft pink blouse be too feminine, or since the color goes well with your skin tone, make a good impression on the interviewer? Oh yes, this is the woman who wore that lovely shade of pink. Forget pink, what if you wear a bright red dress? Too bold, or is making a bold statement the right thing to do? You try on every outfit you have, terrified of picking something that will make you look more tired than you actually are, or possible too sexy. Or is sexy a good thing?
My muse and I have been struggling with the cover design for Traveling Blind. We started with a picture Laura took of a bright yellow road sign which shows a curvy road and says "next 23 miles." The sign has personal meaning to Laura and clearly shows the theme of the book. Traveling. Blind. Not sure where you're going. Lots of curves along the way. Gotta keep going forward. The sign stays.
But our first attempt gave the impression the book is a travel book and is far too similar looking to another memoir set in Mendocino County. Back to the drawing board. We keep the sign, but how do we show that this is about the "unlikely teachers:" Laura's students?
Enter Rick, our in-house graphic designer and my wonderful life-partner. My muse watched him work and from her silent attention I knew she was impressed. She doesn't know a thing about Photo-Shop and refuses to touch a computer key-board, so it's fun to watch her try and hide her ignorance while at the same time being fascinated by Rick manipulating an image on the computer screen. After several days, much discussion, and taking pictures of our bored but willing daughter, he presented us with four ideas.
My muse and I laid them out on the couch and studied them. One has my daughter's grinning face with the ocean in the background. Another has the two of us holding hands with the forest in the background. Two more have our silhouette in shadow, one with the ocean and the other with the forest. All have the road sign.
I looked at my muse who was frowning. "What do you think?"
She shook her head. "Hard to say."
"Which do you like best?"
"Very hard to say."
We silently stared at the cover samples and then I picked up the one with my daughter's face. "This one is nice, but is that because it's my daughter?"
"It is nice. A real child on the cover to show who the teachers are. And nothing catches the eye more than a child, and we need something to really grab the person browsing in the store." She touched the one with us holding hands. "I like this one also."
"Do you like the forest or the ocean?"
"Hard to say. They both express different moods." She tapped the one of us holding hands. "I'd like to see this one with the ocean in the background. And you should ask Laura what she thinks."
Laura stopped by later that day with a white cane so we could take more pictures of my daughter for possible use on the cover. I showed her the images while my muse lounged on the chair beside her and watched.
Laura also liked the child and the hand-holding, but said that the shadows were disturbing somehow. "I don't know which is better, but the only thing that grabs someone's attention more than a child is a cute animal." I glanced at my muse and she nodded. Laura also wanted to see the hands with the ocean in the background and she gave good technical advice about the layout of the cover. It's good working with someone with a degree in Art.
Later, I gave the notes to Rick who seemed happy to have something more to work with than a road sign and some vague suggestions about "showing the teachers." I realized just how lucky we are that he understands graphic art and design, and is a wiz at Photo-Shop.
That night, he was still working on the cover when I went to bed, my muse by his side, leaning toward him, watching everything he did.
My muse and I have been struggling with the cover design for Traveling Blind. We started with a picture Laura took of a bright yellow road sign which shows a curvy road and says "next 23 miles." The sign has personal meaning to Laura and clearly shows the theme of the book. Traveling. Blind. Not sure where you're going. Lots of curves along the way. Gotta keep going forward. The sign stays.
But our first attempt gave the impression the book is a travel book and is far too similar looking to another memoir set in Mendocino County. Back to the drawing board. We keep the sign, but how do we show that this is about the "unlikely teachers:" Laura's students?
Enter Rick, our in-house graphic designer and my wonderful life-partner. My muse watched him work and from her silent attention I knew she was impressed. She doesn't know a thing about Photo-Shop and refuses to touch a computer key-board, so it's fun to watch her try and hide her ignorance while at the same time being fascinated by Rick manipulating an image on the computer screen. After several days, much discussion, and taking pictures of our bored but willing daughter, he presented us with four ideas.
My muse and I laid them out on the couch and studied them. One has my daughter's grinning face with the ocean in the background. Another has the two of us holding hands with the forest in the background. Two more have our silhouette in shadow, one with the ocean and the other with the forest. All have the road sign.
I looked at my muse who was frowning. "What do you think?"
She shook her head. "Hard to say."
"Which do you like best?"
"Very hard to say."
We silently stared at the cover samples and then I picked up the one with my daughter's face. "This one is nice, but is that because it's my daughter?"
"It is nice. A real child on the cover to show who the teachers are. And nothing catches the eye more than a child, and we need something to really grab the person browsing in the store." She touched the one with us holding hands. "I like this one also."
"Do you like the forest or the ocean?"
"Hard to say. They both express different moods." She tapped the one of us holding hands. "I'd like to see this one with the ocean in the background. And you should ask Laura what she thinks."
Laura stopped by later that day with a white cane so we could take more pictures of my daughter for possible use on the cover. I showed her the images while my muse lounged on the chair beside her and watched.
Laura also liked the child and the hand-holding, but said that the shadows were disturbing somehow. "I don't know which is better, but the only thing that grabs someone's attention more than a child is a cute animal." I glanced at my muse and she nodded. Laura also wanted to see the hands with the ocean in the background and she gave good technical advice about the layout of the cover. It's good working with someone with a degree in Art.
Later, I gave the notes to Rick who seemed happy to have something more to work with than a road sign and some vague suggestions about "showing the teachers." I realized just how lucky we are that he understands graphic art and design, and is a wiz at Photo-Shop.
That night, he was still working on the cover when I went to bed, my muse by his side, leaning toward him, watching everything he did.
Sunday, July 01, 2007
My First Muse
My Muse hands me a gift wrapped in sea-green tissue paper. "Here. For all your hard work."
I stare at her, wondering if this is MY muse and not some other muse shape-shifted to look like mine. My muse does not give gifts. She brings insults and demands, but never gifts. "What's this?"
"A present. What do you think?"
"Why are you giving me a present?"
"Suspicious little thing. Fine. Give it back." She reaches for the package but I hold it tight against my chest.
"No way. It's mine."
"Then open it and stop staring at me like I've just handed you a bomb."
I gently tear the tissue paper and pull out a paper-back book. How to become a famous writer before you're dead, by Ariel Gore. "Wow. I've been wanting this."
My muse smiles, looking very pleased with herself. "I know."
"This is supposed to be great! Thank you so much." I hug her tightly, startling all the snakes who are too surprised to bite me.
"You're welcome." She squeezes me quickly before pushing me away. "I want to make sure you don't give up on your own writing by spending so much time publishing other people's. I still expect a great book out of you."
"I know. And you'll get it." I flip the book over and examine Ariel's picture. "She was the first person to ever publish me. Hip Mama magazine, about 6 years ago. She's so great. She's like my first muse, you know"
"You're first muse?" My muse purses her lips and squints. All the snakes shiver.
"In a way. I never met her or anything, and she's never visited, but she really inspired me back then. Single mom, writer, put out her own zine, worked her butt off to write novels. .. I mean, she's the kind of person I admire. She's a real, living muse."
My muse snatches the book from my hand. "Fine. Then tell her to come here and sit by your side and encourage you to write for God knows how many endless hours. Maybe she'll put up with your weak prose and inane plot lines, because I'm bored with it."
"Whoa. Hold on. I didn't say I wanted her to be my muse now. She was my first muse, but you're my muse today. Even when you treat me like crap and tell me I can't write, you're still my muse."
She folds her arms and looks away. "I don't treat you like crap."
