You want to hear some hard truth? Do you promise not to get mad at me? Promise?
Okay then. Here it is. Your social networking habit? It might be hurting you.
Yes, I know it’s fun. Meeting new people, reconnecting with old friends, discussing the price of tea in china with strangers, staffing up your mafia, finding out your Princess personality, etcetera, etcetera. But every minute you spend on Facebook and Twitter (I'm not even going to try and list the gajillion other social networking sites available) is another minute you aren’t writing, or reading. Nurturing your creative spirit.
The Muse is a delicate flower, a fickle Goddess. She must be treated with respect and dignity. She must be nurtured, given the proper nutrients: water, sunlight, fertilizer, a touch of love. If properly taken care of, she will reward you with great things: a bountiful garden of words, a cornucopia of ideas. But if you neglect her, she will forsake you.
And none of us want to be forsaken.
I read an essay last week that broke my heart. It was one writer’s honest, true assessment of her burgeoning Twitter addiction. She openly admitted compromising her family time so she could spend hours a night talking to strangers on Twitter. Her online world became more important that her real one. And I get it. I see how easily that happens. Especially when you’re a new writer, and networking is so vital to your future success. (I am so thankful Facebook and Twitter came along after I was already published.) A little encouragement—that tweet that gets retweeted, the blog entry that starts people talking, that link you sent that helps someone else—it’s heady stuff. A classic, undeniable ego stroke, and for a lot of us, that’s just plain intoxicating. (Yes, some of us not so new writers fall into the Twitter trap too…)
But when does it become a problem?
I can’t answer that question for you. You may want to ask yourself some hard questions though. Namely, how much time are you really spending online? Can’t answer that offhand? Spend a week keeping a log of all your online activity. Not just Twitter and Facebook and Goodreads and Shelfari. Track your email consumption, your blogging, your blog reading, your Yahoo groups, your aimless surfing and your necessary research. Be honest. Don’t cheat. Add that time up at the end of the week and take a candid, truthful look at the results. I guarantee you’ll be surprised at how much time the Internet takes.
Then ask yourself these questions:
Is the Internet as a whole compromising my writing time? Am I reading less because I’m spending more time online? Why am I doing this? Am I reaching out to strangers because I’m not feeling the same sort of support at home? Am I lonely? Blocked? Frustrated?
Because here’s the heart of the matter. Writers? Our job is to write. And I don’t mean pithy status updates and 140 character gems that astonish the world. I mean create. I mean writing stories. I mean taking all that energy and time you’re spending online playing and refocusing it into your work.
You know why it’s so easy to say that and so hard to back it up with results? Because Twitter and Facebook are FUN! And you’re talking to other writers, so you can sort of kind of tell yourself that this is really just research, background. You’re learning, right? You're connecting with your fans, with your readers, with your heros. Very, very cool stuff.
Listen, if you get inspired by social networking, if watching successful authors launch successful campaigns helps spur you on to greatness, fabulous. I have been greatly inspired by some posts, links and attitudes on Twitter. I think it’s so important to try and have a positive experience out there in the world, and I follow people who exude positivity, who are following the path I want to follow.
But if you’re forsaking your Muse, taking the easy way out, then you have to do a bit of self-examination and decide if it’s really worth it. I am “friends” with people who are online every single time I open my computer and go to the sites. And I can’t help but wonder – when are they working? When are they feeding the Muse?
An editor is going to be impressed with your finished manuscript, submitted on time. The jury is still out on whether they’re impressed that you can Tweet effectively or that you’ve rekindled that friendship with the cheerleader who always dissed you in school.
The thing about social networking is a little goes a long way. I love Twitter. It’s my number one news source. I follow interesting people, I’ve made new friends, and more importantly, I’ve gained new readers. It’s a tremendous tool for me. But I’ve also (hopefully) mastered the art of Twitter and Facebook. I can glance at my Tweetdeck, see what I need to see, read what I need to read, then move along.
Facebook, on the other hand, became a problem for me last year, so I gave it up for Lent. I spent six weeks only checking it on Tuesdays and Fridays. The first two weeks were hell. I was missing out! Everyone was on there having fun except me.
And then it got better. At the end of the six weeks, I added things up. I wrote 60,000 words during my enforced Facebook vacation. That was enough of an indicator to me that it was taking time away from my job, which is to write.
Now Facebook is a breeze. I’ve separated out my friends, the people I actually interact with daily, so I can pop in one or twice a day, check on them, then keep on trucking. I’ve set my preferences so I’m not alerted to every tic and twitch of the people I’m friends with. I don’t take quizzes or accept hugs. Ignore All has become my new best friend. Because really, as fun as it is to find out that I’m really the Goddess Athena, that aspect isn’t enriching my life.
I read Steven Pressfield’s THE WAR OF ART recently and was so struck by his thesis, that artists fight resistance every moment of every day, and the ones who are published (or sell their work, etc.) are the ones who beat the resistance back. Twitter, Facebook, the Internet in general, that’s resistance. (And to clarify, resistance and procrastination aren’t one and the same. Read the book. It’s brilliant.)
