When I Grew Up

When I was about eight or nine, my uncle asked me what I wanted to be when I grew up. I promptly, and confidently, replied, “A doctor and a pom-pom girl.” For years after, whenever he saw me, he’d say, “Paging Dr. Nina the Pom-Pom Girl.”

At eight or nine, it doesn’t occur to us that we do not have options. And it seems downright normal to think we can combine any of the options we choose. We can be a doctor cheerleader or a clown astronaut. If we’re really ambitious, a cheerleading doctor astronaut clown. For a time, I wanted to be a lawyer and a Prince video girl. Don’t judge.

The one thing I always, always, went back to was writer. There are two instances that stand out in my mind as defining moments when I knew for sure. In my 7^th grade English class we read To Kill a Mockingbird. My teacher, Mr. Maresca, would assign chapters for reading and we’d discuss them in class the next day. It is still one of my favorite childhood memories. I wanted to be able to tell stories like that.

But before that, when I was about eleven, I saw a movie called, “Romancing the Stone.” Kathleen Turner’s character was the type of writer I wanted to be. No, I didn’t want to write swashbuckling romances, rather, I wanted to live in a New York City apartment with hardwood floors that clicked under my high heels. I wanted to write on a typewriter while I smoked cigarettes and drank wine, avoiding phone calls from my agent asking where the next chapter was. I wanted to have a cat I could feed cans of tuna. (This was before I realized I hate cats.)

I thought being a writer was as glamorous and easy as that. Surely, it was easier than being a doctor cheerleader, right? Then a funny thing happened. Life happened. I found myself doing a lot less writing in notebooks and a lot more living. Looking back on it now, I was always writing. I was just writing without moving my fingers.

When I lived in Portland, Maine and my first husband was deployed to Italy, and I’d look out the living room window, across the alley, into the apartment of the dark-haired guy that played the guitar every night and give him a name, and a past, and a future, that was writing.

When I was living in a Georgia suburb with my second (and last) husband, in my first house, and running barefoot across the wet lawn of my neighbor after a night of copious margarita consumption, and glanced up at my second-story window to catch a glimpse of a moving shadow and concocted this horror movie plot in my head by the time I’d made my way through the garage and up to my bedroom, that was writing.

I was always writing, sometimes in my head, sometimes in a notebook, and sometimes on a laptop. And then it hit me, as it has hit most of us who are lucky to realize it and then do it, that I was never going to be happy until I made the complete, balls-out, commitment to do what I love for a living.

That was when I realized that writing isn’t like the movies. Writing IS work and Michael Douglas in his alligator boots isn’t going to come sweeping down Madison Avenue on a pirate ship and whisk me away on bestselling adventures.

I am a writer and I am friends with writers and we know the truth. Writing is not just finding the time to write, it’s making the time to write. Because remember that living of life thing I mentioned before? Well, with that came children, and bills, and other responsibilities that demand their own attention. And while it may be easier to quiet the voices in your head, begging to have their stories told, than to quiet a cranky toddler in need of attention, it is not always healthy to deny the former. When I do, I become cranky and then no one is happy.

I stopped making excuses for my unfinished projects. I started to make the time. If the kids get up at 8:30am, why not get up before them and get some writing done? I started getting up at 6:00am to write for a solid two hours and found that it put me in a better mood throughout the rest of the day. I found I was more productive with my other responsibilities because the voices had been satisfied… for a time. Also, you’ll be surprised how much writing you get done in two hours.

I began to take my writing seriously so others would, too. I do not answer the phone when I am writing and I learned to not care if people had a problem with that. I do not expect them to answer the phone while they’re in a meeting or teaching a class. And if it was unavoidable, and I had to stop to answer a call, it would always take me a few moments to invest in the conversation because my mind was still with my fictional folk, wondering how their conversation would end.

Just as I began to take it seriously, I got annoyed when I felt other people were treating it lightly. Someone who has never given any thought to being a writer suddenly says, “I’ve been thinking about writing a book,” and my eye starts to twitch and I want to reply, “Really? Funny you should mention it because I’ve been thinking about performing back surgery.” Elitist? Snobby? Maybe. But honest.

