Happy Halloween, from Medusa

Medusa pumpkin carved by Ray Villafane. See more of his creations at http://www.telegraph.co.uk/news/picturegalleries/howaboutthat/8087634/Bizarre-Halloween-Jack-OLantern-pumpkins-carved-by-Ray-Villafane.html?image=4

Coffee with my muse

"It's about time!" my muse says when she sees me sitting at the kitchen table typing away at my lap top.

"Hmmmm...." I mumble, still fixated on the screen.

She picks up my Wonder Woman coffee cup. "You're writing again."

"Trying to..." My voice shows how annoyed I'm feeling, but as usual she doesn't seem to care.

"Your coffee's cold." She takes a sip. "And you didn't put enough cream in it. You know I like a lot of milk in my coffee."

I stop typing and look at her. "Who's coffee?"

"You need a warm up." She crosses the room to the black and gray pot half filled with dark, strong coffee and pours some into my mug. Then she opens the carton of milk I left on the counter and fills the mug to the rim. Sipping, she sighs. "Perfect."

"Who's coffee?" I ask again.

Sitting at the table beside me, she drinks deeply and then nods at my lap top. "What are you working on?"

"The kids book."

"Good. I'm very excited about this project. It's a great subject."

"I'm glad you approve."

"I do. And then what?"

"Once this is done I need to finish editing the new manuscript for the press."

"Wonderful! And then?"

"I finish my play."

"Excellent. I can't wait to read it. And after that?"

"I finish my coffee." I take the mug out of her hands and hold it tightly.

She raises an eyebrow at me. "Touchy."

"Did you need something?"

"Just seeing what you're doing."

"I'm writing. Isn't that what you wanted me to do?"

"Yes. But I'm making certain you're really writing and not just commenting on Facebook."

"Facebook can be very stimulating."

"True, but it's not writing." She taps my laptop. "This is." Rising from her seat she smiles at me. "Carry on."

I set my mug on the table and start typing again, but I've lost my train of thought so I have to pause for a moment. Reaching for my mug, I realize it's gone.

Bitch

Introducing the newest Medusa's Muse author

Right now I am preparing to edit a brand new manuscript from a brand new Medusa's Muse author. This is why I created a book publishing company: discovering new authors and fresh voices with a passionate story to tell. I've got my reading glasses on, my lap-top battery fully charged, a fresh cup of coffee, the manuscript opened in Word and "track changes" turned to "on." My muse is eagerly peering over my shoulder watching as I type notes inside the pages on my screen. Eventually she'll get a little bored; she finds editing tedious. But for now, she's just as fixated on this brand new Medusa's Muse book as I am.

The writer is Shannon Drury, author of The Radical Housewife. Click the link to explore her blog and get a taste of her writing. She's fabulous. A feminist housewife and mother living in Minnesota, and president of the Minnesota chapter of the National Organization for Women (NOW). Her story is exactly the type I look for. It's honest, funny, passionate, and the author doesn't quiet fit within any category. If she's a housewife, how can she call herself a feminist? She gets criticism from both conservatives and liberals, which means she's perfect for my Muse.

Of course, I'll get a lot more editing done if my daughter would leave me alone for more than 10 minutes at a time. 

Depressed? Enter a Drag King contest.

It was time to do something drastic. I've been living with depression for months and have had trouble writing even the simplest sentence. My press is languishing, despite the fact I've signed a new author, and my Muse is so bored she's threatening to move to Mongolia just for something to do. So I entered a Drag King contest.

The event was hosted by our local chapter of PRIDE to raise money for their community grants program. The theme was "Marie Antoinette" and the hosts of the event wore elaborate 17th century French gowns with oversized powdered wigs. The stage manager wore a man's suit in the same style, complete with powdered wig and powdered face. The audience came in costume, some inspired by the theme and others simply celebrating Halloween. My husband wore a kilt and Valkyrie outfit, torpedo boobs, braids, horned helmet and all. I wore a blue velvet frock coat with lace cuffs and my shiny black boots, my hair slicked back. And then I drew a mustache and goatee using a .99 Wet and Wild eyeliner pencil. With my little round glasses I felt more "Sergeant Pepper" than French Revolution.

I performed to Depeche Mode's "Martyr" which gave me lots of opportunity to interact with the audience. Kind of sexy, very danceable, the song is all about giving yourself completely to love, even if it destroys you.

