Gone Packing
My muse is gone.
I'm pretty sure she got sick of waiting for me to feel ready to hang out with her. I have a strong feeling that she packed her bags and headed south—specifically to Buenos Aires, because she and I were happy there once upon a time.
Does that mean I'm not writing? Hell no. It just means I'm writing crap. I sit my ass in the chair every day, regardless. I show up, even if she doesn't. It isn't pretty, but it's something.
I know one day she'll return (I hope) and we'll start working in tandem again. Until then, I have Jay-Z to keep me company. 50 Cent too. And Biggie has my back from the big recording studio in the sky.
Also, I'm taking applications for a new muse—or muses. Please be ready to give me sample ideas for blog topics, marketing copy, and future books. You can be related to me, but if you give me lame ideas (like writing about llamas) your chances of getting this coveted position will be slim, even if I do love you best.
Being Uncomfortable
My comfort zone is all warm and red. There are velvety couches with colorful pillows, plush rugs that make your toes sigh in pleasure. Sometimes Vivaldi plays softly in the background, sometimes Jay-Z wants you to brush the dirt off your shoulder. In here, everything goes exactly the way I want it to. There are no surprises, and everything ends perfectly.
Which means sometimes things get dull.
You get that I'm talking about my psychological comfort zone, right? I don't really have a room that's all red and cozy. But my mental comfort zone is as strong as any physical comfort zone I've ever had, and lately I feel like it's more a bad thing than good.
"How, Kate?" you ask. "It seems like such a lovely place."
It is. I love it there. But it's keeping me from trying new things and growing in different directions. For instance, I've been looking for an apartment the past couple weeks, and I was thinking of moving back into my old neighborhood. It felt so familiar...
And so wrong.
So I found an apartment in a new neighborhood. Do I feel trepidations? Hell yeah. I don't know the neighborhood well—I don't have places to hang out. I don't know where to get the best Chinese takeout or which market has the best vegetables. But it's exciting at the same time, because I have the opportunity to try new things and find new favorites.
I'm at the same stage in my writing too. I do what I do well, but maybe it's time to step out and try something a little different. To challenge myself. To try an unknown.
I know, I know—it's scary stepping out. Things are foreign, and good outcomes aren't guaranteed. Only how do you know that what's waiting isn't a hundred times better than what you have? So while it's unknown, the hope of great things exists.
What does your comfort zone look like? What do you wear when you're there? What keeps you coming back, and how is it inhibiting you from growing? What new, scary territory would you want to explore if you stepped out of your comfort zone?
The Magic Kingdom
I'm so freakin' tired. You have no idea. My eyes are gritty and my voice is raspy like I've smoked two packs a day since birth.
Translation: the 30th Annual RWA Conference was a smashing success.
The reality of attending a conference with 2000 romance writers will probably overwhelm you—or make you spasm. I don't want to be responsible for that, so I'm not going to go into much detail. However, I can give you some highlights.
- The Magic Kingdom. I'm very disappointed to say I didn't meet Mickey. Where was he? On vacation? I expected to find him lounging by the pool (which is the only reason I hung out there—really). The Swan and Dolphin resort was a good venue (the staff was awesome). I do have to say, though, that the dolphin statues were very weird, looking less like dolphins and more like drugged-out fish.
- Booksignings! My publisher booksigning rocked. For most of an hour and a half, I had a crazy line of people waiting to grab a copy of my books, including advanced copies of Tempted by Fate, which comes out in December. The Literacy signing was also fantastic. Thanks, everyone who stopped by to pick up a book or just to say hi.
- On being a Grand Central author... It's quite lovely, actually. Each conference, the GCP team takes it's authors to a swank dinner. This year I sat with Roxanne St. Claire and Kristen Painter. They tried to get me into trouble. They almost succeeded, but I had a flash of my editor watching me dance on the bar top, her mouth agape, and I decided I'd continue to be the good girl I really am. Maybe next year.
- Hanging with my homies. The great thing about the conference is that I get to see old friends and make great new ones. This year, I hung out with Allison Brennan, Marilyn Brant, Laura Moore, and Heather Graham to name a few.
- Outlet stores—sigh. Julie made me go shopping. Okay, we had a deal, and my end of the bargain was that I'd take her to the Coach outlet. I shopped for five hours. It's a record. I think I deserve a merit badge.
I have pictures, but due to technical difficulties you aren't getting them. It's a real bummer, because you know how awesome I am with the photos. Oh well. Maybe I'll tweet them. Keep an eye out.
If you didn't go and have questions, ask me. I'll give you answers—within reason. Because what happens at RWA...
Josie and the Flashbacks
The past couple weeks I’ve been thinking about flashbacks. I recently did a critique on a manuscript where the entire second chapter was a flashback. It was really well written, so it almost worked—almost being the key word there. As a reader, I wanted to skip that chapter and get on to the next one, which continued the present-time story. The flashback just got in the way.
So I’ve been pondering why, and when, flashbacks should be used. I know some authors are vehemently opposed. I’m not sure being so rigid about anything is a good idea—it closes you off to possibilities.
In all pondering, I came up with one rule as far as flashbacks are concerned: they shouldn't interrupt the flow of the story. And they need to have a definite purpose, very specific and honed.*
Buy it, especially if you like Desperate Housewives, women’s fiction, excellent writing and storytelling, children, asshole men, or diverting literature.