I try not to laugh. It is very dangerous to laugh in the face of your muse. They are prone to disappear for weeks and only return when you're on your knees, clutching sheets of blank paper, begging them to come back.
"You have nothing to worry about. You're my muse now, snakes and all." I gently slide the book out of her hand and she lets it go without looking at me.
"Maybe."
"No maybes. And this gift...," I hold up the book. "This gift proves how much of a wonderful muse you are."
"I'm just trying to be more encouraging."
"Thank you."
"You say I'm too hard on you, so I'm trying to be nicer."
"I appreciate that."
"You can keep the gift, but only if you promise to put it to good use, and that includes writing me another book."
"I promise."
We look at each other for a moment and slowly my muse begins to smile. The snakes relax and curl around each other in peaceful loops.
Then she puts her hands on her hips and says, "But I don't want to hear you talk about any other muses ever again, got it?"
I hold up one hand. "I swear.
After she leaves the room, I add How to Become a Famous Writer Before You're Dead to the Medusa College Reading List. Hopefully she won't take it as a sign that I'm still thinking of Ariel Gore as a muse. I am, but my current muse doesn't have to know.
I stare at her, wondering if this is MY muse and not some other muse shape-shifted to look like mine. My muse does not give gifts. She brings insults and demands, but never gifts. "What's this?"
"A present. What do you think?"
"Why are you giving me a present?"
"Suspicious little thing. Fine. Give it back." She reaches for the package but I hold it tight against my chest.
"No way. It's mine."
"Then open it and stop staring at me like I've just handed you a bomb."
I gently tear the tissue paper and pull out a paper-back book. How to become a famous writer before you're dead, by Ariel Gore. "Wow. I've been wanting this."
My muse smiles, looking very pleased with herself. "I know."
"This is supposed to be great! Thank you so much." I hug her tightly, startling all the snakes who are too surprised to bite me.
"You're welcome." She squeezes me quickly before pushing me away. "I want to make sure you don't give up on your own writing by spending so much time publishing other people's. I still expect a great book out of you."
"I know. And you'll get it." I flip the book over and examine Ariel's picture. "She was the first person to ever publish me. Hip Mama magazine, about 6 years ago. She's so great. She's like my first muse, you know"
"You're first muse?" My muse purses her lips and squints. All the snakes shiver.
"In a way. I never met her or anything, and she's never visited, but she really inspired me back then. Single mom, writer, put out her own zine, worked her butt off to write novels. .. I mean, she's the kind of person I admire. She's a real, living muse."
My muse snatches the book from my hand. "Fine. Then tell her to come here and sit by your side and encourage you to write for God knows how many endless hours. Maybe she'll put up with your weak prose and inane plot lines, because I'm bored with it."
"Whoa. Hold on. I didn't say I wanted her to be my muse now. She was my first muse, but you're my muse today. Even when you treat me like crap and tell me I can't write, you're still my muse."
She folds her arms and looks away. "I don't treat you like crap."
I try not to laugh. It is very dangerous to laugh in the face of your muse. They are prone to disappear for weeks and only return when you're on your knees, clutching sheets of blank paper, begging them to come back.
"You have nothing to worry about. You're my muse now, snakes and all." I gently slide the book out of her hand and she lets it go without looking at me.
"Maybe."
"No maybes. And this gift...," I hold up the book. "This gift proves how much of a wonderful muse you are."
"I'm just trying to be more encouraging."
"Thank you."
"You say I'm too hard on you, so I'm trying to be nicer."
"I appreciate that."
"You can keep the gift, but only if you promise to put it to good use, and that includes writing me another book."
"I promise."
We look at each other for a moment and slowly my muse begins to smile. The snakes relax and curl around each other in peaceful loops.
Then she puts her hands on her hips and says, "But I don't want to hear you talk about any other muses ever again, got it?"
I hold up one hand. "I swear.
After she leaves the room, I add How to Become a Famous Writer Before You're Dead to the Medusa College Reading List. Hopefully she won't take it as a sign that I'm still thinking of Ariel Gore as a muse. I am, but my current muse doesn't have to know.
Sunday, June 03, 2007
Medusa College
Here is the list I handed out during LitFest for anyone who would like a lead on good study materials.
Favorite Books:
1. Publishing for Profit: Bottom Line Management for Book Publishers
By Thomas Woll
2. Self Publishing Manual: How to Write, Print and Sell Your Book
By Dan Poynter
3. The Pre-Publishing Handbook: What you should know before you
publish your first book. By Patricia J. Bell
4. Book Design and Production. By Pete Masterson
5. The Writers Legal Guide. By Tad Crawford and Kay Murray
6. Business and Legal Forms for Authors and Publishers.
By Tad Crawford
7. Small Business Kit for Dummies. By Richard D. Harroch.
Favorite Web Sites:
1. Para Publishing: http://www.parapublishing.com/sites/para/
2. Small Publishers Association of America: http://www.spannet.org/index.htm
3. Publish L: http://noodlefactory.typepad.com/publishl/2006/01/subscribing_ins.html
4. POD Critic: http://podbookreview.blogspot.com/
5. Independent Book Publishers Association:
http://www.pma-online.org/index.cfm
6. Miss Snark: http://misssnark.blogspot.com/
7. Independent Publisher: http://independentpublisher.com/index.php
8. Guerrilla Press: http://www.guerrilla-press.com/index.html
9. Emerging Writers Network: http://www.emergingwriters.typepad.com/
10. Council of Literary Magazines and Small Presses:
http://www.clmp.org/
11. Book Ninja: http://www.bookninja.com/?page_id=14
12. Book Industry Study Group: http://www.bisg.org/index.html
13. Bay Area Independent Publishers Assoc. http://www.baipa.net/
14. Aeonix: http://www.aeonix.com/
Favorite Books:
1. Publishing for Profit: Bottom Line Management for Book Publishers
By Thomas Woll
2. Self Publishing Manual: How to Write, Print and Sell Your Book
By Dan Poynter
3. The Pre-Publishing Handbook: What you should know before you
publish your first book. By Patricia J. Bell
4. Book Design and Production. By Pete Masterson
5. The Writers Legal Guide. By Tad Crawford and Kay Murray
6. Business and Legal Forms for Authors and Publishers.
By Tad Crawford
7. Small Business Kit for Dummies. By Richard D. Harroch.
Favorite Web Sites:
1. Para Publishing: http://www.parapublishing.com/sites/para/
2. Small Publishers Association of America: http://www.spannet.org/index.htm
3. Publish L: http://noodlefactory.typepad.com/publishl/2006/01/subscribing_ins.html
4. POD Critic: http://podbookreview.blogspot.com/
5. Independent Book Publishers Association:
http://www.pma-online.org/index.cfm
6. Miss Snark: http://misssnark.blogspot.com/
7. Independent Publisher: http://independentpublisher.com/index.php
8. Guerrilla Press: http://www.guerrilla-press.com/index.html
9. Emerging Writers Network: http://www.emergingwriters.typepad.com/
10. Council of Literary Magazines and Small Presses:
http://www.clmp.org/
11. Book Ninja: http://www.bookninja.com/?page_id=14
12. Book Industry Study Group: http://www.bisg.org/index.html
13. Bay Area Independent Publishers Assoc. http://www.baipa.net/
14. Aeonix: http://www.aeonix.com/
Insecurity
When I got home from LitFest last night, my muse was waiting for me at the front door.
"What's up?" I asked, setting down my book bag.