For professional writers, the social networks are a necessary evil, and as such, they must be managed, just like every other distraction in our lives. I still have my days when I find myself aimlessly surfing Twitter and Facebook, looking at what people are doing. Getting into conversations, playing. But I am much, much better at feeding my Muse. I allot time in my day to look at my social networks, but I allot much more time in my day to read. And most importantly, I have that sacred four hour stretch—twelve to four, five days a week—that is dedicated to nothing but putting words on paper.
There’s another phenomenon happening. The social networks are eating into our reading time. Readers have their own resistance, their own challenges managing their online time.
Yes, there are plenty of readers who don’t have Facebook or Twitter accounts, who may read this and laugh. But many of us do, and if we’re being honest with ourselves, every minute spent conversing online is another minute we aren’t reading. I can’t help but wonder if this is what will ultimately drive the trend toward ebooks, since one out of every three readers prefer to read electronically now. One in three, folks. That’s a large chunk of the market.
So how do you turn it off? How do you discipline yourself, walk away from the fun?
It’s hard. But what’s more important? Writing the very best book you can possibly write, or taking a quiz about which Goddess you are? Reading the top book on your teetering TBR stack, or reading what other people think about said book?
For writers, you have to set your priority, and every time your fingers touch the keyboard, that priority really should be writing. The rest will fall into place. I hypothesize that while the Internet is taking a chunk of reading time, most readers still read a great deal. Which means we need to keep up the machine to feed them, right?
Does this post sound like you? Are you easily distracted? Frustrated because you can’t seem to get a grip on things? There are a bunch of great tools out there to help you refocus your creative life. Here’s a list of the websites and blogs that I’ve used over the past year to help me refocus mine.
Websites:
MinimalMac
43 Folders
Zen Habits
Bloggity
The Art of Non-Conformity
Books:
The War of Art – Steven Pressfield
The Creative Habit – Twyla Tharp
Rapt: Attention and the Focused Life – Winifred Gallagher
Flow: The Psychology of Optimal Experience – Mihaly Csikszentmihalyi
Take fifteen minutes a day off your social networking and read one of these. I promise it will help you reprioritize your day.
Because really, what’s the point in being a writer if you don’t write?
What do you think, 'Rati? Are you overdoing the online time? Any tips for making the best out of your Internet experience? How do you find the balance?
Wine of the Week: 2008 Quattro Mani Montepulciano d'Abruzzo
Showing posts with label Writing Advice. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Writing Advice. Show all posts
August 21, 2009
August 08, 2009
What the F**k is Ladylike?
The indefatigable Sarah Weinman did a Dark Passages column for the LA Times a couple of weeks ago about female characters with dark histories. She cited some great examples of authors who use their female protagonists to tread into the traditionally male territory of overwhelming violence: Karin Slaughter, Mo Hayder, Gillian Flynn.
There is a common denominator in all of these fabulous authors' characters: the woman has a tortured past. They are damaged goods. Abused, debased, yet, like the phoenix from the ashes, rising above their beginnings to become strong, compassionate female leads who step in where even males fear to tread.
But here's my question.
Why does a strong female lead have to have a tortured background? Can a female protagonist make it in the fiction world if she's not been broken first?
I daresay the answer is no. Because it just wouldn't be ladylike for the female lead to have an unrequited bloodlust, now would it?
I know this isn’t a female-centric phenomena – it’s a crime fiction phenomena. There are plenty of male characters who are driven by a tortured past. John Connolly’s Charlie Parker comes to mind: if Parker’s wife and daughter hadn’t been brutally murdered, would he have ever become the man he is today? Of course not. But, and here’s a big but, for the most part, the male characters who are driven by despair didn’t have the violence done to them. To those around them, yes. To their loved one, (who many would argue are an extension of ourselves, and as such, what you do to them, you do to me.) The reality is, though, there aren’t a lot of male characters in crime fiction who’ve been raped or tortured, then struck out to find vengeance by becoming a cop, or a PI, or a spy.
To me, this ultimately harkens back to the archetypal female mythos - the soul eater, the strong woman who devours men because of our magical abilities - we bleed and don't die. Therefore, we must have some inherent evil and that evil must be contained. Generations have tried to tamp down the Lilith that resides in all of us, just waiting to be freed.
So it seems goes the strong female lead in fiction. If, and only if, she has been raped or beaten or otherwise horribly misused, has lost a sibling or a parent to violence, will she be allowed to acknowledge her bloodlust. The violence done to her unlocks the deep-seated resentment, and society understands—not condones, mind you, but understands—because of what she's been through.
In other words, society has conditioned us to tamp down our feminine wiles, to stow away our power, to hide behind our men and only emerge once we've been raked over the coals through some unspeakable violence.
Bullshit.
Bullshit, bullshit, bullshit.