I stopped being afraid of saying, “I’m a writer.” (Ask me what pays the bills, and that’s a different answer.) I have been published in a literary magazine and an anthology. I have written dozens of short stories – a few have even won contests, and some may never find a home. I have written thousands of blogs that received thousands of views. I have agonized over query letters and felt the sting of rejection. I have completed a book of which I am extremely proud – although, now it needs lots of shine. For the first time in over twenty years, I have a found a balance. I have found a method. I have found peace. I have become a writer.

Elephant Words

I was recently asked if I’d like to be a contributor to a website, Elephant Words. Each Sunday a writer will post a photo on the site. Then, every day one of the contributing writers posts a piece based on the photo.

I live for this kind of stuff. I’m always looking to be inspired and will jump at any opportunity to write on a regular basis.

I’d really appreciate it if you’d take a moment to check out the site.

You can view the writing schedule here. There’s also a link to this week’s photo – to the right of the schedule under Current Image. Just click the date (January 31st.)

It would be great if you guys could pop over and support my fiction there. I’ll still be posting here, of course. And not just me! Check out the other writers as well. Some of you who are my friends on Facebook may recognize two of them: George London and Simon Smithson.

I’ve decided not to read the other entries each week until after I’ve posted mine. I’d love to see some of you there interacting.

Thanks,

N.

Why I’m Sure I’ll Be Published

I just finished James Patterson’s latest, I, Alex Cross, and I have to say: if someone published that steaming pile of crap, I will one day be published as well.

I’m a get-it-all-out-and-make-it-pretty-later kind of writer. I believe in getting the story out first because it’s the most important thing. Tell the story, and then worry about telling the story better; fix your sentences, choose better words, edit, edit, edit.

As I read I, Alex Cross, I felt like I was reading the get-it-all-out-version that had been accidentally published. What’s with these simple sentences and chapters where absolutely nothing happens, I wondered.

And it wasn’t just the writing. The plot was awful!

The Alex Cross books follow an African-American FBI agent/hostage negotiator/D.C. cop on his attempts to solve some of the country’s most dangerous cases. He lives with his three kids and grandmother. Movies were made based on two of the Cross books – Kiss the Girls and Along Came a Spider. Both starred Morgan Freeman as Cross.

I’ve read all of the books and was very excited when I read the teaser for the latest: A beloved member of the Cross family is murdered.

What?!

I couldn’t believe it. Cross had been the target of serial killers before. Could it be that the latest monster would kill his grandmother or one of his children? Um, no. SPOILER ALERT: the murdered Cross is an adult niece we’ve never even heard of before this book. And if she has been mentioned before, I didn’t remember her so, who the hell cares?I mean, it wasn’t even the niece kidnapped in Kiss the Girls.

Are you serious, Patterson?

But I kept reading. Why? Because I have committment issues and I was curious to see who the serial killer, Zeus, turned out to be. There were hints that the killer had ties to The White House and the book also featured a sex house where the country’s most powerful people went to live out all of their kinkiest desires.

In theory, the story should have been awesome. Instead, it was senseless, boring, and at times, redundant. And don’t even get me started on the ending! SPOILER ALERT: Three pages after we find out who Zeus is, he is shot in the head without having to answer for his crimes or disclose a motive.

Also, how many times will Patterson tease us with his ailing grandmother coming thisclose to dying only to have her miraculously recover at the end? I mean, I’m not saying she’s old, but rumor has it that when Jesus returns, he owes her twenty bucks.

The book did end on a high note: Cross’ archnemesis, Kyle Craig, is back.

Do you read Patterson’s books? What do you make of his writing style and short-short chapters?

***

It’s usually not like me to trash authors. I admire anyone that can get off their ass (or sit on it really) and write a book. I admire anyone that can find the time because I know how hard it is.

This is why I’m super excited to submit an application to attend The Hambidge Center – an artist retreat in the Georgia mountains. One of my journalism professors suggested it to me. She has gone twice and written several chapters of her now published books there.

You have to apply to attend on scholarship for a stay that can last from two to eight weeks. You’ll spend your time there in your own cottage with all the tools and time you need to create. No internet, no TV, no outside distractions like kids, bills, and video games.

HEAVEN!

Check out the studios here.

Cool, huh? Also, creepy, right? It’s like a Stephen King novel waiting to happen, but I still want to go. Donny and I talked about it last night and I’m gonna apply to attend late next year so that he can take a week’s vacation to be home with the kids while I’m gone. I’m going to ask my journalism teacher for a letter of reference, but I still need to ask one other person. Then there’s the task of coming up with writing samples to submit.

