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January 15, 2008/The Grit of Noir
From Daschiell Hammett’s Sam Spade to Bill Waterson’s Tracer Bullet, we’re all familiar with the detectives of Noir. There are the usual trademarks: the trench coat, the fedora, the Colt .45 in a side holster designed by Smith and Wesson. There’s the stubbled chin, the half full bottle of hooch in the bottom right hand drawer, and the dame with the red lips and big knockers pleading for help.
There’s a lamp outside the window. Its glow filters through the lettered glass, reversing the name and projecting it as a distorted trapezoid on the far wall. There’s a sink with a dripping faucet in the corner. Above the sink is a grimy mirror…and when he looks in that mirror, the detective doesn’t like what he sees.
But Noir doesn’t necessarily envelope only the hard-boiled detective alone in his office; untouchable, unlovable, misunderstood. Noir is about darkness of character; the unlikable side of all of us…and we all have one. Film Noir doesn’t necessarily end well. The main character may succeed, but only at great personal cost to himself.
I offer as an example The Maltese Falcon (Daschiell Hammett). Sam Spade falls in love, but has to turn his woman over to the fuzz when he learns the dame is a cold blooded killer. Is Mr. Spade a knight in shining armor? Hell no. He’s flawed, terribly so. He’s had his secretary as a lover…and it’s clear he’d still take advantage of her on a mattress if the opportunity presented itself. And before his partner was killed, good ol’ Sam was boffing the Mrs.
So…No, Sam Spade wasn’t a knight in shining armor. But the movie is irresistible because he’s so flawed. And he does the right thing despite those flaws.
But, like I said, noir isn’t just about detectives. Take The Stranger, the 1946 film directed by and starring Orson Welles. It’s a film about a crazed Nazi living quietly in a small Connecticut town. His capture means the end of a young girl’s hopes and dreams for a happy future. Yet she does the right thing. A happy ending? No way. But a damn fine film. And there’s more misery where that came from. Check out 1950’s D.O.A., starring Edmund O’Brien and Pamela Britton. In this film, O’Brien consumes radioactive poison and has only hours to live, during which time he has to solve his own murder.
Maybe it’s the sick fascination we have with these undesirable characters and their situations, like being unable to turn away from a dead squirrel in the street, that makes us want to watch Noir. Or maybe it’s knowing we aren’t as bad as these characters are that keeps us watching…or maybe it’s knowing that, despite how bad we really are, there are some redeeming qualities in us that make us desirable to someone, somewhere. But that’s a little too poetic for my taste. Let’s just say….I like Noir…and leave it at that.

The Wonder of Writer’s Groups/January 22, 2008

I’m going to eat cake at my next writer’s group meeting, and if all goes according to plan, it’ll be chocolate…my favorite. And the best part; the cake is on my behalf. I’m overwhelmed. I’m a mom. I bake or order the cakes…I don’t get them brought to meetings on my behalf.
But then, it’s not just any meeting, is it? It’s a writer’s group meeting. And last week I finally summoned the courage to tell them my novel had been accepted for publication. I’m not sure what I expected them to say…or maybe I am sure what I expected them to say…nothing. I expected silence or a very small, “That’s nice.” Or a “Who’s publishing it? I never heard of them.”
That’s the insecurity of being a writer, isn’t it--That timidity that never goes away, even when we’ve achieved some measure of success? A writer is supposed to have thick skin, but we don’t. Every rejection is a pin prick, but that’s nothing compared to the non-response we get from those agents and editors who aren’t even interested enough to say “No thanks.”

Over time, the skin does get thicker, I suppose. Rejections become papers to be filed after getting logged in the big book of NO. After months of rejections, a letter comes that asks the tentative, “Could you send us a bit more of your manuscript, please?” that shakes a writer to his core. The stakes get higher, you’ve made it to the next round, suddenly there’s more to lose.

But maybe, just maybe, another letter will arrive that says, “We’ve read the entire manuscript and we want to offer you a contract.” So, as a writer, you celebrate. You keep it close to the vest, telling only family and friends…the ones you know will be proud and amazed and thrilled and will buy a copy even if what you’ve written is really crap.