"I've been a martyr for love

And I will die in the flames

As I draw my last breath

As I close in on death

I will call out your name"

So much drama to work with! It was great. The audience cheered and waived dollar bills at me, tucked them in my boots and down my shirt, swooned when I knelt at the feet of one woman, laughed when I used my mic as a... lets just say prop. I had so much fun lip syncing and dancing it was hard not to leap on tables (they were plastic. it would have been a bad way to end my routine).

Judging was done by audience cheers, and the cheers were split between me and another woman in drag. Because it was so close, we had a dance off. I was already winded from my performance, now I had to dance one-on-one with a 24 year old girl who could dance circles around my tired 44 year old ass. I just leapt all in, acting cocky and sexy and wild.

And I won.

My Muse has agreed to stick around just in case I do something this much fun again.

And now I can't wait to get back to work on my play.

And start editing this new manuscript.

And blog more.

Yes, dancing in drag has definitely fired up my creativity. 

The futility of art

Zine Fest was... in the words of a regular vendor, dead. The building was packed with tables and people trying to get a little attention for their artwork and zines. Teenagers stood next to stacks of hand-stapled zines full of angst ridden ink drawings. More polished and professional comic books with vibrant colors and bizarre characters competed with glossy photo books. A young woman was giving away her zine, "Shards of Glass in my Eye," for trade or a compliment. A few authors tried hard to sell their self-published books, but were mostly lost in the clutter of Anime tchotchke and hand-made jewelry. We were there, sitting at a table with Medusa's Muse books and a mannequin wearing a "Punk Rock Saved My Ass" t-shirt.  Charles Gatewood shared some of our table, and beside him was V. Vale of Re/Search, our usual table mates from the previous two book events.

I walked the hall once to see who all was there and what they were selling, and I was really impressed with the quality of the zines, even the ones so obviously hand-made. The amount of talent and dedication was incredible, and at the same time, overwhelming. At every table sat yet another eager artist with a brilliant idea, trying hard to meet my eyes, hoping I'd buy one of their creations. It was too much. After 30 minutes of wandering I practically ran back to my own table to hide, unable to look at one more beautifully drawn image. They're all so desperate. Do I look like that, sitting here at my table watching the few visitors walk by? Are they thinking the same thing I did? Oh no, another artist looking for validation.

Despite the long hours, hard work, costs and sometimes sleepless nights, we keep creating. We all have ruthless muses who demand blood sacrifice, and only a finished page or completed painting will appease them. And even though occasionally we all end up sitting behind tables at festivals trying to sell something we made, while being intimidated by the guy next to us who made something so amazing we feel like hacks, we keep trying. Which is a good thing.

What's my point? I guess I'm just acknowledging the futility we artists are forced to live with. We create something we're passionate about, send it into the world, and are then crushed by the deafening silence from others. Half the time, nobody gives a shit. The other half of the time, people find it good but only three of those will actually pay you for your work. No wonder writers tend to drink.

Stare futility in the eye and tell it to piss off!

You're an artist; if no one buys your book at a crummy little book fair, so what?

And if a half-wit publisher like me sends you a rejection letter, do what Henry Miller did and hang it on your bathroom wall as backup toilet paper. Or was that Hunter S Thompson?

Futility is the vampire of creativity. Sharpen your stake to scare it off.

And keep working.

No more submissions accepted in the Summer

That's going to be the new policy here at Medusa's Muse: no submissions accepted during the Summer months, from June until September. I received four queries this summer, of which I declined two. I requested the other two send me their complete manuscript, and I am STILL trying to finish them. Those poor authors have been waiting 2 months. In the publishing world, that ain't long to have to wait for a decision. I once had to wait 7 months for an agent's response after I sent her my complete manuscript. 7 months of checking the mail like there might be a magic spell on the box; could create good things, could be a bomb. After all that time, she complimented my writing, but turned down the book. Talk about a kick in the gut.

Because I know what it's like to have to wait for a response from an agent or publisher, I try to respond to all queries within a month, but obviously that doesn't happen in the summer. When my daughter is out of school, book publishing comes to a screeching halt. Nothing else gets done around here either (you should see my yard... yikes). Rather then get frustrated or resentful, I've decided to cut back on the hours I devote to Medusa's Muse during the summer.