What in the hell is that all about???
Why can't a woman be strong because she's strong? I know we're talking about fiction here, and we need to have a weakness that's apparent in order to "relate" to the characters, but I'm always amazed at just how many female lead characters fall prey to this. Mind you, and this is an important caveat, there are instances of this that mold the character into who they become that won’t work any other way.
Karin Slaughter's Sara Linton is a perfect example. She is so touched by the evil that's done to her that it's now imprinted itself on her psyche, and we know that evil begets evil. They can smell it hopping around in the veins, whispering the siren's call filth vile exremous hate that emanates from the very cells of the blood they've permeated. She has no choice but to go forth and battle evil, because it follows her everywhere she goes, sensing her weakness, and her strength.
Our Zoë Sharp's Charlie Fox is another that can be cited here as an appropriate product of an unspeakable violence. Zoë's books work for me because there's an unanswered question that rides through the series. On the surface, Charlie becomes a monster, a killer, because she has been forced to become one through the monstrous act that's done to her. But did she? Or was there latent evil in her system? Would she be who she is despite the despicable actions of her teammates? There are many people who don't turn into a killer after violence is done to them. I think there resides a small possibility that Charlie would have ended up exactly where she was regardless of her rape. Charlie is my favorite kind of character, the moral person who does immoral things. Her struggles with her new reality are some of the most nuanced in modern fiction today.
But many, many writers take this path—the tortured backstory—as a shortcut to give their women depth, and it can fall flat.
On the surface, it’s a psychological windfall. We cheer because it's the underdog syndrome, the need to root for a character who has glimpsed the depths of hell and can come back to tell us all about it. Don't get me wrong, some of my favorite books have female characters who've had some roughness in their past. I'm not saying this is wrong, or bad, or you shouldn't do it. It's just a phenomenon that I find fascinating, a trend that I'm not sure is a good one.
Why?
Because we're victimizing our heroines to make them appear more heroic.
When I was first writing Taylor, something was very one-dimensional about her. Looking back, I understand now that she was too perfect. I asked an old English professor for advice and she said something vitally important: she needs to have a weakness. That was an a-ha moment for me. Oh, I thought. She needs to have a weakness. Okay. I can do that. Now what would that be????
You can see how easy it would be, at this particular point in time, to insert an unspeakable evil into her past that makes her what she is. Weakness, though, bespoke weak to me, and that was exactly the opposite effect that I wanted. My girl wasn't going to be weak. She was going to be kick ass, and not because she was driven by a demon, it's just who she was. So in the first book, Taylor smokes. That's her weakness, her humanizing factor. And it works for me. She doesn’t have a big secret in her closet, a tragedy that drove her to become a cop. She chose that route because it was the right thing to do. Many might find her boring because she is a moral person doing moral things because of an overarching desire to rid the world of evil. I don’t know.
Just for the record, I am not a feminist, by any means. I'm happy in my role in life, being the wife, being the nurturer. I do hate that women aren't paid equally for their work, and I will become highly annoyed if you suggest to me where my place is or neglect to treat me like a lady. But I've worked in male dominated environments before, and I learned very early on that there were two ways to get a leg up. One, sleep your way there. Two, earn the respect of your team. Guess which route I took?
And I'll tell you, earning the respect of your team means showing absolutely no weakness. So when it came time to write my female character in a male world, there was no chance she'd be showing any either. I just don't know how to program that way.
So. Am I completely off base here? Would you rather see the damaged soul find redemption? Or is it okay for women to finally come into their own in crime fiction? Look at the double standard that exists when it comes to sex: I know if there was a female lead who acted like the men, we'd all get into trouble. It's not ladylike to have desires and act on them - that makes you a slut. But a male character can screw his way through the book and no one bats an eyelash.
How is this any different?
Wine of the Week: 2007 Feudo Arancio Nero d'Avola Sambuca di Sicilia paired with a hearty puttanesca sauce.
(Oh come on, you knew that was coming....)
There is a common denominator in all of these fabulous authors' characters: the woman has a tortured past. They are damaged goods. Abused, debased, yet, like the phoenix from the ashes, rising above their beginnings to become strong, compassionate female leads who step in where even males fear to tread.
But here's my question.
Why does a strong female lead have to have a tortured background? Can a female protagonist make it in the fiction world if she's not been broken first?
I daresay the answer is no. Because it just wouldn't be ladylike for the female lead to have an unrequited bloodlust, now would it?
I know this isn’t a female-centric phenomena – it’s a crime fiction phenomena. There are plenty of male characters who are driven by a tortured past. John Connolly’s Charlie Parker comes to mind: if Parker’s wife and daughter hadn’t been brutally murdered, would he have ever become the man he is today? Of course not. But, and here’s a big but, for the most part, the male characters who are driven by despair didn’t have the violence done to them. To those around them, yes. To their loved one, (who many would argue are an extension of ourselves, and as such, what you do to them, you do to me.) The reality is, though, there aren’t a lot of male characters in crime fiction who’ve been raped or tortured, then struck out to find vengeance by becoming a cop, or a PI, or a spy.