But eventually, others will have to be told. You’ll have to reveal the dirty little secret you’ve harbored all this time…the one you carry in your heart that says, “I think I’m talented enough to be published.” What happens then? What if all those writers in your group purse their lips and think, “Boy, is she crazy.”?

So I kept it a secret as long as I could, finally breaking the news when I realized I wouldn’t be reading any more excerpts from the soon to be published novel. Really I told them so they wouldn't ask questions during the meeting; questions I'd have to answer while I waited for the sneers to appear on their faces. I told them everything, typing out the confession with sweaty palms and a racing pulse, wishing I had a vice like smoking or drinking to calm my nerves.

The response from my group: A resounding and loud “CONGRATULATIONS!!!”…and a cake. It was the news about the cake that gave me this epiphany…there’s no career in the world (believe me, I’ve researched this) that is as supportive of its fellow professionals as that of the writer.
There’s no judgment, only a critique when it’s asked for, and even then, it’s done with the same goal you have; to make you better. Writers have the innate ability to appreciate the work of others without looking at it as competition. Sure, we may look at sales of Tom Clancy, Nora Roberts, Michael Crichton and think, “I wish I could do that.” But the truth is; I probably have a better understanding of what these authors’ success means to them than a non-writer.
I guess that’s why the cake means so much…because it comes from those who truly understand what it means to write…and succeed—more than friends and more than family. And it overwhelms me still.

Procrastination/January 29, 2008
My days are turgid with procrastination. The living room rug needs vacuuming. While I’m plugging the vacuum in, I ponder the spelling of the word “vacuum.” It’s a stupid word, really. And after I say it over and over a million times, it starts to sound really funny. Now I can’t get it out of my head. How can I sit down to write with a stupid word like “vacuum” stuck in my head?
Besides, I’ve been meaning to rearrange the living room furniture. It’s really hard to vacuum behind the couch and if I’m pulling it out to get the vacuum back there, I might as well move the chairs and the 36 inch television as well.
Plus, my mother is flying in from Omaha this week and she’ll be sleeping in my daughter’s room. I might as well rearrange that furniture too. By the time I have all the living room furniture in the kitchen and all my daughter’s furniture in my room so I can do a really thorough job of vacuuming (stupid word), the first really good idea I’ve had in days hits me. It’s a line for the novel I’m working on. And I say it out loud over and over so I won’t forget it…knowing the line is a gift from the muses of literature and that to avoid writing it down at the instant it hits me is the same as throwing it away. But there’s so much to do…so much dusting and cleaning and rearranging.
An hour later the line is gone. And the day is wasted.
I sleep with a notebook and a pen beside my bed. For some reason, it is when my mind is relaxing or letting go of the day that ideas strike me. Activities like moving furniture or commuting or drifting off to sleep make me more receptive to what my inner voice wants to say…I can finally see into that deep well where my characters live. But I can’t always crawl in there with them. Sometimes I’m floating on the surface and they shout things up to me, counting on me to speak for them.
I’m ashamed to admit that I don’t always heed what they say. Like the day I moved the furniture. When the line is gone I can’t get it back. I let them down. And I feel bad.
The pen and paper sit beside my bed, waiting for me to flip on the light and write down what my characters tell me. As I drift to sleep, I peer deep into the well, hovering above them, watching their lives and listening to their conversations. “Say this,” they tell me. But it is so very late and I’m so very tired from all that furniture moving, so I repeat what they say over and over in my head, promising them that this time, this time, I’ll remember.
But I don’t.

Feb. 6, 2008/ Longhand vs. Typing

There are times when I'm in a hurry. A great idea hits me. My characters interact in a new and exciting way in the well of my imagination and I race to the computer to vomit it onto the hard drive...only to find I can't get it out. It's stuck in my mind, unwilling to release itself into the safety of my Word Document.

So I pull out pen and paper--and through some miracle, the words flow forth at a steady pace, content to be put down in their proper order--one at a time--ducks in a row. And behind my hand is the force of the story...that ever deepening well containing the universe of my characters.

They've become very arrogant over time...and their moods are not always conducive to the rapidity of technology...or my 90 words a minute typing skills. (former secretary in college, thank you very much.) At times they will only allow their story to be told through the fragile connection between my hand and the paper. I become for them a medium...useful only to tell their story.