Summer is over now... or at least, summer vacation is over for my daughter... so here I am, back in the publishing chair. I've dusted off my lap-top, created a new to-do list (how the frell did it get so long?), ordered more books from the printer and some t-shirts from the designer. Zine Fest is next weekend and I'm eager to meet readers and sell some books. Maybe I'll find a new writer with a great story while I'm there.

Speaking of, I'm getting excited about the submission I'm reading now. Time to finish it and decide if this is something Medusa's Muse can publish. The writer is waiting.

Blog 2 Print

Blogger is advertising a service called, Blog 2 Print, with which you can turn your blog into an actual, bound book. Out of curiosity, I decided to give it a try.

You can choose which posts from your blog you'd like, or just choose all of them, including pictures, and then the program does the page layout and creates a numbered table of contents. I decided to publish the first year of my blog, which turned out to be about 30 pages in the book, for a cost of around $20.00. I designed the cover, then decided on the paperback version, rather than hardbound, to save money. I wanted to see the quality of their cheapest option.

Overall, I'm pleased with the results. The finished book looks like an 8" by 11" chapbook and the paper quality is great. The images are true and crisp. It's nice having a bound version of my blog to read and see the progression over time of my posts and events, much easier than clicking on "older posts." I think this could be a really nice option for people who have a blog for their poetry or artwork (there's a book option for blogs that are primarily images) and want to create a chapbook to show to possible editors. This isn't a cost effective option if you want to make a lot of books, though. $20.00 per book is a lot of money for a chapbook to sell to readers, but for gifts or to show off your blog at conferences, it's a great option.

There may be other options out there for a better price per unit, so I'll do some research. Do any of you know of other Blog 2 Book type services?

another reason to hate my muse

I let the kitchen door slam behind me as I walk outside into the heat. Squinting, I see my Muse lounging in a hammock in the sun, wearing a gold, string-bikini so small I wonder why she bothers.

"Will you give it a rest, for frell's sake!" I yell.

She lifts her oversized designer sunglasses from her eyes to stare at me. "What?"

"Stop giving me all these damn ideas! You know there's no way in hell I'll ever be able to write them down, let alone complete any of them!"

"So?"

"So? It's summertime! Queen Teen is out of school. I hardly have time to pee."

She shrugs and puts her sunglasses back on. "That's not my problem."

"Yes it is, so knock it off.  Stop sending me images of Art Deco living rooms and single-wide trailers and rainbows and Depression Era music and Johnny Depp impersonators and fan dancers and everything else you like to conjure while I'm busy taking care of my daughter and cleaning this house."

"Again, it's not my problem. I am supposed to send you those ideas. You are supposed to write them down. Whether or not you think you have time to do so is not a consideration."

"God, I really hate you sometimes!"

She smiles. "I know."

Summertime Writer's Blues

With just 37 hours to go the Amsterdam Project needs only $600 to make their goal and get their project off the ground. Please, support DIY and Medusa's Muse authors. Go to the Kickstarter page to make your pledge. If everyone just gave a buck, the Amsterdam Project would be green-lighted.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Today is July 18th, and I have written exactly 11 pages since June 20th. 11 frickin pages. My hand is healed enough to type for short periods of time, but my injury isn't what's stopping me from working on my play or my essays or my short stories or even my blog.

My daughter is out of school for the summer. There will be no writing.

I love my daughter, challenges and all. She has multiple-disabilities, including mobility problems and deaf-blindness, so typical summer activities like summer camp and swim team aren't options for us. She's also very bright, and hates the heat. I use all of my creative energy finding ways to keep her entertained in the house, but by mid-July we've run out of ideas. I'm sure I'm not the only parent feeling the pain of a house full of bored kids, even without contending with disabilities. And if you're a creative type like me, I'll bet your kids are watching a lot of movies and playing a lot of video games.

Stop feeling guilty and go write something.

Running

Lacing my fingers together, I straighten my arms forward, feeling the tightness in my fingers. There's a twinge in my right thumb still, but the swelling is down and the pain reduced to a slight ache. I release my fingers and wiggle them one by one. My right hand is weak from being encased in the brace for weeks. But I'm happy to see that I can type again, although it still feels awkward and I keep making mistakes. Tricky to type without using your thumbs.