She folded her arms and tapped her right foot. "What's up? What do you think? What was all that, 'I don't belong here... what do I know about anything... why am I hear...' crap?"
"What are you talking about?"
"You're insecurity was so palpable I could feel it all the way back to your house! Please explain why I have to keep bolstering your ego so you can walk out the front door!"
I walked toward the kitchen. "Is that what you call criticising my work? Bolstering my ego? Please. Since when have you ever bolstered my ego?"
She followed close behind. "You've got to start believing you're a publisher and accept the fact you know what you're doing, otherwise this entire scheme of yours is going to collapse."
I turned on the kettle and then leaned against the stove. "You have no idea what it was like sitting on the panel, listening to the other publishers talk about their presses and all the things they know and all I could offer was a reading list of books I've studied. I felt like a moron."
"Where do you think the others got their info? Do you think they knew what they were doing when they decided to publish?"
"No."
"Exactly. They all started where you are now. But they succeeded. And you will too, unless you keep insisting you're not worthy of my patronage. Then I'll just have to find someone more empowered."
I grinned. I can't help but laugh at the way my muse talks. Bolster my ego? Patronage? Usually my muse throws insults at me while she sunbathes. But for some unknown reason, I love every snake on her head.
All the snakes on her head stared at me. "You're laughing at me," she said.
"No, I'm not. I'm listening. And you're right. I have to start believing in myself. At least a little bit."
She stepped closer and put a hand on my arm. "I believe in you."
In all our time together, my muse has never spoken so kindly to me. I was mesmerized by her sea green eyes and the sincerity in her voice. My muse believes in me. That thought grew louder in my head and for one glorious moment, I believed I could successfully publish Laura's book.
Maybe I can. Maybe if I work hard enough, keep studying, and stay focused on creating the best book possible, I can keep Medusa's Muse alive. When fear and doubt get too loud, I will remember that moment when I understood how much faith my muse has in me. Perhaps that will help me have faith in myself. At least a little.
"What's up?" I asked, setting down my book bag.
She folded her arms and tapped her right foot. "What's up? What do you think? What was all that, 'I don't belong here... what do I know about anything... why am I hear...' crap?"
"What are you talking about?"
"You're insecurity was so palpable I could feel it all the way back to your house! Please explain why I have to keep bolstering your ego so you can walk out the front door!"
I walked toward the kitchen. "Is that what you call criticising my work? Bolstering my ego? Please. Since when have you ever bolstered my ego?"
She followed close behind. "You've got to start believing you're a publisher and accept the fact you know what you're doing, otherwise this entire scheme of yours is going to collapse."
I turned on the kettle and then leaned against the stove. "You have no idea what it was like sitting on the panel, listening to the other publishers talk about their presses and all the things they know and all I could offer was a reading list of books I've studied. I felt like a moron."
"Where do you think the others got their info? Do you think they knew what they were doing when they decided to publish?"
"No."
"Exactly. They all started where you are now. But they succeeded. And you will too, unless you keep insisting you're not worthy of my patronage. Then I'll just have to find someone more empowered."
I grinned. I can't help but laugh at the way my muse talks. Bolster my ego? Patronage? Usually my muse throws insults at me while she sunbathes. But for some unknown reason, I love every snake on her head.
All the snakes on her head stared at me. "You're laughing at me," she said.
"No, I'm not. I'm listening. And you're right. I have to start believing in myself. At least a little bit."
She stepped closer and put a hand on my arm. "I believe in you."
In all our time together, my muse has never spoken so kindly to me. I was mesmerized by her sea green eyes and the sincerity in her voice. My muse believes in me. That thought grew louder in my head and for one glorious moment, I believed I could successfully publish Laura's book.
Maybe I can. Maybe if I work hard enough, keep studying, and stay focused on creating the best book possible, I can keep Medusa's Muse alive. When fear and doubt get too loud, I will remember that moment when I understood how much faith my muse has in me. Perhaps that will help me have faith in myself. At least a little.
Friday, June 01, 2007
We Have A Web-Site!
My boy stayed up late to get the web site up in time for LitFest, and here it is:
http://medusasmuse.com/
It feels like a grand opening, like this is our storefront, complete with fire crackers to ward off evil spirits. There are still a few more boxes to unpack, a few more bits of decoration to add, but the door is open and the word is out.
My muse is pleased.
And just in time. LitFest is tomorrow and I will be a speaker on the publishing panel.
http://www.mendolitfest.org/
I'm a bit nervous. What do I really know about publishing, other than it is a ton of work and if you're not passionate about that work you should let someone else do it? But I'll write more about LitFest in another post. For now, tonight, I am enjoying staring at Medusa's image from my very own website. Thank you, Rick.
http://medusasmuse.com/
It feels like a grand opening, like this is our storefront, complete with fire crackers to ward off evil spirits. There are still a few more boxes to unpack, a few more bits of decoration to add, but the door is open and the word is out.
My muse is pleased.
And just in time. LitFest is tomorrow and I will be a speaker on the publishing panel.
http://www.mendolitfest.org/
I'm a bit nervous. What do I really know about publishing, other than it is a ton of work and if you're not passionate about that work you should let someone else do it? But I'll write more about LitFest in another post. For now, tonight, I am enjoying staring at Medusa's image from my very own website. Thank you, Rick.
Thursday, May 03, 2007
Muse vs. Gravity
I am obsessively reading everything I can find about starting a small press and publishing in general. I began with Dan Poynter's book, "The Self Publishing Manual," moved on to "How to Start and Run and Small Book Publishing Company," bought "The Writers Legal Guide" and "Business and Legal Forms for Authors and Publishers," and have scanned "Book Design and Production," by Pete Masterson. Now I'm reading, "Publishing for Profit," by Thomas Woll. Plus I read blogs and websites and am subscribed to the Publish L list serve. From all these hours of research, I have discovered something extremely important; I know absolutely nothing about running a small business. This is important because that's what Medusa's Muse is. A business.
I am the owner of a small business. Yes, a creative, book oriented, dream filled business, but a business non the less, which means I need to learn about tax laws, licensing, book keeping and budgeting. If I don't understand basic business practices, Medusa won't survive, and I don't care how many books I print or publish. Medusa must live in the real world and the real world is governed by tax laws.
My muse hates all this mundane chatter and refuses to help me with this part of building the press. When I brought home "Small Business Kit for Dummies," complete with CD rom of necessary forms, she yawned and said, "I'll be outside."
I glared at her. "This press thing was your idea, remember."
"Yes. I know. All the good ideas are mine."
"Then you're also responsible for helping me with this part too."
She smiled a slow, crooked smile. "I don't think so."
"Why not?" I hate it when I whine.
"Because my dear, business laws are the construct of humans and we both know I'm not human. Therefor, I don't have to worry about that part." She tapped the over sized book in my arms. "When you're done with this, let me know. I'm getting hungry for something creative."
"You know, it's exactly this reason most artists live in abject poverty. If their muses stuck around to help with the finances, they could pay their electric bill."
"Muses don't need electricity," she called as she pulled off her blouse before walking outside.
I yelled, "Let's hear you say that when I can't turn on my lap-top."
The door shut softly behind her.
In my other life, I write grants. Therefore I understand just how important it is to have enough funding to support a great idea. As much as I dislike budgeting and paperwork, I know without a good business plan, there is no Medusa's Muse. It's like trying to live on Earth without gravity. I see too many incredibly talented artists falter because they believe solid business planning is unworthy of their time and energy. I refuse to be a victim of economics.