Eek! I’m excited and inspired!

How are you?

End of the Week Thoughts 9-25-09

Twitter Twit

Yesterday, a famous comedian changed his Twitter profile pic from a picture of him alone to one of him and his wife. Someone that follows him tweeted, “Your wife has a lazy eye.” Now, that’s not nice and I’m in no way condoning it. In fact, neither is the person that wrote it. She immediately apologized after the comedian responded with a retweet, “Fuck you. You have half a face.” (Her own profile pic showed only half of her face.) Because of the comedian’s brand of humor, I thought that, for the most part, he was joking and took her comment in stride.

For those not well-versed in Twitterverse, a retweet is the email of equivalent of forwarding a message and leaving the original sender’s info intact so that those receiving the message can see it.

Now, all of the people who follow the comedian can see his response to the comment about his wife, as well as who sent it and what she said. What do you think happened? I’ll tell you: quite a few people that follow the comedian proceeded to write the girl and attack her. They cried foul at her audacity to insult the personal appearance of the comedian’s wife by… insulting her personal appearance.

It was ridiculous. Sure, she wasn’t right, but was it really necessary for the comedian to sic his followers on her? Maybe that wasn’t his intention, but he had to know that’s what would happen. It seemed most people felt the need to contact the girl, not in defense of the comedian’s wife, but simply to, in some way, get his attention.

Not cool. Not cool at all.

Grey’s Anatomy -

I waited for this premiere all summer. I still have last season’s finale on my TiVo because I loved it so much. Don’t judge me! There were times when last night’s premiere felt uneven. Not the episode as a whole, but the grief that the characters were supposed to feel (spoiler alert!!!) in regards to George’s death.

While I liked the fact that the two-hour episode spanned a little over one month, and in doing so showed the various ways people deal with grief, I could have done without some of the wow-look-how-oddly-we’re-dealing-with-George’s-death moments. Like the laughing fit at the funeral. Seriously? Also, did Callie really need Izzie to tell her that kind, considerate, awesome George would donate every bit of himself that he could to save another life?

Speaking of Callie, she and Bailey seemed to be the only consistent and believable mourners in last night’s episode. Bailey, who had formerly been tough-as-nails, realized that caring so much for the doctors in her charge had opened her up to pain and disappointment when they got sick (Izzie) or died (George.) In every scene she was dead-on as someone dealing with the shock of losing a friend who had delivered her baby – and don’t forget, she named her son after George!

Just as they quickly and inexplicably made Callie a lesbian, the writers need to unlesbian her ass and put her and Mark back together. They are funny and sexy and have more chemistry standing next to each other in an elevator than he has with Lil Grey in a full-on sex scene!

I did appreciate the moment at the end when each character narrates that after you go through all the stages of grief, and think that you’ve moved on to a place where it will all be okay, there are still the occasional moments when you are hit in the gut with the thought that, “Wow. George O’Malley died.”

Too Cute To Be This Fat –

I really need to get back on the ball. I really need to blog about weight loss. I really need some of you to be strong with me, stay interested, and help motivate me. I really am too damn fine to be fat.

Queries -

I keep getting positive responses to queries for my novel Sharing Space. Also, my short story Amongst the Tulips will be published next month on a literary magazine’s site. I’ll link you guys when it’s up.

I’ve started writing my next novel titled Tales From the Biosphere. It’s funny and it’s flowing and it pretty much writes itself. Also, getting positive literary news doesn’t hurt my motivation.

So, how was your week?

For My Writer Friends and the People That Like To Read Them

I have 31 chapters of Sharing Space completed. Most of you know that the first 1o chapters were written almost ten years ago. Boy, does it show! Some of the worst offenses?

• About 100 sentences that began, “It was then that…”
  • It was then that we noticed…
  • It was then that she entered the room…
  • It was then that Nina wanted to shoot herself in the head…
• About 100 uses of the word immediately
• About 100 sentences that went like this:
  • We were more than a little surprised that…
  • I was more than a little annoyed that…
• About 100 sentences that went like this:
  • To say that the day hadn’t gone well would be an understatement…
  • To say that she didn’t like him would be an understatement
• About 100 sentences that went like this:
  • I was saved from having to answer when the phone rang
  • We were saved from having to find out because she walked into the room
  • Nina was saved from having to find out what a horrible writer she was because she finally gave up, and got a job at WalMart.