Writing is a lot like running; the more time that passes between runs, the harder it is to get back into it. My brain feels as slow as my hands. What do I want to write about? Why has it become so difficult to write one paragraph? Remember when I could write several blog posts for both blogs in one sitting? That was a long time ago. Now I feel like I'm starting from the beginning again, learning how to form complete sentences and compact ideas.

----------------------------------------------------------

Not writing has given me plenty of time to plan new projects for Medusa's Muse, and I've received some interesting submissions, one that was down right excellent. I have also been rethinking one of my projects that has become a logistical nightmare, and I believe I've found a solution. It will still be tricky doing long distance interviews with elderly people who don't use the internet, but I'm passionate about this book, and with help from Rick, I can manage. It'll just take longer than I planned (doesn't it always?). Jane's anthology is progressing well and she's received quite a few well written pieces.  And the YA branch of Medusa's Muse has it's first manuscript in development, a novel being written by Rick and I. 

---------------------------------------------------------

Young Adult books, the hottest market in books right now. People complain that kids aren't reading, but they're wrong. It seems the only people reading these days are kids, especially teenaged girls. I have a lot of homework to do to understand the needs of this market, though, and luckily I have two friends who write for YA to help me. What do YA readers want from a book? Besides just the requirements of the general YA market, I need to understand the needs of YA readers who also have disabilities. For that, I need to find some young adult readers to provide feedback while a book is being written. I have a pretty good idea of what kids with disabilities deal with as they enter their teens from my experience with my daughter, but she's just one kid. I could use a few more kids to let me know what they want to read. 

-----------------------------------------------------------

My own writing has been slow, but I did finally finish my first full length play and submitted it to our local theatre company for a possible staged reading. It took three years of revisions to fix the ending, but at last it feels complete. Wish me luck.

Okay, that's enough typing for now. Don't want to over-do it on the first day. Again, like running, you have to pace yourself or you'll cramp up and have a set back. I don't want to be so sore tomorrow I can't write again. 

But before I sign off, do you have any good YA book recommendations?

Book Review - Reclaim Your Dreams

Because my hand injury has blessed me with more free time (trying to stay positive, people), I was finally able to read Reclaim Your Dreams, by Jonathan Mead. It's been sitting on my virtual reading stack for a year, ever since I asked him for a review copy. Creative people who are able to follow their artistic dreams and still keep a roof over their heads inspire me; it's the impetus behind the creation of Medusa's Muse.

Reclaim Your Dreams provides a simple, step-by-step, plan for discovering what your passion really is, and how to overcome the roadblocks that prevent you from living that passion. This concise ebook is full of practical advice and exercises to help you stay focused, written with a personable and entertaining voice. But this book doesn't just tell you to lose the fear and take the leap; it asks the hard questions too, like what are you willing to give up to live your dreams? What kind of lifestyle changes are you willing to make? What are your personal values?

What sets it apart from similar books on personal development is how concise it is. Jonathan Mead writes passionately about the subject, but doesn't wander off into long-winded personal stories or diatribe. He really does show how simple, and yet how difficult, changing your life can be. When I started reading, I would occasionally roll my eyes and think, "Yeah, right. But what about...?" As if reading my mind, in the very next section he would answer my question and ease my skepticism. He validated my trepidation about the process while also showing me that the process he created really can work.

This ebook is meant to be used as a tool, not just a book you read and forget. The formatting and links  make it easy to use and find the information you need. After you've read the ebook, you can keep it with you on your smart phone and read different sections and meditations to help you stay on track. And Jonathan Mead's website, Illuminated Mind, is filled with more tools and articles supporting the exercises in Reclaim Your Dreams. Plus, the author appears to be available for any questions and concerns the reader may have. He is passionate about helping others.

E-book available from the website.


Have a favorite book that keeps you inspired? let me know in the comments section.  

Swim in other people's words

"I've decided that you are far too exhausted to create anything right now," my Muse declares while she watches me struggle to type without the use of my right thumb.

"I'm okay. I'm getting used to this." I adjust the sling on my hand. "It just slows me down is all."

"I'm not talking about your hand, although that is the most apparent symptom of exhaustion."

"Really... I'm fine."

"Stop typing and look at me."

My hands freeze above my keyboard and I am suddenly aware of the acute throbbing in my thumb. Swiveling my chair around to face her, I pretend not to feel any pain. "What do you have to say?"

"You have that look in your eye, the same one I saw on Frida's face when she stopped sleeping because she couldn't stop painting."