While studying my business book, I felt something brush against my ankle. Looking up at me was a green gilded snake. I picked it up and set it on my shoulder where it snuggled close against my collar bone, reading the book with me. My muse hasn't completely abandoned me after all.
I am the owner of a small business. Yes, a creative, book oriented, dream filled business, but a business non the less, which means I need to learn about tax laws, licensing, book keeping and budgeting. If I don't understand basic business practices, Medusa won't survive, and I don't care how many books I print or publish. Medusa must live in the real world and the real world is governed by tax laws.
My muse hates all this mundane chatter and refuses to help me with this part of building the press. When I brought home "Small Business Kit for Dummies," complete with CD rom of necessary forms, she yawned and said, "I'll be outside."
I glared at her. "This press thing was your idea, remember."
"Yes. I know. All the good ideas are mine."
"Then you're also responsible for helping me with this part too."
She smiled a slow, crooked smile. "I don't think so."
"Why not?" I hate it when I whine.
"Because my dear, business laws are the construct of humans and we both know I'm not human. Therefor, I don't have to worry about that part." She tapped the over sized book in my arms. "When you're done with this, let me know. I'm getting hungry for something creative."
"You know, it's exactly this reason most artists live in abject poverty. If their muses stuck around to help with the finances, they could pay their electric bill."
"Muses don't need electricity," she called as she pulled off her blouse before walking outside.
I yelled, "Let's hear you say that when I can't turn on my lap-top."
The door shut softly behind her.
In my other life, I write grants. Therefore I understand just how important it is to have enough funding to support a great idea. As much as I dislike budgeting and paperwork, I know without a good business plan, there is no Medusa's Muse. It's like trying to live on Earth without gravity. I see too many incredibly talented artists falter because they believe solid business planning is unworthy of their time and energy. I refuse to be a victim of economics.
While studying my business book, I felt something brush against my ankle. Looking up at me was a green gilded snake. I picked it up and set it on my shoulder where it snuggled close against my collar bone, reading the book with me. My muse hasn't completely abandoned me after all.
Saturday, March 10, 2007
The First Writer
A while back, my daughter's Orientation and Mobility teacher (more on what that is later) gave me a chapter from the memoir she's been writing about her 30 plus years teaching children with vision impairments. As I read it I became excited. Not only was the chapter about my own wonderful daughter, but this teacher could WRITE. The prose was beautiful, the rhythm and word choice excellent. A few days later, I told her how much I loved it and blurted out, "I'd love to publish it." I told her I was starting a small press with a friend and we were looking for a manuscript to launch and hers would be perfect and would she like to work with us because it would be great and I couldn't offer her an advance because, like I said, we were a start-up but I would do all the marketing and PR for her book which was what she'd be spending her advance on anyway, so wouldn't she like to publish with us and have more creative control and what do you think? She looked at me for a moment with her head tilted to the side as though trying to figure out if I were serious, or crazy. Then she said, "That sounds perfect." The idea of working with the mother of one of her students appealed to her, so she ran home, got the rest of her manuscript, and returned with 220 pages for me to read.
It was slow going. Yes, she could write, but she still needed to learn how to put a novel together. Some of the chapters were bogged down with beautiful, rambling prose, which brought the pacing to a halt. But the story itself was compelling, and the way she wrote about her students brought each individual child to vibrant life. These weren't stories about poor little crippled children. These children were unique, funny, cantankerous, exuberant, challenging, kind and REAL humans who just happened to be blind. After reading the entire book, I was more certain I needed to publish it.
The author is rewriting it after I gave her feedback and agrees with my comments. She is as hungry to see her book in print as I am to help make that happen. And once it's closer to her vision and a strong manuscript, we will work out the contract. For now, the revision process feels like coaching and editing. I cheer her on, offer suggestions, try to decipher her metaphors, and constantly ask if this is the book she wants to write. Is this the best work she can do? I love watching her book evolve, as much as writing my own. We talk about structure, scenes, dialogue, what the title should be and what kinds of ideas we have for the cover design.
I love this work! My partner is as excited as I. As soon as the author has the structure of the novel worked out, she'll send it to my partner, the Queen of Polish. This woman is a grammar and spelling guru. After that, we create the book itself. The cover, interior, font, and price. Which means I'd better figure out how to do that.
It was slow going. Yes, she could write, but she still needed to learn how to put a novel together. Some of the chapters were bogged down with beautiful, rambling prose, which brought the pacing to a halt. But the story itself was compelling, and the way she wrote about her students brought each individual child to vibrant life. These weren't stories about poor little crippled children. These children were unique, funny, cantankerous, exuberant, challenging, kind and REAL humans who just happened to be blind. After reading the entire book, I was more certain I needed to publish it.
The author is rewriting it after I gave her feedback and agrees with my comments. She is as hungry to see her book in print as I am to help make that happen. And once it's closer to her vision and a strong manuscript, we will work out the contract. For now, the revision process feels like coaching and editing. I cheer her on, offer suggestions, try to decipher her metaphors, and constantly ask if this is the book she wants to write. Is this the best work she can do? I love watching her book evolve, as much as writing my own. We talk about structure, scenes, dialogue, what the title should be and what kinds of ideas we have for the cover design.
I love this work! My partner is as excited as I. As soon as the author has the structure of the novel worked out, she'll send it to my partner, the Queen of Polish. This woman is a grammar and spelling guru. After that, we create the book itself. The cover, interior, font, and price. Which means I'd better figure out how to do that.
Thursday, February 15, 2007
Why Medusa's Muse?
Why Medusa's Muse? My Muse asks me that question. I think she's a little offended by the implication, like I'm not appreciative of her presence, or maybe I think she's evil. I remind her that she does have snakes in her hair, to which she replies, "Everyone needs a pet. They don't mean anything." Then she wraps them securely on top of her head with an emerald pin, impaling one through the throat.
I'll try to explain. Medusa's Muse is that problem that immobilizes you. Your greatest fear, your most painful defeat, crashing into your life and making you fall. You don't know how you're going to deal with it, but somehow, despite the grief or rage, you find a way. And not only do you handle it, but you transform it. The event or person which almost destroyed you becomes the defining moment in your life and tells you who you are. You looked Medusa square in the eye and she blinked. You weren't turned to stone, not completely. Maybe parts of you were immobilized for a brief time, but your heart never stopped beating. That's the secret of Medusa. If you look her directly in her eyes, she will be the one to falter. The stories say you will die, but the heroes who do are the ones too afraid to meet the monster's gaze. They looked into her face, too afraid to look into her eyes, so they perished. Lock eyes with her. She'll startle, and blink, and then you'll be free. Not only free, but powerful.
I want to publish stories about people who faced their demons and survived. Not sensational murder and mayhem stories, but stories about real people who are able to transform pain and defeat into something joyful, and in so doing, change the world for the better.
My Muse kisses the top of my head. "I like it. When do we get started?"
I'll try to explain. Medusa's Muse is that problem that immobilizes you. Your greatest fear, your most painful defeat, crashing into your life and making you fall. You don't know how you're going to deal with it, but somehow, despite the grief or rage, you find a way. And not only do you handle it, but you transform it. The event or person which almost destroyed you becomes the defining moment in your life and tells you who you are. You looked Medusa square in the eye and she blinked. You weren't turned to stone, not completely. Maybe parts of you were immobilized for a brief time, but your heart never stopped beating. That's the secret of Medusa. If you look her directly in her eyes, she will be the one to falter. The stories say you will die, but the heroes who do are the ones too afraid to meet the monster's gaze. They looked into her face, too afraid to look into her eyes, so they perished. Lock eyes with her. She'll startle, and blink, and then you'll be free. Not only free, but powerful.