A good example of a flashback done well was in a book I just read: Secret Lives of Husbands and Wives by Josie Brown. Last weekend I talked with Josie about that scene. She added it as an afterthought, because she thought her heroine’s conflict/motivation needed a little shoring up, so that the reader felt the doubts the heroine (Lyssa) has about her marriage. As a flashback, it's woven in very cleverly:
To be honest with you, our union has been fragile since day one.
He told me so himself, five years into our marriage, as we lolled, naked, late one night in our new backyard hot tub, our inhibitions loose by the roiling steam, a pitcher of frozen margaritas, and the knowledge that Tanner, then three, was fast asleep.
“Are you in love with me?” I asked casually. I guess I was anticipating a declaration of undying devotion.
Instead he paused—only a second, but even that was too long for a woman who is always waiting for the rug to be pulled out from under her.
“Yeah, sure. I love you.”
It packs a punch, doesn't it? In a few lines, you...
- get that the foundation of Lyssa’s marriage is shaky in such an ambiguous way that you aren’t sure what she should do;
- and find out that her husband obviously hasn’t done anything worthy of her taking action about.
Lyssa's doubt about it all is more like a small niggle in the back of her—and your—mind. It sets up the future conflict without getting lost in the past.
Do you have feelings about flashbacks, one way or another? Do you like reading them, or do they get in your way? Do you wish I'd written a more frivolous post?**
* I know—that's two rules. I'd fix what I have written, but I'm too lazy at the moment.
** I can't always be frivolous. I have a serious side too. Okay, maybe I don't so much, but I like to put my glasses on and pretend.
Your Turn
I was sitting here, thinking about what to blog about, when I started to wonder why I should be the one to write this blog all the time. Yeah, I know it's my blog, if you want to get technical about it. But don't I deserve a break sometimes? And if there were ever a week I needed a break, it'd be this one.
So it's your turn to do this.
Got your pens typing fingers out? Because here's how we're rolling: I'm posting a picture, and you're going to write about it. A story, an essay, a sentence—whatever you want.
Here's your picture:
The best entry gets something special from moi. Seriously. So get to it.
Confession #27
I've got another confession to make. Are you sitting down? This is a big one. I don't want you to fall over in shock and bump your head.
Ready?
Are you sure?
Okay, here it is: every time I sit down to start Chapter One of a new book, I'm paralyzed with fear.
Seriously. I seize up. My chest feels tight, and the muscles in my jaw clench. My mind spins with insanity. What the heck is the first line? What if it's not catchy enough? How much do I put in the first chapter? What if I have no words left in me? Then I start to think of all the other things I need to do, because even cleaning is more attractive than starting a new book.
Today was such a day. A few days ago I had this kick-ass idea for a story. Friday I wrote the synopsis. Saturday I rewrote the synopsis, changing the story almost completely after having really thought about it. This morning I was going to start writing the chapters.
So I wouldn't get tempted by the sudden urge to reorganize my wardrobe, I went to the café. On the way, it began: the seizing, the clenching, the spinning. I wanted to turn around and go home. Starting it tomorrow wouldn't be so bad, right?
Instead I gave myself the usual pep talk. I've done this before—lots of times. I'm probably capable of doing it a few more. I just sit down and do it.
Once I arrived at the café, I pulled out my notebook, noted that I was a freak, and then began handwriting out what I wanted the first chapter to say. In minutes, I knew exactly what the first line needed to be, so I turned on Lassiter (my faithful lappie) and got going.
I wrote 2200 words. Not all of them are great, but I think I'm off to a good start. A couple edits and the beginning will be solid gold. I'm quite excited about this idea.
I wish I didn't go through this every time, but I guess it's part of my process. Fear and doubt—what a duo.
Have I disillusioned you? Are you stunned? Do you feel relieved because you have fears as you work too? Tell me. Inquiring Kates want to know.
Check Your Pantry
Last night, I hung out with a friend at his place. I got hungry at one point and, being me, raided his fridge while he wasn't looking.
Picture this inside the refrigerator: a bag of organic red potatoes, shredded pecorino cheese, a squeeze bottle of mayo, mustard, some sprouting garlic, and a bottle of olive oil that had congealed into a cold mass. The freezer wasn't much better. In the one cupboard that actually had something in it (the rest were empty) there was an assortment of open pasta boxes and some pouches with weird gooey stuff in it.
At least it made deciding what to cook easy. Pasta with olive oil tossed with pecorino.
We were sitting on the leather couch, eating our feast, when I commented on the sparseness of his kitchen. He, of course, got all indignant.
Him: What do you mean, I have a typical bachelor guy's kitchen?
Me: I'm just saying you don't have much stocked in there.
Him: I have all the essentials. Like potatoes. And pancake mix.
Me: Um, you don't have salt.
Him: I looked at some fancy salt in that store down the hill where we got the granola. I think I'll get some of that.
Me: You don't have pepper, either. You should maybe pick that up too.
Him: So because I don't have salt and pepper, you're saying I have a guy kitchen?
Me: No. Mostly it's the Miller Lite piggy bank sitting in the corner under the cabinet.
It got me to thinking how much a person's cupboard says about him or her. What's the weirdest thing you've found in someone's cupboard, pantry, or fridge? What do your characters stock? What does he or she keep tucked away, and what's out in the open for all to see?
In his freezer, my friend had six neatly lined up frozen meatballs. You have to admire someone who keeps things so tidy and precise.