"You were Frida Kahlo's muse?"

"No. I am friends with her muse and I visited from time to time. She's not the only one. Sometimes you artists push yourselves too far, as if you think you're going to run out of time to create something."

"You're the one constantly nagging me to keep writing."

She sighs. "It's true. I've pushed you too hard, I fear. I was simply trying to keep you writing despite the ridiculous amount of time you spent in graduate school."

"It wasn't ridiculous!"

"Let's not argue about that. You're missing the point." She holds out her arms to me and I stand, taking one of her hands in my good, left one. Leading me to the mirror, she says, "Look at yourself."

I see the dark circles under my eyes against my too white skin, the lank hair, the dry lips. I see the weariness in my dull eyes looking back at me in the mirror. Looking down, I see my right hand encased in a black brace, the swollen thumb isolated for protection. More than just my hand, I feel how much every muscle in my body aches from fatigue.

"What do I do?" I ask.

My muse smiles. "Rest."

"Not gonna happen. I'm a mom."

"Rest your mind. Don't worry so much about writing or revisions or deadlines. Swim in other people's words for a while and soak them up. Take in creativity, because your own energy reserves are on empty."

"But I have two pieces I have to write."

"Write them next week if you must, but don't start any new projects. You need time to refuel that vast pool of artistic energy you normally have. Anything you try to create right now will be utter crap, anyway. Plus, if you don't let your hand heal, you'll be in much worse pain and unable to write at all."

Looking back at my reflection, I murmur, "Swim in other people's writing..."

"Yes. Look at that stack of books you've been wanting to read." She nods her head toward the 30 books I have stacked in an uneven tower leaning against the end of my bed. "Read three of those before you even think about revising your play."

"But I have so little time and so many ideas..."

"Pooh! You have plenty of time. You're only 44. Why are you trying so hard to burn out before you're 50?" She leans her hands against my dresser and stares into the mirror, her eyes narrowing as she looks at me. "And lets not forget who gives you all those ideas. If you ignore my advice to rest, I won't help you with any of them."

"That's blackmail!"

"Call it what you like." She walks to the stack of books and picks up The Traveling Death and Resurrection Show. "Start with this."

I catch the book she tosses me.

This is gonna slow me down!

Ever tried writing without a thumb? Tricky!

The worst part is I don't remember hurting it. I have a terrible feeling it's related to my ongoing problem with tendinitis in that thumb, but it's never been this bad. My thumb is swollen and throbs from my nail to my palm. I've tried resting it but it's a little hard to do with my daughter who sometimes uses my thumb as a handle to support herself with (not my idea, but it seems to be the easiest thing to grab when she's falling). 

I'm taking this as a sign that I should read more and write less. I've got a stack of books and many blogs I've been wanting to read, so it's the perfect time to do so. Got a good blog I'd enjoy?  Leave a comment and let me know.

Graduation

I graduated from San Francisco State University last Saturday. I needed to put a great big metaphoric exclamation point on the end of my university experience, so I walked with 2000 other graduates dressed head to toe in purple. I sat in the blazing sun listening to speech after boring speech on a jumbo-tron because the actual speaker was too far away from me to see. The stupid cap kept sliding off the back of my head and the "hood" all masters candidates wear continued to choke me, despite my heavy ring of keys I'd attached under my robes to hold it off my neck. The only one in my O and M class who decided to walk, I felt a little lonely surrounded by large groups of celebrating students from other departments. But at last I got to walk to the podium,  get my bright purple envelope (they send the actual diploma in the Fall) and shake the hand of a University chancellor. For those sixty seconds, I was buoyant; I could have flown above the heads of every single person crammed into the stadium on the wings of my bright purple robes.

I finally feel done.

I've spent the week catching up on Medusa work, but mostly I've been sitting quietly thinking about the day I got my Masters Degree. Now and then that feeling of completion fills my body and I have to stop what I'm doing and look around at the world. Nothing has really changed... except me. I reached my goal. I am free.

There's nothing else to prove. No other challenges on the horizon. At least not today.

My muse is eager to put all that drive and energy into creativity again, but for now, I want to rest. I want to plant my garden and clean up my yard; read a book; watch old movies; dance; play princess dominoes with my daughter; cook; sit in the sun with a glass of wine; kiss my husband.

I want to live.