To me, this ultimately harkens back to the archetypal female mythos - the soul eater, the strong woman who devours men because of our magical abilities - we bleed and don't die. Therefore, we must have some inherent evil and that evil must be contained. Generations have tried to tamp down the Lilith that resides in all of us, just waiting to be freed.
So it seems goes the strong female lead in fiction. If, and only if, she has been raped or beaten or otherwise horribly misused, has lost a sibling or a parent to violence, will she be allowed to acknowledge her bloodlust. The violence done to her unlocks the deep-seated resentment, and society understands—not condones, mind you, but understands—because of what she's been through.
In other words, society has conditioned us to tamp down our feminine wiles, to stow away our power, to hide behind our men and only emerge once we've been raked over the coals through some unspeakable violence.
Bullshit.
Bullshit, bullshit, bullshit.
What in the hell is that all about???
Why can't a woman be strong because she's strong? I know we're talking about fiction here, and we need to have a weakness that's apparent in order to "relate" to the characters, but I'm always amazed at just how many female lead characters fall prey to this. Mind you, and this is an important caveat, there are instances of this that mold the character into who they become that won’t work any other way.
Karin Slaughter's Sara Linton is a perfect example. She is so touched by the evil that's done to her that it's now imprinted itself on her psyche, and we know that evil begets evil. They can smell it hopping around in the veins, whispering the siren's call filth vile exremous hate that emanates from the very cells of the blood they've permeated. She has no choice but to go forth and battle evil, because it follows her everywhere she goes, sensing her weakness, and her strength.
Our Zoë Sharp's Charlie Fox is another that can be cited here as an appropriate product of an unspeakable violence. Zoë's books work for me because there's an unanswered question that rides through the series. On the surface, Charlie becomes a monster, a killer, because she has been forced to become one through the monstrous act that's done to her. But did she? Or was there latent evil in her system? Would she be who she is despite the despicable actions of her teammates? There are many people who don't turn into a killer after violence is done to them. I think there resides a small possibility that Charlie would have ended up exactly where she was regardless of her rape. Charlie is my favorite kind of character, the moral person who does immoral things. Her struggles with her new reality are some of the most nuanced in modern fiction today.
But many, many writers take this path—the tortured backstory—as a shortcut to give their women depth, and it can fall flat.
On the surface, it’s a psychological windfall. We cheer because it's the underdog syndrome, the need to root for a character who has glimpsed the depths of hell and can come back to tell us all about it. Don't get me wrong, some of my favorite books have female characters who've had some roughness in their past. I'm not saying this is wrong, or bad, or you shouldn't do it. It's just a phenomenon that I find fascinating, a trend that I'm not sure is a good one.
Why?
Because we're victimizing our heroines to make them appear more heroic.
When I was first writing Taylor, something was very one-dimensional about her. Looking back, I understand now that she was too perfect. I asked an old English professor for advice and she said something vitally important: she needs to have a weakness. That was an a-ha moment for me. Oh, I thought. She needs to have a weakness. Okay. I can do that. Now what would that be????
You can see how easy it would be, at this particular point in time, to insert an unspeakable evil into her past that makes her what she is. Weakness, though, bespoke weak to me, and that was exactly the opposite effect that I wanted. My girl wasn't going to be weak. She was going to be kick ass, and not because she was driven by a demon, it's just who she was. So in the first book, Taylor smokes. That's her weakness, her humanizing factor. And it works for me. She doesn’t have a big secret in her closet, a tragedy that drove her to become a cop. She chose that route because it was the right thing to do. Many might find her boring because she is a moral person doing moral things because of an overarching desire to rid the world of evil. I don’t know.
Just for the record, I am not a feminist, by any means. I'm happy in my role in life, being the wife, being the nurturer. I do hate that women aren't paid equally for their work, and I will become highly annoyed if you suggest to me where my place is or neglect to treat me like a lady. But I've worked in male dominated environments before, and I learned very early on that there were two ways to get a leg up. One, sleep your way there. Two, earn the respect of your team. Guess which route I took?
And I'll tell you, earning the respect of your team means showing absolutely no weakness. So when it came time to write my female character in a male world, there was no chance she'd be showing any either. I just don't know how to program that way.
So. Am I completely off base here? Would you rather see the damaged soul find redemption? Or is it okay for women to finally come into their own in crime fiction? Look at the double standard that exists when it comes to sex: I know if there was a female lead who acted like the men, we'd all get into trouble. It's not ladylike to have desires and act on them - that makes you a slut. But a male character can screw his way through the book and no one bats an eyelash.
How is this any different?
Wine of the Week: 2007 Feudo Arancio Nero d'Avola Sambuca di Sicilia paired with a hearty puttanesca sauce.
(Oh come on, you knew that was coming....)
June 26, 2009
Never Let Them See You Sweat
Ah, nerves.