I want to publish stories about people who faced their demons and survived. Not sensational murder and mayhem stories, but stories about real people who are able to transform pain and defeat into something joyful, and in so doing, change the world for the better.
My Muse kisses the top of my head. "I like it. When do we get started?"
Sunday, January 21, 2007
I am a Publisher
I'm actually doing it. Calling myself a publisher. How daring! How arrogant, even. Me, a publisher? Publishers are those elusive people who breath life into your manuscript and make it sing into the world, bright and shining. They hold the key to bringing you validation as a writer. I am not one of those people. Or am I?
The more I read the more I understand that the literary world is not owned by Random House. Publishers are people. And in this day of computers and the Internet, it is possible to publish a book yourself. Not easy... but possible.
I filed my domain name, calling my press, what else... Medusa's Muse. I'm setting up shop in my bedroom with my computer and several books on publishing, plus spending hours on the Internet researching and reading about other small presses. And I've been pondering what kind of publisher I want to be. What kind of books do I want to bring to life?
I am now seeking a book to publish, deciding not to publish my own. I write fiction and I can't publish fiction right now. As a fledgling, start up, one woman press, I have to find books that can pay for themselves. I know I won't get rich doing this, but I have to be able to pay the printing bill, so for the time being, I'm staying away from fiction. Someday I hope Medusa will be stable enough to support fiction.
My muse is extremely happy, so much so she's returned to being female. "It was fun being a boy," she says. "But we have a bigger challenge now." She gathers up her snakes from the corners of my room and they slither back into her glittering hair, contained. For now. She likes it when I listen to her.
Okay, maybe this time she was right.
The more I read the more I understand that the literary world is not owned by Random House. Publishers are people. And in this day of computers and the Internet, it is possible to publish a book yourself. Not easy... but possible.
I filed my domain name, calling my press, what else... Medusa's Muse. I'm setting up shop in my bedroom with my computer and several books on publishing, plus spending hours on the Internet researching and reading about other small presses. And I've been pondering what kind of publisher I want to be. What kind of books do I want to bring to life?
I am now seeking a book to publish, deciding not to publish my own. I write fiction and I can't publish fiction right now. As a fledgling, start up, one woman press, I have to find books that can pay for themselves. I know I won't get rich doing this, but I have to be able to pay the printing bill, so for the time being, I'm staying away from fiction. Someday I hope Medusa will be stable enough to support fiction.
My muse is extremely happy, so much so she's returned to being female. "It was fun being a boy," she says. "But we have a bigger challenge now." She gathers up her snakes from the corners of my room and they slither back into her glittering hair, contained. For now. She likes it when I listen to her.
Okay, maybe this time she was right.
Thursday, December 14, 2006
When Muses get bored
Lately I've been hearing whispers from my Muse, gentle pushes toward one thought: Create a small press. I laugh and shrug them off, but the idea won't leave me alone. It has wrapped itself around my ankles like the snakes my Muse set loose in my room, compelling me to pick up a book and read about small presses. Peruse the Internet for blogs about publishing and web-sites of small press organizations. Just checking things out, I say. I'm not serious. It's always good to learn new things. My Muse smiles and coaxes another snake to climb up my spine. Come on, what's stopping you? Afraid? No, practical. Publishing is a whole art in itself and I am but a poor writer who can't get published. Sounds like desperation to me. But the thought won't leave me alone. My Muse is surprisingly tender, encouraging me to learn more. I'm not saying you should publish your own work. I honestly think you would be an excellent publisher. Now I know he's up to something because my Muse is never this nice to me.
I find him lounging on my bed reading a book.
"Why do you suddenly want to be a publisher?"
He slowly closes his novel and looks at me with sleepy eyes, "Because you're wasting your talents."
"Wasting? I'm a writer! A good writer! I'm wasting nothing!"
"I didn't say you weren't a good a writer. I said you have other talents which are going to waste." He rolled off my bed gracefully and stood close to me. "You're better at editing and helping people tell a story than you realize. You're also organized, intelligent, and love a good challenge. What's more challenging than opening a small press?"
"Climbing Everest while blind-folded."
"Exactly." He leaned over, picked up a snake, and wrapped it around my shoulders like a shawl. "Think of the possibilities."
"You know, you're not really Viggo. You just look like him."
"I know."
"Just because he has a press doesn't mean you should have one too."
"I know."
"You're being too nice to me. What are you up to?"
Grinning, He tapped my cheek with one long fingernail. "I'm encouraging you. Isn't that what you want?"
"Yes, but you're never encouraging."
"Time for a change." He walked slowly out the bedroom door and called to me, "Yes. It is time for a change."
The snake wrapped itself around my left arm. I stroked it softly and began to wonder again. What if?
I find him lounging on my bed reading a book.
"Why do you suddenly want to be a publisher?"
He slowly closes his novel and looks at me with sleepy eyes, "Because you're wasting your talents."
"Wasting? I'm a writer! A good writer! I'm wasting nothing!"
"I didn't say you weren't a good a writer. I said you have other talents which are going to waste." He rolled off my bed gracefully and stood close to me. "You're better at editing and helping people tell a story than you realize. You're also organized, intelligent, and love a good challenge. What's more challenging than opening a small press?"
"Climbing Everest while blind-folded."
"Exactly." He leaned over, picked up a snake, and wrapped it around my shoulders like a shawl. "Think of the possibilities."
"You know, you're not really Viggo. You just look like him."
"I know."
"Just because he has a press doesn't mean you should have one too."
"I know."
"You're being too nice to me. What are you up to?"
Grinning, He tapped my cheek with one long fingernail. "I'm encouraging you. Isn't that what you want?"
"Yes, but you're never encouraging."
"Time for a change." He walked slowly out the bedroom door and called to me, "Yes. It is time for a change."
The snake wrapped itself around my left arm. I stroked it softly and began to wonder again. What if?
Friday, October 13, 2006
After the panic
We finished the play and it's not bad. Could use more polish and I hate the end, but overall it's a good start and I get to turn something in to my class. But as I was writing, I had a one of those frightening thoughts that make your skin tighten and tingle.
I hit "print." My muse, who was leaning over my shoulder to watch, smiled, stood up tall and stretched lazily with his arms over his head. I kept staring at my lap top screen, feeling colder by the second.
"What happened to the snakes?"
He slowly stepped beside me and leaned against the desk to see my face. "Snakes?"
"The ones that were in your hair?"
My muse nodded while he stared at the screen. One finger tapped the desk top. Then silence. I waited.
"They're in your room," he said.
I hit "print." My muse, who was leaning over my shoulder to watch, smiled, stood up tall and stretched lazily with his arms over his head. I kept staring at my lap top screen, feeling colder by the second.
"What happened to the snakes?"
He slowly stepped beside me and leaned against the desk to see my face. "Snakes?"
"The ones that were in your hair?"
My muse nodded while he stared at the screen. One finger tapped the desk top. Then silence. I waited.
"They're in your room," he said.
Monday, October 09, 2006
Panic Play
I ran into the back yard and screamed at my muse,"Quick! I have to write a ten minute play and it's due in two days." Then I stopped and stared. My muse sat in the same lawn chair she'd been glued to for the past two months gulping down red wine and smoking so many cigarettes the butts were piled around her like sand dunes. She looked up at me and blinked, her eyes shining dully out of her blackened, sunburned face.
"Oh my God." I whispered.