Don't worry, Muse. I've never been able to resist you for long. And besides, didn't I just write you a full length play last month? Give me a break for a few weeks. I promise, Medusa's Muse will prosper and thrive and my own writing will flourish. You'll see. 

"where" and "wear"... f**k!

Mother-F***er!!!! Did I really write "What should I where?" Argh!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Yes, I did write that. It was the title of a post for my other blog, Gravity Check, in which I was writing about my graduation from SFSU and wondering what to WEAR with a purple cap and gown. This isn't the first time I've written something so wrong, and I'm afraid it won't be the last.

I'm a publisher for frell's sake! I'm supposed to know better.

Occasionally I get a friendly email from Jane, or another friend who is a grammar girl, pointing out some mistake I made which (that?) would be completely obvious to any 4th grader, but slipped right past my editing consciousness. Each time I blush with shame, because it's always something really stupid, like mixing up "where" and "wear." Why the hell can't I see it in my own writing? I see it just fine in other people's writing, but not my own. Why am I so blind?

I realize it's because I don't actually see the words I'm writing; I'm writing down what I hear inside my head. I see the pictures I'm creating, not the words I'm writing. I do the same thing when I read. The book's scenes play in my mind in vivid technicolor, but I have no idea what is actually written. I can't remember quotes or facts or page numbers, I remember the smell of the breeze coming through the kitchen window and how the woman felt when she saw her cat carrying a baby mouse in his teeth. When I'm editing, I'm paying attention to the actual words, so I'm able to catch mistakes writers make (the easy ones, at least. Some of the more esoteric grammar rules fly right over my head). You'd think I'd pay attention to the words I'm writing as I write, but if I do, I lose the images in my head I'm frantically trying to write down. My words are like paint on a canvas all mixed together to create a scene. They blend and shape the picture, but I can't break the individual strokes apart to see how the picture is made. So I'm stuck writing "where" when I mean "wear." I only catch the mistake later, or if I don't, I hear from a friend.

Seeing just the image isn't a bad thing all the time; I'm able to take in the entire piece and see how it flows together, or where it stops. I can find the thread of a story and follow it, tying all the disparate threads together until they interlace into something beautiful.

I'll probably keep making ridiculous mistakes, and Jane will have to keep coming to my rescue (thank you Jane, and Maggie, too). People will keep shaking their heads, wondering what kind of publisher I am if I can't tell the difference between "where" and "wear." I'll keep trying my best to see the mistakes before I press "publish post," but more than likely, I won't catch them until three days later when the alarm will finally go off in my head that something isn't write... right!

sigh...

First Draft Revision

I am proud to announce that I won Script Frenzy!!!! 

What did I win?

Wait for it... (drum roll please)

(horns tooting)      A year or two of revisions!     (crowd cheering)

Sigh...

Wouldn't it be great if we could just write something brilliant in the first draft when we're energized and excited about it? Instead, the first draft is 95% crap, at least mine always is. The first draft is usually a collection of disorganized scenes and a cast of underdeveloped, whiny characters who don't know what they want. The beginning is typically weak, full of exposition and back story; the climax good, but doesn't include all the elements it needs to be a true climax; and the ending unsatisfying. Writing dialogue is my strength, so it's lucky that this time I wrote a play rather than a novel. But it's still going to take a long time to get the language right for each character, and for the time period (I don't think an upper-class woman living in the 1930's would say "cool").

Revision is exhausting, because you can see what needs to be done, but you can't figure out how to do it.   It's too early for me to get feedback from a reader, so I'll muddle through on my own, focusing on gaps in the plot, inconsistencies, and character development. I work on all three elements at once because they impact each other. As I develop a character, I may discover a motivation that will propel the action of a scene, which can effect the entire plot. The process works the other way as well: a change in the direction of the plot can change the way a character behaves in a scene.

This whole process can feel like remodeling a house of cards, though. Change one element and the whole structure could collapse, which is scary. The threat of collapse raises important questions: if the plot needed that one thing to hold together, what does that one thing need as support so a change won't make the whole story collapse?

But sometimes having the whole piece collapse can be a good thing, because it forces you to see your story in a whole new light. Starting from scratch isn't the end of the work (although it might make you feel like killing the work anyway). It is simply part of the process of building a good story. You will have much stronger characters and a better idea of what direction the story arc takes the second time you write it.