Many of you know that I nearly came apart early on in my career because I was going to have to do the one thing I was terrified of doing. And when I say terrified, I mean heart-pounding, panic-attack, sweaty-palms, spots-dancing-before-your-eyes, stomach-tied-in-embarrassingly-gurgly-knots, on-the-verge-of-passing-out terrified.
Of course I’m talking about speaking in public.
And I’m not talking about a mild case of nerves, either.
I’ve always had problems with being the center of attention. And no, I will not pay for the keyboard you just spit your coffee onto, because I am dead serious. Having people look to me to be the voice of reason, hell, to be the voice at all, isn’t my cuppa.
“But JT,” you say, “that can’t be true. You have such an outgoing, effervescent personality. I’ve seen you at conferences, laughing in the bar, having a grand old time.” And you’d be right – in my element, with my friends, I’m entirely at ease and not worried of making an ass of myself.
But being in front of a group is much, much different than being a part of a group.
I remember, long, long ago, a semi-drunken night at one of Nashville’s adult establishments where I was crying, quite literally, on Randy’s shoulder in fear. “What if the book sells?” I wailed. “I’ll have to talk to people. I’ll have to get up and speak. I don’t think I can do that.”
“You’ll do what you have to,” my eminently practical husband said, before taking me home and pouring me into the bed.
Imagine the terror I felt when the books did sell. The weeks leading up to my debut were unsettling, to say the least. I was planning a launch party, at which I was going to have to, gulp, speak. I wrote out a speech, figuring I’d just read and pray no one laughed to my face. Before I knew it, there were interviews, and signings set up in 12 states, and I knew I needed to conquer my fears, and fast.
I relayed my worry in an offhand comment to my doctor, and he prescribed medication to help me conquer my fear. And conquer my fear it did. Inderal is a beta-blocker, used for lowering blood pressure. It’s the medication they prescribe for people afraid of flying. It works to even your heartbeat so you don’t get the palpitations and sweaty palms. It nips your fear in the bud. “Take it 30 minutes before you go on,” he told me, “and you’ll be fine.”
And strangely enough, it worked.
But it had its drawbacks. Most of my speaking engagements were an hour long, and I’d noticed, somewhere around the 40 minute mark, a wild sense of unreality, like I was outside of myself looking in. My head would feel sort of floaty, and my heart would pound a few beats more than entirely necessary. Which would make me stumble. Not a perfect scenario.
Ultimately, it wasn’t a doctor who cured me, but a fellow writer. My friend James O. Born saw me popping pills at Southern Festival of Books and asked what the deal was. I told him and he laughed— that hearty guffaw that Jim has—and asked me, “What in the world are you afraid of? Do you think the audience is going to rush the stage, throw you down and gang-rape you?”
“Well, no,” I answered.
“Then what’s the big deal?”
He was right, of course. My next event, I skipped the Inderal. I made it through just fine.
That was two years ago. I’ve fully mastered my nerves now. No medication necessary, a few deep breaths before I go on and I’m fine. I’ve gotten to the point when I’m decent at the speaking part, I think. I still much prefer panels and group signings to speaking solo, but I can manage just fine either way. I just turn on JT, author girl, and become what the audience needs to see. My problems are behind me.
Aren’t they?
Not so fast.
I had an event last week, my last of the summer, in fact. I’m taking a few months off promotion to focus on me, something that’s been sorely lacking since I started this gig. I was really looking forward to this event; it felt like a chapter was closing.
Until I woke up at 4 in the morning with some sort of food poisoning.
Terribly sick.
I couldn’t cancel – this event had been booked for months, a large turnout was expected, a bookstore was coming in to sell the books – I just didn’t have the heart to bail on them. So I sucked down a bottle of Pepto and said a prayer.
To no avail. I got sick before I left the house. I got sick as soon as I got to the venue. I managed to meet my hostesses before I had to bolt to the bathroom again. When they served lunch, I nearly came undone at the table.
And suddenly, the nerves kicked in. Nerves like I hadn’t had in two years. Bordering on panic attack nerves. I honestly didn’t think I was going to be able to pull it off. Try as I may, I couldn’t put on my JT, author girl, suit and go get ‘em, tiger. I was shaky and sweaty and pale and feeling terrible, and I couldn’t for the life of me separate me from JT.
I’ve spoken before of the dual personalities that reside inside my body. The people who know me, know my real name and are a part of my real day-to-day life, aren’t always the same people who know JT and are a part of my book life. I do try to keep the two separate, if only as a buffer for the inevitable bad reviews that happen to that poor JT girl. It’s that same other person who takes over when I have to perform. No true artist can let the world see their tortured soul, the tiny, squawking baby bird inside the glorious Phoenix we must project. You drape yourself in whatever invisible cloth you have designed as your mask, do your thing, and shed it when it’s over.