I've learned to trust this method of thought and image recording, slow though it may be. And in trusting it, the words come, like a steady stream of fresh water. Not blocked. Not forced. But given freely by those who live in the imaginary world of literature created by my hand.

The Importance of Journaling for Working Writers/ Feb. 19. 2008
I’m in the process of painting my bedroom. I’ve chosen a dark gray color and I’m going with white trim. The color is masculine enough so my husband won’t feel he’s sleeping in a woman’s dressing room, and the white trim lends enough cheeriness to keep it from looking like a hunting lodge. It’s all about compromise.
I started the job in a frenzy last week after writing nothing but junk for several days and feeling completely blocked on a creative level. The well was dry. The nest was empty. Whatever clever phrasing you wish to use…it all means the same thing.
So I threw in the pen. I picked up a paint brush and I worked for four or five days. (I’m still not done. Trim is VERY time consuming.) When I’m in the middle of a writing project I watch only Noir or mysteries, or old films. I do this to keep me frozen in the time of the 1940’s and in the mindset of mystery and murder. While painting, I watched anything but my usual. I watched Hot Fuzz. I watched Ratatouille. I watched Groundhog Day. I watched The Lady In The Water. And I swore off Columbo, Perry Mason, The Thin Man, Alfred Hitchcock, Bogie and Bacall. I pushed the reset button on my brain and waited to see what would happen.
I’ve never been in this situation before…where writing was my career and it was important to stay focused. As I stepped back from the computer keys and took a deep breath, I gained some perspective. I created in a different medium…sure, you say, it’s only painting a room. True. But it’s still creative. And it relaxed me enough to let my characters start to speak to me again. An argument broke out between Baker and Edwards. Baker punched Lewis in the face. They were all still alive and, joy of joys, they were still interacting somewhere inside my mind even though I couldn’t hear them.
So I sat and tried to write down what they were saying…they were pushing the plot forward, I could feel it. But I couldn’t get it down on paper…even in longhand. So I went back to painting.
Yesterday, it hit me. My well isn’t empty. It’s full. There’s just something wrong with the tap…or maybe there’s something else in there that needs to come out. So I started writing about anything but my book. I wrote about how it felt to have my first novel published. I wrote about how I hate trying to get publicity for it…how writers aren’t necessarily cut out for that sort of thing. I wrote about how I hate to have my picture taken and about how I hate to have my image posted out in cyberspace. I dumped it all out…the frustration, the fear, the hatred of publicity and marketing.
I feel better today after writing about all of that. Success isn’t something I can take lightly, I guess. The publication of my first book has affected me. I can act flippant about it. I can act like it was nothing less than I expected. But the reality is I’m humbled by it. It was more than I ever expected when I started this venture. I guess the lesson here is that even with success and publication, insecurity will still lurk in the shadows. And I think I’ve discovered that writing, although an ideal job, can still behave in the same way any other job can…there will be parts of this career I don’t like. And acknowledging that I HATE marketing is the first step in accepting this adventure as a real career.
My characters are still chattering away in the well of my subconscious. I feel them getting edgy, wanting to be heard. And I’m sure that today or tomorrow, they’ll let me know what to say for them. For now, I’ll give my characters the privacy they seem to need…I’ll keep painting…and I’ll keep my journal close by…for their thoughts and for my own.

February 26, 2008

It's been a tight rope walk the last couple of weeks. The pressure to market my book has been a pea under my mattress. The rub of it has kept me awake at night and pre-occupied during the day.

I began to wonder when, exactly, it was that the art of writing became about the art of selling. When was it that everything changed?

And then I began to wonder if all this business of writing and editing and struggling was really worth it. Is reaching the top of the mountain anti-climactic compared to the climb? Lately, in my world, it has seemed that way.

After weeks of tossing and turning, my delicate skin bruising as I tried to slumber, here's what I've come up with...marketing has its place. It's a necessary evil, like a root canal for an infected tooth, or taking my car in for its annual inspection, or cleaning up dog doo doo in the yard...it has to be done.

How it is done, when it is done, and the extent to which it is done is under my control. There is no big, bad, marketing boogie man standing in the corner ready to point his finger at me if I don't do it...the one who benefits from my marketing efforts is me (and my publisher, of course) and the one who suffers if I don't market is me (and my publisher, of course). The publisher, however, has numerous other writers to help fill his vault. I have only myself.