"What?" she croaked. Her lips cracked and she glared at me.
"Um, nothing. Just... how long have you been out here?"
"How long have you been wasting time surfing the internet and watching 'Rosanne' re-runs?"
She lit another cigarette and the flame from it's tip glowed so hot I was afraid she would combust. Her entire body was blackened and creased, as if she'd dipped herself into hot mud. She really did look like a burnt marshmallow. There is no better way to describe her.
"Yeah, right." I walked toward her, forcing bravery. "Anyway. I have to write a play and I need your help."
"What kind of play?"
"I don't know yet. That's why I need you."
She stretched slowly and I cringed as tiny particles of her skin sluffed off. "So now you need me."
I glanced at the hose. Maybe spraying her with water would help keep her from bursting into flame?
She put out her cigarette against the lawn chair. "When's it due?"
"Friday."
"This Friday?"
"Yeah."
She suddenly jumped up and a large piece of skin from her thigh peeled off like tissue paper. "That's two days away!"
"I know. That's what I said. So I was wondering..."
"Why'd you wait so long?"
"I lost track of time."
"That's ridiculous! You never would have allowed this to happen before! I can't believe you've waited until the last minute!" She quickly peeled off more skin as she talked. "Is your lap top ready?"
"Yeah. The battery's charged and I started the program."
"Excellent. You know how I hate to wait for the technology." Rubbing her skin hard with her hands, she said, "Stand back."
I almost jumped back onto the deck as she began to rub and shake furiously, letting pieces of dried, black skin fly all around her until the flakes were as high as her ankles. She leaned over and rubbed her hair until it too fell on the lawn. When she stood, I was even more amazed than when I first came outside. Standing in front of me, glowing pink and nude, was Viggo Mortenson.
"Wow," I whispered. "What happened?"
My muse shrugged. "I haven't been a man in a while. I figured it was time."
"Why Viggo?"
"You like him don't you?" He smiled slowly and I blushed.
"Yeah. Sure. He's cool."
My muse walked toward me, his eyes penetrating mine. "And he's mulit-talented. He can act, sing, write and paint. He's politically active and doesn't take crap from anyone. So he's perfect for me. Don't you think?"
I felt frightened by the sheer power of my naked, Viggo Mortenson muse. This was going to be hard to emulate. "You look great."
He smiled. "Yeah. I do. I like being a boy." He scratched his balls.
I held up a hand. "That's enough. Get some clothes on. There's only so much boy I can take."
"Lead the way." As we walked back into the house, he said, "What's this play about."
"I have no idea."
"Let me get some pants on and we'll see what I come up with. It's a good thing you have me. Do we have anymore wine?"
"Oh my God." I whispered.
"What?" she croaked. Her lips cracked and she glared at me.
"Um, nothing. Just... how long have you been out here?"
"How long have you been wasting time surfing the internet and watching 'Rosanne' re-runs?"
She lit another cigarette and the flame from it's tip glowed so hot I was afraid she would combust. Her entire body was blackened and creased, as if she'd dipped herself into hot mud. She really did look like a burnt marshmallow. There is no better way to describe her.
"Yeah, right." I walked toward her, forcing bravery. "Anyway. I have to write a play and I need your help."
"What kind of play?"
"I don't know yet. That's why I need you."
She stretched slowly and I cringed as tiny particles of her skin sluffed off. "So now you need me."
I glanced at the hose. Maybe spraying her with water would help keep her from bursting into flame?
She put out her cigarette against the lawn chair. "When's it due?"
"Friday."
"This Friday?"
"Yeah."
She suddenly jumped up and a large piece of skin from her thigh peeled off like tissue paper. "That's two days away!"
"I know. That's what I said. So I was wondering..."
"Why'd you wait so long?"
"I lost track of time."
"That's ridiculous! You never would have allowed this to happen before! I can't believe you've waited until the last minute!" She quickly peeled off more skin as she talked. "Is your lap top ready?"
"Yeah. The battery's charged and I started the program."
"Excellent. You know how I hate to wait for the technology." Rubbing her skin hard with her hands, she said, "Stand back."
I almost jumped back onto the deck as she began to rub and shake furiously, letting pieces of dried, black skin fly all around her until the flakes were as high as her ankles. She leaned over and rubbed her hair until it too fell on the lawn. When she stood, I was even more amazed than when I first came outside. Standing in front of me, glowing pink and nude, was Viggo Mortenson.
"Wow," I whispered. "What happened?"
My muse shrugged. "I haven't been a man in a while. I figured it was time."
"Why Viggo?"
"You like him don't you?" He smiled slowly and I blushed.
"Yeah. Sure. He's cool."
My muse walked toward me, his eyes penetrating mine. "And he's mulit-talented. He can act, sing, write and paint. He's politically active and doesn't take crap from anyone. So he's perfect for me. Don't you think?"
I felt frightened by the sheer power of my naked, Viggo Mortenson muse. This was going to be hard to emulate. "You look great."
He smiled. "Yeah. I do. I like being a boy." He scratched his balls.
I held up a hand. "That's enough. Get some clothes on. There's only so much boy I can take."
"Lead the way." As we walked back into the house, he said, "What's this play about."
"I have no idea."
"Let me get some pants on and we'll see what I come up with. It's a good thing you have me. Do we have anymore wine?"
Sunday, August 13, 2006
A Real Job
I went out and got a real job. I leave my home wearing clean pants and go somewhere specific, where I sit at a desk with a computer and do work that other people tell me to do. For doing this, they give me money. This is called a "real job." It has a schedule. A paycheck. Duties. It does not involve talking to imaginary people to create stories, nor does it include my muse. Since I've been working this job, she's been home drinking wine in the back yard. All that sitting around is making her lazy and sunburned. I'm a little worried about her. I'm a little worried about me. After work, my brain is too tired to create anything, so I lounge on the couch with a peanut butter sandwich and watch TV. I need the job. No, I need the paycheck. I need to keep the electricity turned on and unfortunately, the agent said no.
She was very nice about it. She scribbled a handwritten note at the bottom of the agency's "Dear Author..." form letter and told me she enjoyed reading my book but had to pass. She also told me not to give up because the field is "so subjective" and the next agent I send it to will probably snatch it up. My muse was very quiet. Instead of saying "I told you so," she went to the refrigerator, pulled out the bottle of Savignon Blanc kept there for emergencies, poured us both a glass, then walked outside to sun-bathe in the nude. She's been there ever sense.
I went outside and got a job. I'm not giving up, I'm simply trying to pay the bills. The hope that I would sell my book and therefore earn some money to keep writing vanished, at least this year. Until it sells, I need to work at a real job for real money. My muse demands wine, but refuses sunscreen.
She was very nice about it. She scribbled a handwritten note at the bottom of the agency's "Dear Author..." form letter and told me she enjoyed reading my book but had to pass. She also told me not to give up because the field is "so subjective" and the next agent I send it to will probably snatch it up. My muse was very quiet. Instead of saying "I told you so," she went to the refrigerator, pulled out the bottle of Savignon Blanc kept there for emergencies, poured us both a glass, then walked outside to sun-bathe in the nude. She's been there ever sense.
I went outside and got a job. I'm not giving up, I'm simply trying to pay the bills. The hope that I would sell my book and therefore earn some money to keep writing vanished, at least this year. Until it sells, I need to work at a real job for real money. My muse demands wine, but refuses sunscreen.