I have discovered that I am a “get it all out and make it pretty later” kind of writer. When the story is in me, I must get it out and I’ll worry about imagery and proper comma placement later. Fuck it.

It took me all weekend, but it’s definitely a lot prettier than it was. I decided to take a break from SS and use The Writer’s Toolbox I bought from Barnes & Noble yesterday. Oh, while I was there, I also claimed my spot on the shelf. I moved the other books out the way and placed my hand in the empty space. I closed my eyes and visualized my book there – right before Arturo Pérez-Reverte.

Where was I? Oh yeah, I bought the toolbox because like most writers, I find myself lacking motivation. And like most writers that are mothers, wives, students, etc., I find myself lacking the time when I am motivated. The box is filled with neat little exercises designed to get the juices flowing.

I did the exercise using the three sticks. First, you draw from a bunch of sticks called The First Sentence sticks. Each one has a first sentence to get you started. Whatever you pick, that’s the sentence that must start your story. You write for six minutes, and then draw a Non Sequitur stick. Each has a phrase designed to move your writing in a new direction. Write for another six minutes. Finally, draw a Last Straw stick. These contain phrases that should promote conflict or action.

I drew:

I placed the tulips under the pillow, and then I lit the house on fire.

We were drinking champagne, and losing our shirts

The lemon sherbet had melted all over the counter.

Below is what I came up with. Remember, it’s 18 minutes of free writing. I haven’t made it pretty yet, but I know where I want it to go. Check it out.

I placed the tulips under the pillow, and then I set fire to the house. I’d always hated the house with its creaky wooden floors and faded walls. When my parents first moved us into the house, I was ten. I knew then, fifteen years ago, that I’d destroy it, or it would destroy me.

It landed the early blows; loose carpeting on the steps caused me to fall when I was twelve  and break my arm and the window in my bedroom fell on my hand when I was fourteen and broke two bones. I was no punk, though, and exacted revenge often and fiercely. I punched holes in my bedroom walls just for the hell of it. Imagined the dry wall flakes to be the house’s guts and I literally danced on them, mashing them into the floor. I was grounded for a month after that.

When my mother first planted the tulip garden, I was angry. The house didn’t deserve such beauty.

The house had a way of turning everything in it against me. I realized this one summer afternoon when I tried to prepare a snack. I took out a tub of sherbet from the freezer right before I realized that I had to pee. I left it sitting out while I ran to the powder room four feet from the kitchen. How long does it take you to pee? Include wiping, washing your hands, and shutting off the lights. Two minutes? Three? When I returned to the kitchen I discovered the lemon sherbet had melted all over the counter.  I knew then that house controlled the counters, the walls, the ceiling, the floors, the drapes and the light fixtures. It had many weapons at its disposal and I’d have to be creative to survive.

The first opportunity I had to leave the vindictive house, I took it. Though the campus was a few short miles away, I went to live in the dorms when I went to college. One weekend, when my parents were out of town visiting my mother’s sister in Toronto, I let my friends convince me to have a party at the house.

“It’s so big and awesome! Your house is wicked!” my retarded roommate had gushed.

“You have no idea.” I replied before giving in.

The party was going as well as college parties could go; we were drinking champagne and losing our shirts – we were a fancy bunch who would never stoop so low as to drink beer or cheap liquor. I was about to take Levi Stiles up to my old bedroom for some heavy petting, and maybe, light fucking, when the house exacted its ultimate revenge.

Why I Write

When people marvel at, what they perceive to be, my ability to wear many hats I wonder if I’ve somehow inadvertently inflated my responsibilities. I’m great at multi-tasking and it never occurs to me that I’m getting more done than the average stay-at-home-Mom. Then Jack came along. And now I have to ask that you allow me to toot the hell out of my own horn.

Best case scenario? Jack sleeps from midnight to 8am. I’m allowed to get Kali off to school in peace and grab a quick breakfast. When he wakes up, it’s only to nurse briefly and go back to sleep until 10am or so and I usually take that opportunity to nap as well. What follows is a day of cat naps for him, every 2 hours or so.