Okay, I admit it... I really hope this play doesn't collapse once I start revisions. I don't have the energy to write it all again from scratch. But I'm in love with my characters right now and the time period is a blast to work with. Think 1930's movies with glamorous women and big sets, lots of dancing and drinking (it is post-prohibition) and witty dialogue. These people are rich and desperate, pretending to have everything they want while the Depression starts taking things away.

The excitement from my first draft is still there. Here's hoping that excitement continues as I work on it for the next year...

... or two...

...or three.

From Punk Rock to Duran Duran

A few weeks ago, Jane Mackay, my dear friend and Medusa's Muse copy editor, submitted a proposal for a new book project. The proposal was perfect, and could be an example to everyone on the right way to submit a book for consideration. She reminded me that as the publisher, I could say no, but after reading her proposal and understanding how passionate she is about the project, I had to ask myself if this was something I too could get excited about.

Which is how this non-Duranni is now publishing an anthology of stories from people who's lives were saved by listening to Duran Duran.

Duran Duran? Yep, that Duran Duran, the 1980's New Wave mega band. Sorry to disappoint Durannies out there, but I was never a fan. I liked some of their songs (The Chauffeur still makes me stop whatever I'm doing to listen), but I was more into The Police, preferring drums to synthesizers. So why would this Goth/Hippi-Punk consider publishing a book about them?

Because Duran Duran affected millions of people in the same way that Punk Rock did for others.

There is a huge community of people, mostly women (but not all), who survived trauma and tragedy by listening to the music of Duran Duran, and they remain just as passionate today as they did when they were teen-agers. That passion needs to be honored. They have stories to tell, stories of triumph and survival, which need to be heard. Music sustains and feeds the soul, and Duran Duran has managed to do so for 30 years (they're still playing today and just put out a new album).

We may lose some "cred" in the punk community for publishing a book about a super-popular New Wave band, but I don't give a rat's ass. Medusa's Muse is open to all view points and genres, as long as the story is strong and the writer passionate (although I may have to draw the line at Country. Sorry, I really hate that music).

If you are a Duranie (am I even spelling it right?) with a story about the way Duran Duran helped you survive when you were growing up, go to Jane Mackay's "Friends of Mine" Facebook Page for more information on submissions and focus.

I'd better start listening to more Duran Duran. 

How to make your muse insecure

My muse is staring at me while I work. She hasn't moved in ten minutes. Even her snakes are attentive.

"What?" I ask.

"I'm trying to decide if anything about you has noticeably changed."

Stopping my writing, I turn to stare back at her. "What do you mean?"

"You seemed so different on Saturday."

"Why? How was I different?"

"So... confident."

"You say that like it's a bad thing."

"No. I don't mean it to sound like a bad thing.... it's just..."

"Yes?"

"Where did it come from?"

"Pardon?"

Moving closer, she sits on the edge of my desk while keeping her gaze fixed on me. "This confidence I saw. Where did it come from?"

"I don't know what you're talking about. You obviously didn't notice how scared I was. It was terrifying standing in front of all those people trying to sound like I knew what I was talking about. Thank God they were a good crowd and asked a lot of questions. If they'd just sat there staring at me the whole time, I would have thrown-up."

"But your fear didn't show. You stayed in control of yourself and that room and got your point across effectively. The audience learned from you and were inspired by you, which is what good teaching requires." She picks up a strand of my hair and strokes it between her fingers. "Even when you lost your train of thought a few times, you just took a deep breath and got organized. I've never seen you so... confident."

"Think my confidence is hidden in my hair?"

She laughs, but keeps playing with my hair. "No. I'm just wondering what exactly has changed about you."

"It felt good standing up there in front of those people sharing an idea with them. I liked it. And I believed that I had something to say that could really help them. That made it easier."

She lets go of my hair and leans closer. "Yes, this idea of yours... where did it come from?"

"I don't know... it's just something I was thinking about... about how many options there are to get published now and how someone can figure out what choice is right for them."

"But you created a step-by-step process for discovering that path. How did you know how to do that?"

"I just thought about it a lot. Thought about my own journey and how I figured out that I wanted to start a press. And I thought about how I've been trying to get an agent for my fiction, but it's so hard to get one. So what other options are available? Once I started thinking about that, the idea of the four step process just sort of... bloomed."

"Are you sure you didn't have help?"

"Help?"