But that little bit of quiet magic wasn’t working for me last week. I finally had to tell my tablemates that I wasn’t feeling all that hot and had a bad case of the nerves, because I think they were about ready to send out for some sort of elephant tranquilizers. They were very sweet, and understanding, and allowed me some space to gather myself, then smartly got me talking about the books until I finally, finally settled down.
They say never let them see you sweat. And no one outside of my table knew I wasn't on my game, which helped. When I got up to speak I was okay. Not great, but okay. I gave them my best, but left disappointed that I couldn’t give them the whole show, the full monty. No one who was there had ever seen me speak before, so I’m sure it came across as completely capable. But it wasn’t my most stellar effort.
I’ve only performed sick one other time, at Left Coast Crime in Denver, just after the Great Kidney Stone Attack of 08. I swore that I’d never do it again, because I don’t want to shortchange the readers. There's a level of expectation involved in public promotion, so much that I understand the desire to be a recluse. I’ve read that Henry Fonda threw up before every performance. I know there are athletes and actors and writers and politicians who do the same. And I applaud every person who tries to overcome their terror and fulfill their purpose. It’s hard, and you should be lauded for your efforts.
For you newbies out there who may be suffering from stage fright, it’s okay. We’ve all been there. The audience is incredibly forgiving. They want to see you succeed. They will be kind. And always remember, no one knows your topic like you do. You are the expert. If you feel yourself faltering, talk about your inspirations and that should get you through the worst of it.
So what about you, ‘Rati? Ever experience performance anxiety? (And that's for everyone - not just authors have to deal with these issues.)
Wine of the Week: 2006 Cellar No. 8 Merlot
Many of you know that I nearly came apart early on in my career because I was going to have to do the one thing I was terrified of doing. And when I say terrified, I mean heart-pounding, panic-attack, sweaty-palms, spots-dancing-before-your-eyes, stomach-tied-in-embarrassingly-gurgly-knots, on-the-verge-of-passing-out terrified.
Of course I’m talking about speaking in public.
And I’m not talking about a mild case of nerves, either.
I’ve always had problems with being the center of attention. And no, I will not pay for the keyboard you just spit your coffee onto, because I am dead serious. Having people look to me to be the voice of reason, hell, to be the voice at all, isn’t my cuppa.
“But JT,” you say, “that can’t be true. You have such an outgoing, effervescent personality. I’ve seen you at conferences, laughing in the bar, having a grand old time.” And you’d be right – in my element, with my friends, I’m entirely at ease and not worried of making an ass of myself.
But being in front of a group is much, much different than being a part of a group.
I remember, long, long ago, a semi-drunken night at one of Nashville’s adult establishments where I was crying, quite literally, on Randy’s shoulder in fear. “What if the book sells?” I wailed. “I’ll have to talk to people. I’ll have to get up and speak. I don’t think I can do that.”
“You’ll do what you have to,” my eminently practical husband said, before taking me home and pouring me into the bed.
Imagine the terror I felt when the books did sell. The weeks leading up to my debut were unsettling, to say the least. I was planning a launch party, at which I was going to have to, gulp, speak. I wrote out a speech, figuring I’d just read and pray no one laughed to my face. Before I knew it, there were interviews, and signings set up in 12 states, and I knew I needed to conquer my fears, and fast.
I relayed my worry in an offhand comment to my doctor, and he prescribed medication to help me conquer my fear. And conquer my fear it did. Inderal is a beta-blocker, used for lowering blood pressure. It’s the medication they prescribe for people afraid of flying. It works to even your heartbeat so you don’t get the palpitations and sweaty palms. It nips your fear in the bud. “Take it 30 minutes before you go on,” he told me, “and you’ll be fine.”
And strangely enough, it worked.
But it had its drawbacks. Most of my speaking engagements were an hour long, and I’d noticed, somewhere around the 40 minute mark, a wild sense of unreality, like I was outside of myself looking in. My head would feel sort of floaty, and my heart would pound a few beats more than entirely necessary. Which would make me stumble. Not a perfect scenario.
Ultimately, it wasn’t a doctor who cured me, but a fellow writer. My friend James O. Born saw me popping pills at Southern Festival of Books and asked what the deal was. I told him and he laughed— that hearty guffaw that Jim has—and asked me, “What in the world are you afraid of? Do you think the audience is going to rush the stage, throw you down and gang-rape you?”
“Well, no,” I answered.
“Then what’s the big deal?”
He was right, of course. My next event, I skipped the Inderal. I made it through just fine.
That was two years ago. I’ve fully mastered my nerves now. No medication necessary, a few deep breaths before I go on and I’m fine. I’ve gotten to the point when I’m decent at the speaking part, I think. I still much prefer panels and group signings to speaking solo, but I can manage just fine either way. I just turn on JT, author girl, and become what the audience needs to see. My problems are behind me.
Aren’t they?
Not so fast.
I had an event last week, my last of the summer, in fact. I’m taking a few months off promotion to focus on me, something that’s been sorely lacking since I started this gig. I was really looking forward to this event; it felt like a chapter was closing.