Friday, July 08, 2005
Medusa
Right now, Medusa is looking over my shoulder and laughing at me. Every letter I string together makes her giggle and when I come to the end of a sentence, she rolls her eyes and sighs deeply, as if she is ashamed of me. I hear her say, "That is the stupidest thing I've ever read. Who on Earth is going to read that?" I could stop typing and insist she's wrong, but I know it's pointless to argue. She'll just keep laughing and I'll lose my train of thought. There's no winning with her, especially because if I meet her eyes, I'll be frozen.
She looks like Angelina Jolie, with perfect skin and a mouth that makes people pucker, but her dark hair is filled with snakes. They hiss and slither, spitting with their fangs drawn. When she leans against me for a better look, I feel the snakes cold skin shiver against my neck. They are waiting for the moment I stare at her directly, because that's when they're allowed to bite me. They like frozen blood.
I keep writing. As long as I keep writing, she is powerless. All she can do is mock and tease, threaten and laugh, but nothing else. Even her snakes can only lick me with their eager tongues. I don't want to give her the satisfaction of making me doubt myself, so I move my fingers across the key board in a desperate attempt to get the words out before her voice gets too loud and I become lost in fear. The urge to create is greater than my fear of failure. She knows this. That's why she tries so hard.
I think she secretly likes me, but she'd never admit that. It's her job to make me doubt myself and quite writing, but the fact that we've been playing this game for twenty years without rest has made her respect me. No matter what, no matter how many more snakes she adds to her collection or what vision of perfection she morfs into (five years ago she looked like Uma Thurman), I haven't stopped writing. She's wounded me a few times, though. I used to argue, and now and then I'd turn around to challenge her and would instantly be turned to stone. It would take weeks to get the feeling back into my hands and heal from all the snake bites, but I would heal, and I would write again. Now days, she's more of an annoyance.
Except right now. I've written my novel, and she's just finished reading it. Her laughter is the only thing audible. "Do you really think the agent is going to take this piece of pooh?" I keep my eyes averted, put the novel in a box, write the agent's name and address on it, and walk out of the room. She yells, "I'll bet you ten bucks you don't mail it." I feel the weight of those 315 pages in my arms and long to turn around and fling it at her. Maybe I could take out a few snakes. But I won't take the bait. I'm smarter now. I smile and say, "Where'd I leave my car keys?"
She looks like Angelina Jolie, with perfect skin and a mouth that makes people pucker, but her dark hair is filled with snakes. They hiss and slither, spitting with their fangs drawn. When she leans against me for a better look, I feel the snakes cold skin shiver against my neck. They are waiting for the moment I stare at her directly, because that's when they're allowed to bite me. They like frozen blood.
I keep writing. As long as I keep writing, she is powerless. All she can do is mock and tease, threaten and laugh, but nothing else. Even her snakes can only lick me with their eager tongues. I don't want to give her the satisfaction of making me doubt myself, so I move my fingers across the key board in a desperate attempt to get the words out before her voice gets too loud and I become lost in fear. The urge to create is greater than my fear of failure. She knows this. That's why she tries so hard.
I think she secretly likes me, but she'd never admit that. It's her job to make me doubt myself and quite writing, but the fact that we've been playing this game for twenty years without rest has made her respect me. No matter what, no matter how many more snakes she adds to her collection or what vision of perfection she morfs into (five years ago she looked like Uma Thurman), I haven't stopped writing. She's wounded me a few times, though. I used to argue, and now and then I'd turn around to challenge her and would instantly be turned to stone. It would take weeks to get the feeling back into my hands and heal from all the snake bites, but I would heal, and I would write again. Now days, she's more of an annoyance.
Except right now. I've written my novel, and she's just finished reading it. Her laughter is the only thing audible. "Do you really think the agent is going to take this piece of pooh?" I keep my eyes averted, put the novel in a box, write the agent's name and address on it, and walk out of the room. She yells, "I'll bet you ten bucks you don't mail it." I feel the weight of those 315 pages in my arms and long to turn around and fling it at her. Maybe I could take out a few snakes. But I won't take the bait. I'm smarter now. I smile and say, "Where'd I leave my car keys?"
Monday, June 20, 2005
Polish
Here it is. My novel. All written. Complete with characters, a plot, sub-plot, climax, a point, numbered pages and half decent prose. It's all here, everything I need to tell this story. Now to make it shine.
Every time I hold this 330 page monster and feel the weight of all those pages, my heart starts pounding and I feel dizzy. Polish. That's all I need to do. After reading it, a friend told me to "polish and send." Right. Polish. I can do that. If my hands would stop sweating I could actually try typing. What does Anne Lamott say? "Bird by Bird." I pick up page one, stare at the opening line, and smile, because it's good. Then I read the whole paragraph. Not bad. This novel could be good. I plow on, finish page one with only a couple of minor adjustments, and begin to feel better. I focus on page two, and my heart starts pounding even louder because I wrote the wrong "there." It should be "their." I know that's not right! I know the proper use of "there," "their," and "they're," so how could I make such a ridiculous mistake? An amateur mistake. I try to breath and fix the problem, but every page shows me more: commas where there should be periods, "your" instead of "you're," too many sentences beginning with "But...," or "Then...," and horrible verbs, like "pleaded," "snapped," and "soothed." I've obviously overdone this no adverbs thing. Panic makes my vision blur, and then that critic, the one who lives in my head and looks like Angelina Jolie, starts laughing and telling me what a terrible writer I am. "Who's going to read this?" she asks. "You can't even spell terrified. It doesn't have a 'y'."
I take a walk, because it's either that or weep. I wish I'd paid more attention in my high school English class, rather than doodling or flirting with the guy sitting at the desk across from me. I might have learned how to use a comma properly. How did I get a B.A. and not learn how to use an elipse? Come to think of it, I didn't know that's what those dots are called until a week ago.
I know how to tell a story. I don't know how to polish it. I've never done this before, and I'm feeling like a four legged animal trying to wrap a present with transparent tape, wishing for thumbs. I dread going back to my novel and striking out the unnecessery words and adding better sensory details. I can't do it. I can't think of a way to say "She was happy," in a stronger way. Or perhaps I'm being too hard on myself?
Bird by bird, page by page, that's the only way to get it done. I've come too far and given up too many movie dates to stop now. Besides, my characters would never forgive me. They'll keep me up all night demanding attention until this novel is complete.
I go back to my desk, decide it's okay to sweat and type at the same time, and turn to page 3.
Every time I hold this 330 page monster and feel the weight of all those pages, my heart starts pounding and I feel dizzy. Polish. That's all I need to do. After reading it, a friend told me to "polish and send." Right. Polish. I can do that. If my hands would stop sweating I could actually try typing. What does Anne Lamott say? "Bird by Bird." I pick up page one, stare at the opening line, and smile, because it's good. Then I read the whole paragraph. Not bad. This novel could be good. I plow on, finish page one with only a couple of minor adjustments, and begin to feel better. I focus on page two, and my heart starts pounding even louder because I wrote the wrong "there." It should be "their." I know that's not right! I know the proper use of "there," "their," and "they're," so how could I make such a ridiculous mistake? An amateur mistake. I try to breath and fix the problem, but every page shows me more: commas where there should be periods, "your" instead of "you're," too many sentences beginning with "But...," or "Then...," and horrible verbs, like "pleaded," "snapped," and "soothed." I've obviously overdone this no adverbs thing. Panic makes my vision blur, and then that critic, the one who lives in my head and looks like Angelina Jolie, starts laughing and telling me what a terrible writer I am. "Who's going to read this?" she asks. "You can't even spell terrified. It doesn't have a 'y'."