"Yes. Help. From anyone, or anything..."

"I suppose I've had help from other writers and teachers over the years, but no one specific. I didn't steal the idea, if that's what you mean."

"Of course that's not what I mean. You're not the type." She stands, smoothing the snakes away from her face. "I want to know what inspired you."

"Are you asking me if I found a different muse?"

"No... of course not." Standing in front of the mirror, she pats her snake hair into place. "You would never do that to me." She pauses and glances at my image reflected in the mirror. "Would you?"

"Where would I find another muse?"

"They're about, always hunting for a new artist to inspire."

"I already have a muse."

"So. If one sensed that you were unhappy..." She turns around and looks at me with wide, sad eyes. "Are you unhappy?"

"No. I'm fine. Everything is fine between us." I stand and move closer, trying to be close enough to reassure her while also keeping my distance from her unpredictable, poisonous, snake hair. "Medusa, I don't need another muse. I have you, and I like you. Even if you're a bit hard to work with sometimes, we both know I've created my best work since I've been working with you."

She nods. "I'm glad. Because I like working with you."

"It would be nice to hear it now and then."

"Why? If I didn't like working with you, I'd be gone."

That's my muse. Forever kind and supportive.

She pulls back a snake that is slowly inching closer and closer to my head. "Are you sure no one else inspired you?"

I hold a hand to my heart. "I swear."

"Good. But just to be sure, I'm going to look around and see if anyone else is trying to get a hold on you. You may not even be aware if another muse is attempting to take control."

"You make it sounds like a pack of vampires out to get me."

She smiles. "Who says we aren't?"

Who indeed?


"But first," she says, taking my arm and leading me to the couch. "You must tell me all about this process of yours for finding your publishing path."

"Didn't you hear enough on Saturday?"

"I want you to tell me again. Slowly. I find it very intriguing."

"Well, first, you have to look at your work and decide why you're writing and who you're writing it for. Then..."

The LitFest Class was a big success

Today was LitFest and I am pleased to report that my class on planning your publishing path was a big success. Great turnout, with excited people asking lots of questions. It was such a relief having people interact with me and share their ideas, rather than just sitting there starting at me with bored expressions. Sometimes the questions got me off track, but I was able to pull the conversation back to the topic pretty easily. At the end, many people thanked me and said they learned a lot and enjoyed the presentation. 

Unfortunately, Rick forgot to take pictures of me during the class, so I don't have any photos to show you. Oh well, he was a big help setting up and keeping things organized.

I think I've developed a good tool that is truly helpful for people. I'll write more about the 4 steps to creating a publishing plan in the next few days. Maybe I'll even expand the concept into an article or You Tube presentation. I'd love to give this class again soon. Where would be a good venue? Anyone know of some good, smaller conferences near the SF Bay Area who might like my class?

I got into the publishing business because I love books, but also because I want to help other writers, and this class feels like I've taken that goal a giant step forward. With a bit more tinkering, I will have a dynamite class. 

Your writing holds the key

I've been working on my presentation for the "Framing Your Dream" class at LitFest this Saturday, revising my outline and narrowing down what needs to be said in my 30 minutes of talking, and I've realized a very important truth: everything begins and ends with the written work.

What you write and who you write for is where your passion lies. That passion is what will get you published. Nothing else matters, not the dreams of big contracts and pots of money, not the networking or the conferences you attend or the books on writing you read. Nothing is more important than the actual writing you do.

If you are not madly in love with what you write, then no one else will be either. If you're just writing to get published, then why should anyone care about what you're writing? You may as well just write a 300 page advertisement that shouts, "Look at me! See how great I am? I wrote a whole book!"

Whooptee-effing-do.

Your writing is your guide through the conferences, networking opportunities, query letters, pitches, websites, blogs, and eventual publication. The type of writing you do and who you write for will help determine the best route to being published. Everything else is just elbow grease... important, yes, but not the most important.

So look at what you write. Are you madly in love with it? Does it keep you up at night, sing to you in the shower, interrupt your thoughts at work? If it doesn't, then why are you writing?

And then look at your publishing dreams. Are you writing the type of book that can meet those dreams? If not, does it really matter to you? Can you stay committed to your writing even if it means you'll have a small readership and maybe not snag that big Random House brass ring?

This is what all writers need to think about, and what I'll be talking about at LitFest this Saturday.