Worst case? He goes to bed at midnight and wakes every two hours to nurse, play, fidget, and watch T.V. I get little to no sleep, Kali barely makes it to school, and all the thoughts in my head meant to come to life in my novel, my blogs, and my short story stay jumbled up.

When the latter happens I am like a bag filled with bees. The bees are words and they are confined and angry. They want to get out and I want to let them out. Every moment that I don’t, they sting and cuss and I worry that I’ll forget my plan for those bees. That I’ll finally have the time to let them out, they’ll stare at me like, “Now what?,” and because they were pent up for so long I’ll have forgotten the what – and the who and why – and I’ll let them fly away.

The fact that I can even write this eases my burden for it came to me last night (well, this morning) at 1am, as I lay down after hours of waiting for Jack to sleep, that I have to write as most people need to sell or teach. I’d even go so far as to say I need to write like everyone needs to breathe.

As I started to drift, I framed the blog that I was going to write for today (now set for tomorrow), this blog, the short story I’ve been working on, and the 31^st chapter of my novel… all in my head. More than once I thought that I should be writing and not sleeping, and almost got up to do so. Then I remembered my motherly responsibilities and knew they were best met with a rested, albeit cluttered, mind.

Next week it will only get worse. I am taking a biology class with a lab, my final Spanish course, and two Journalism courses. Add some academic bees (with glasses and backpacks if you wish) to this bag. They are going to be fighting with bees named Chloe and Patrick who just want to have their happy ending, damnit! And a bee named Chris who may or may not be flying across the country to certain death… or maybe it’s a bit closer to home. A bee named Tara whose inability to be on time seals Chris’ fate. And the four bees who were girlfriends in college and covered up a crime. Those bees will fight bees who are detectives tracking a serial killer and bees whose sole job is to frame all of that into query letters.

Having to do all of this doesn’t drive me insane. The thought of never getting it done does.

I write because it is all I’ve ever wanted to do… even when I tried to do other things. I write because my inflated ego assumes that people actually care about my thoughts, opinions, reviews, and observations. I write because I love the characters in my head and I want them to have their happy endings… and deaths. I write because to not put fingers to keys and get it out would have me jumpy and scratching at those bees like a crackhead. I write because I’m tired of observing and not participating. I write because I’m good at it.

So, why do you do whatever it is you do?

Taking Inventory

My smart, sexy, oh so funny, sister inspired me to do something I should have done a long time ago.  No, not have a baby. Although, I did think that her relocation to Atlanta with my scrumptious nephew was a sign that I should have my eggs checked for dust, but I instead realized that she was sent home to inspire something else: my artistic drive.

She lent me a book which was very funny. I read it in one day.  As I read it I realized, “I could do this! Why, this is nothing more than a book o’ blogs. I got blogs. I got blogs coming out my ever widening ass.” (As of this blog, I have 10 till 1,000) Then my sister told me that as she read it, and the prequel before it, she thought the same thing.

So, why hadn’t I done it? Laziness and fear. But mostly laziness. Ok, the majority of it was laziness. Like 99.8 percent pure laze.

I wasn’t going to make New Year resolutions because I think they’re lame.

And I never keep them. But that’s not the point…

The point is that today, after spending most of the day alone with my thoughts, I realized that maybe I should this year. And this year will be different because they will be realistic. Unlike previous years where I was downright resolute in my quest to marry Jason Behr, travel the country by motorcycle, and finally beat Final Fantasy V. (Don’t judge me!)

I’m going to start simple:

- Continue going to school (which was my resolution last year, to go to school, and three semesters in I think it’s fair to say I’m kicking school’s academic arse) and do well

- Remember to place the house phones on the charger so that when I want to use them they’re juiced up. (Like tonight when I went to call Richard, Mike, Bette, and Emily only to realize both phones were dead)

- Send birthday cards to all my family and friends (so that they arrive in time for their birthdays)

- Go back to reading for pleasure (which I didn’t do much of last year due to school. Hopefully, the book club will help me do this)

- Write, write, write

- Encourage my friends

So, that is all. Starting tomorrow I will be taking serious inventory of my blogs, and begin working on new ones, all because my little sister believes that one day people will pay to read my ramblings.

Happy New Year, bitches!  I wish nothing but great things for you and yours. I know I’m going to grab a bunch for me and mine. (insert big fat smooches right…about…here.)