Until I woke up at 4 in the morning with some sort of food poisoning.
Terribly sick.
I couldn’t cancel – this event had been booked for months, a large turnout was expected, a bookstore was coming in to sell the books – I just didn’t have the heart to bail on them. So I sucked down a bottle of Pepto and said a prayer.
To no avail. I got sick before I left the house. I got sick as soon as I got to the venue. I managed to meet my hostesses before I had to bolt to the bathroom again. When they served lunch, I nearly came undone at the table.
And suddenly, the nerves kicked in. Nerves like I hadn’t had in two years. Bordering on panic attack nerves. I honestly didn’t think I was going to be able to pull it off. Try as I may, I couldn’t put on my JT, author girl, suit and go get ‘em, tiger. I was shaky and sweaty and pale and feeling terrible, and I couldn’t for the life of me separate me from JT.
I’ve spoken before of the dual personalities that reside inside my body. The people who know me, know my real name and are a part of my real day-to-day life, aren’t always the same people who know JT and are a part of my book life. I do try to keep the two separate, if only as a buffer for the inevitable bad reviews that happen to that poor JT girl. It’s that same other person who takes over when I have to perform. No true artist can let the world see their tortured soul, the tiny, squawking baby bird inside the glorious Phoenix we must project. You drape yourself in whatever invisible cloth you have designed as your mask, do your thing, and shed it when it’s over.
But that little bit of quiet magic wasn’t working for me last week. I finally had to tell my tablemates that I wasn’t feeling all that hot and had a bad case of the nerves, because I think they were about ready to send out for some sort of elephant tranquilizers. They were very sweet, and understanding, and allowed me some space to gather myself, then smartly got me talking about the books until I finally, finally settled down.
They say never let them see you sweat. And no one outside of my table knew I wasn't on my game, which helped. When I got up to speak I was okay. Not great, but okay. I gave them my best, but left disappointed that I couldn’t give them the whole show, the full monty. No one who was there had ever seen me speak before, so I’m sure it came across as completely capable. But it wasn’t my most stellar effort.
I’ve only performed sick one other time, at Left Coast Crime in Denver, just after the Great Kidney Stone Attack of 08. I swore that I’d never do it again, because I don’t want to shortchange the readers. There's a level of expectation involved in public promotion, so much that I understand the desire to be a recluse. I’ve read that Henry Fonda threw up before every performance. I know there are athletes and actors and writers and politicians who do the same. And I applaud every person who tries to overcome their terror and fulfill their purpose. It’s hard, and you should be lauded for your efforts.
For you newbies out there who may be suffering from stage fright, it’s okay. We’ve all been there. The audience is incredibly forgiving. They want to see you succeed. They will be kind. And always remember, no one knows your topic like you do. You are the expert. If you feel yourself faltering, talk about your inspirations and that should get you through the worst of it.
So what about you, ‘Rati? Ever experience performance anxiety? (And that's for everyone - not just authors have to deal with these issues.)
Wine of the Week: 2006 Cellar No. 8 Merlot
June 24, 2009
Shadows Fall N Friends Interviews Me about... well... everything.
Hi J.T. and welcome to SHADOWS FALL N FRIENDS. When did you start scribbling? Tell us a bit about your writing history.
I’ve been a writer my whole life. I started young, with picture book stories, little shorts with handmade felt hard covers that I illustrated and carried around proudly. I dabbled in poetry, read anything my parents would let me (which was pretty much everything) and dreamed of being famous one day. Then came my first introduction to the harsh world of publishing.
I won a contest when I was in the third grade – a poetry assignment for the local newspaper. I was studying slavery at the time, and wrote this poem from a slave’s point of view. My grandmother on my Dad’s side was a journalistic type; she wrote a column in the newspaper, did some short romances, that kind of stuff. My parents sent her the poem. She sent it to TRUE CONFESSIONS magazine. I promptly received a very nice REJECTION LETTER. I was eight. I understood why they didn’t want my poem about slavery – really, what’s romantic about that?
Fast forward to college, senior year, and a professor who told me I’d never get published. That probably offhand comment by a frustrated artist killed my creative spirit. I stopped writing, took a job in politics, went to graduate school to learn how to run political campaigns. Met my husband, so I guess I need to thank her at the same time. It’s one of those things, the road not taken, which baffles me. I can’t imagine doing it any other way, but what if she had been encouraging, thought I should go ahead with my MFA? Would I still be here?
Fast forward to 2003. I’m living in Tennessee, am in between jobs, and have some time on my hands while I recover from back surgery. I’m reading John Sandford’s Prey series front to back. I have a wild hair. I’m going to write a book.
What inspired you to write this book?
In 2006, I saw an article from a North Carolina newspaper about a young pregnant mother named Michelle Young who was found murdered by her sister. Her death was unspeakably violent, and her child had been alone in the house for days with her mother’s corpse. The media reported a number of salient details, including the bloody footprints the child had left through the house. I watched the case, hoping there would be a resolution. Unfortunately, Michelle Young’s murder still isn’t solved. Her husband is the prime suspect.