I take a walk, because it's either that or weep. I wish I'd paid more attention in my high school English class, rather than doodling or flirting with the guy sitting at the desk across from me. I might have learned how to use a comma properly. How did I get a B.A. and not learn how to use an elipse? Come to think of it, I didn't know that's what those dots are called until a week ago.
I know how to tell a story. I don't know how to polish it. I've never done this before, and I'm feeling like a four legged animal trying to wrap a present with transparent tape, wishing for thumbs. I dread going back to my novel and striking out the unnecessery words and adding better sensory details. I can't do it. I can't think of a way to say "She was happy," in a stronger way. Or perhaps I'm being too hard on myself?
Bird by bird, page by page, that's the only way to get it done. I've come too far and given up too many movie dates to stop now. Besides, my characters would never forgive me. They'll keep me up all night demanding attention until this novel is complete.
I go back to my desk, decide it's okay to sweat and type at the same time, and turn to page 3.
Sunday, May 22, 2005
Adverbs
I'm close to finishing my novel, which means I'm having panic attacks every time I look at the pages and doubting my ability to craft a decent sentence. Obviously I can't spell, I forget the rules for comma's, and my characters speak a stilted, forced, uptight language with lots of exclamation points. What's a girl to do? I pick up my thesaurus and hunt for similies.
quietly: silently, soundlessly, noiselessly, inaudibly, softly, peacefully, serenely, calmly, tranquilly.
quickly: rapidly, swiftly, speedily.
sadly: unhappily, lamentably,regrettably, deplorably.
Before long my novel is filled with adverbs and my characters are saying their speeches "wearily," "happily," "angrily," and with a lot of flaring nostrils and raised eyebrows. I'm picking up speed as I revise, and the edited pages are flying by. I'm feeling like a pro, like maybe I know what I'm doing, like maybe I just might get this novel done and it will be great and I'll win a prize and get a fat advance. Advance... That sounds a lot like... Adverb.
Horror stricken (there's a great cliche), I look at all the pages covered in blue ink and realize I've just broken one of the gospel rules of writing. No adverbs. Great! There's the proof. I'm an amateur. I am a terrible writer and will never sell my book, never even finish it, and that's probably a good thing, because no one should read this piece of pooh anyway. I walk away from my desk, crying and longing for a cigarette (I stopped smoking 9 years ago).
What's the big deal with adverbs anyway? Don't people walk "quickly" or "rapidly" sometimes? Wouldn't a character say her lines "wearily"? Why aren't' we allowed a few short cuts. I mean really, what can it hurt? It sure picks up the pace, and no one wants to write a book that lags. I should just keep writing and not worry about it. I'm sure lots of writers use adverbs. I'll bet Anne Lamott and Alice Hoffman use them all the time.
No they don't, and they write excellently (there's another one!). So what do I want to do, write, or write my best?
I go back to my desk and pick up the pen, ignoring the pages I've already worked on. I'll get to those later. I'll keep moving forward, tweaking the language and avoiding adverbs like the plague (cliche). When I'm done, I'll start over at page one and keep working the language until it sings. (is that a cliche?) While I'm at it, I'll cut cliches and the thousand exclamation points I love to use because they make the dialogue flow by forcefully. Ugh! Another one... No adverbs, no cliches, no boring adjectives. If I stick with it, maybe the whole thing will turn out alright. Maybe I'll finish this novel.
If not, there's always lion taming.
quietly: silently, soundlessly, noiselessly, inaudibly, softly, peacefully, serenely, calmly, tranquilly.
quickly: rapidly, swiftly, speedily.
sadly: unhappily, lamentably,regrettably, deplorably.
Before long my novel is filled with adverbs and my characters are saying their speeches "wearily," "happily," "angrily," and with a lot of flaring nostrils and raised eyebrows. I'm picking up speed as I revise, and the edited pages are flying by. I'm feeling like a pro, like maybe I know what I'm doing, like maybe I just might get this novel done and it will be great and I'll win a prize and get a fat advance. Advance... That sounds a lot like... Adverb.
Horror stricken (there's a great cliche), I look at all the pages covered in blue ink and realize I've just broken one of the gospel rules of writing. No adverbs. Great! There's the proof. I'm an amateur. I am a terrible writer and will never sell my book, never even finish it, and that's probably a good thing, because no one should read this piece of pooh anyway. I walk away from my desk, crying and longing for a cigarette (I stopped smoking 9 years ago).
What's the big deal with adverbs anyway? Don't people walk "quickly" or "rapidly" sometimes? Wouldn't a character say her lines "wearily"? Why aren't' we allowed a few short cuts. I mean really, what can it hurt? It sure picks up the pace, and no one wants to write a book that lags. I should just keep writing and not worry about it. I'm sure lots of writers use adverbs. I'll bet Anne Lamott and Alice Hoffman use them all the time.
No they don't, and they write excellently (there's another one!). So what do I want to do, write, or write my best?
I go back to my desk and pick up the pen, ignoring the pages I've already worked on. I'll get to those later. I'll keep moving forward, tweaking the language and avoiding adverbs like the plague (cliche). When I'm done, I'll start over at page one and keep working the language until it sings. (is that a cliche?) While I'm at it, I'll cut cliches and the thousand exclamation points I love to use because they make the dialogue flow by forcefully. Ugh! Another one... No adverbs, no cliches, no boring adjectives. If I stick with it, maybe the whole thing will turn out alright. Maybe I'll finish this novel.
If not, there's always lion taming.
Sunday, April 03, 2005
Writing a Monster
First you dig up the body; the past, the skeletons in the closet, the buried truths, all those stories and overheard conversations you've been waiting to use. Then you put the pieces into some kind of order by writing a rough draft. Next, you pump it full of energy, electricity, hope and terror, until it begins to breath. This is the first, second and third drafts. Once your monster is moving, you get it under control quickly, before it tears up all the paper in the house and destroys your lap top. Only then can you teach it to speak. That's the final draft.
There will always be problems. Editors may demand your monster learn to dance so you'll need to spend hours in the studio forcing it to waltz in steel toed boots. Or maybe the publisher really wanted a translucent, blond female and you've built a giant, drooling male with bad body odor. Your agent may love the monster, but thinks it would do better in a red suit rather than the black one you found, so you will have to strip him down, which he won't like, and force the new suit on. Be careful not to tear it.
When at last your monster is released into the world, will it be met with applause, or pitchforks and torches? Will it be happy on its own, or return to its master, beaten and desperate. Perhaps it will come home angry and try to kill you, its creator. Maybe the Monster will ask you for a bride and you'll have to go back to the graveyard and dig up more bodies to write about. Because once you build one monster, you usually wind up with a whole family of them, living in you cellar, demanding attention.
Here's my monster.
There will always be problems. Editors may demand your monster learn to dance so you'll need to spend hours in the studio forcing it to waltz in steel toed boots. Or maybe the publisher really wanted a translucent, blond female and you've built a giant, drooling male with bad body odor. Your agent may love the monster, but thinks it would do better in a red suit rather than the black one you found, so you will have to strip him down, which he won't like, and force the new suit on. Be careful not to tear it.
When at last your monster is released into the world, will it be met with applause, or pitchforks and torches? Will it be happy on its own, or return to its master, beaten and desperate. Perhaps it will come home angry and try to kill you, its creator. Maybe the Monster will ask you for a bride and you'll have to go back to the graveyard and dig up more bodies to write about. Because once you build one monster, you usually wind up with a whole family of them, living in you cellar, demanding attention.
Here's my monster.
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