So here's what else I think...my writing is more important to me than marketing. In fact, it is the MOST important thing I can do right now. Full time marketing kills my mind and makes me miserable. When I'm miserable my writing suffers.

It is better to write a great story than to successfully market a bad one. It is better to create something I'm proud of than to line up sixteen book signings that mean little or nothing to me.

Will I market my book? Of course I will. But I'll do it my way, quietly, with small signings in local stores. I won't offer big discounts to friends and neighbors. I won't take out a 1/2 page add in the New York Times. I'll just have to let my writing speak for itself.

I think I'll sleep better tonight. I've removed all the errant legumes lurking there. My head is clear, and my writing has regained its edge...success for me is how I measure it, not how others measure it. It is as personal as my fingerprints and as valuable as my soul.
Now then, on that overly melodramatic note, I'll say goodnight.

Loving Your Characters While Raising The Stakes/February 29, 2008

To make a reader care about your work…your book, your short story, your characters, you have to “raise the stakes”…at least that’s what the experts tell us. This is a tough row to hoe at times. Of course I want my fiction to be compelling…I want Baker to be memorable and honorable and interesting. But I can’t make him that way if I allow him to live in a vacuum. Whether I like it or not, I have to toss problems in his direction and let him solve them.

I confess, this hurts me sometimes. He finds himself in peril…standing on the edge of a cliff, looking into the barrel of a gun with nowhere to go. He looks at me with his eyebrow cocked. “Why?” he wants to know. “Why do you do this to me over and over and over?”

I could say something trite like “Because I love you.” Ugh. Too cliché. I could say, “This hurts me more than it hurts you,” but that would be a lie and we all know it. I guess if I wanted to give Baker a good answer as I write him to the edge of the cliff and over the side I’d say, “I want you to grow. I want to make you better.”

But still I sense his bewilderment and the sense of betrayal he feels as I toss him over the edge with nothing beneath but jagged rocks crawling with starving crocodiles; nothing above but a pack of rabid wolves, three carnivorous bears, a wolverine, and a skunk; and a python slinking its way along the scraggly branch from which Baker hangs.

“Come on, man, this is no fair,” he says.

Ok, I say it. “I do this because I love you.” And in a weird way, I mean it. Today, I don’t think he believes me.

Writing on the Battlefield
March 7, 2008
I have three children. The oldest, at age 15, is filled with teen-aged angst and introspection and spends much of his time in his room, where he can brood over life’s meaning.
The other two, age eleven (a boy on the brink of peachfuzz) and eight (a blonde-haired blue-eyed beauty of a daughter, God help us) have procured a book on the making of paper airplanes.
They kneel at the coffee table with their brows furrowed, their lips pursed in concentration, the stapler clacking away as they secure the wings and the nose. When it’s all assembled, it is time, naturally, for a test flight. A sleeve is rolled up, an arm is pulled back, and the missile is launched.
Our dogs run for cover. (We have three. Big. Dogs.)
And despite what you’ve heard about Akitas and Dobermans, they are really just big babies.
Big. Big. Babies.
And they can knock my husband (imagine Jason Statham with muscles) right over if he is caught unawares.
My husband works at night sometimes, sitting in his mission-style chair, computer propped on his lap, saving the world one database at a time. I sit, more properly, at a tiny desk where I can look out the front window at the pear trees…which are starting to blossom. From this poetic spot in my living room, I can daydream about the lavish life of a writer, the next plot point in my current novel. Should there be a love scene or not? Should I re-work chapter 4?
All this while paper missiles fly overhead, landing on my keypad. If the Department of Defense only knew what battles are waged in the living room of this DBA and his family, they might rethink the entire Iraq situation.
My world is gangsters, dames, roscoes, thumb-breaking, and infidelity…all happening in concert with a bottle of bourbon and a pack of unfiltereds.
My children and my husband live lives that are more high-tech. In their worlds, computers talk to each other over thousands of miles, information is sent to secret places even a wife can’t know about…and paper airplanes, secured with scotch tape and staples, fly below the radar and get tangled in my hair while dogs duck and cover and wait for the war to stop.
Such is the glamorous life of this writer.