Her story became the opening of JUDAS KISS.
The crime stories that seem to capture our interest as a society are the ones that take place where we feel the safest, which is inside our own homes. That’s where the majority of homicides take place. And we all know how much the media loves a good suburban murder, especially in my fictional Nashville. In the novel, there’s a sense of the fantastic surrounding this case, an “it could have happened to me” mentality couple with the media frenzy – satellite trucks parks on quiet streets, reporters camped on the lawns, every moment chronicled. It doesn’t happen that way in the Section 8 housing. The drug and vendetta killings don’t make the news very much. So in a sense, I’m capitalizing on what does capture our attention.
What kind of work routine did you use?
I’m a night owl, so I rise late in the morning, do the business side (answer email, read Murderati, Twitter, etc.) From 12-4 I write. I shoot for at least 1,000 words a day. It takes me six months to write a book – one month for research, four for writing, and one for editing. In a perfect world, I’d be writing a solid eight months out of the year, and researching and edited in the other four. Unfortunately, it never works that way, because the books go through their process at the house, and need touring, promotion, etc. It’s a juggling act, but an awful lot of fun.
What was the biggest challenge you encountered completing this book?
Actually, I had a lot of trouble because it was the first book I’d ever had more than a bare bones outline for. I had an in-depth 13 page synopsis, and it threw me for a loop because I’m a pantser – I write by the seat of my pants. My feeling is if I’m surprised, the reader will be too. I also think that despite my difficulties having a script to follow, the book is my best effort, the most solid of all my stories. I’m working on the sixth book in the series now, and I’m outlining that one, simply because I have the time and I’d like to see if I’m still anti-outline. I can always throw it out if it becomes too confining.
What was the greatest reward?
The starred Publisher’s Weekly review, hands down. I was shocked, and thrilled.
Why did you choose this particular title for your work?
It’s a literal title – the kiss of betrayal. I named it two years before I wrote it – sometimes a book knows its name from the start. In contrast, my fourth, THE COLD ROOM, is on its third title. I also must, must, must have a title before I can start writing. I can’t work without one.
What advice would you give to writers trying to get published?
Write every day. Read. Write every day. Read. Write every day. Read. Read. Read some more.
And follow your heart. You always hear write what you know. Well, I knew less than nothing about being a cop, but I’m passionate about forensics and behavioral analysis. I wanted to write something I’d enjoy reading, and knew I’d love doing the research. And I get to hang around with a bunch of cops now, so it was all worth it.
What book would you tell them is a must to read and why?
Stephen King’s ON WRITING and Elizabeth George’s WRITE AWAY. King’s book changed the way I thought about my writing. I read it while I was writing JUDAS KISS, and it shows, I think. The George book I read back at the very beginning. It’s a hugely detailed “Process,” and I highly recommend it for writers doing standalone, because it teaches how to world-build. And Christopher Vogler’s THE WRITER’S JOURNEY, which covers the mythic structure of fiction.
Who is your favorite author and why?
I’m a huge, huge fan of so many writers, it’s hard to pinpoint just one. I take different things from different authors and different styles. That said, in crime fiction, John Connolly is one of the most talented writers alive. John Sandford and Lee Child are brilliant series writers, Diana Gabaldon writes my favorite historical time-travel romances. I also love Nabokov, Austen, Rand and Rowling.
What book are you reading right now?
Jeff Abbott’s COLLISION. Mr. Abbott is another one of my favourites – the smart reader’s thriller writer. He’s fantastic.
What advice would you give to a debut novelist to survive in today’s publishing world?
Patience is a virtue, and perseverance is key. Be a good teammate, and MEET YOUR DEADLINES. I can’t emphasize that enough. When your book goes on submission, start the next one. Write thank you notes, and be sure that any kindness you receive, you pay forward. Karma is hard at work in the publishing industry. I have more tips on my website, JTEllison.com.
Thanks for having me!
My pleasure. Thanks for dropping by and all the best with the new book.
I’ve been a writer my whole life. I started young, with picture book stories, little shorts with handmade felt hard covers that I illustrated and carried around proudly. I dabbled in poetry, read anything my parents would let me (which was pretty much everything) and dreamed of being famous one day. Then came my first introduction to the harsh world of publishing.
I won a contest when I was in the third grade – a poetry assignment for the local newspaper. I was studying slavery at the time, and wrote this poem from a slave’s point of view. My grandmother on my Dad’s side was a journalistic type; she wrote a column in the newspaper, did some short romances, that kind of stuff. My parents sent her the poem. She sent it to TRUE CONFESSIONS magazine. I promptly received a very nice REJECTION LETTER. I was eight. I understood why they didn’t want my poem about slavery – really, what’s romantic about that?
Fast forward to college, senior year, and a professor who told me I’d never get published. That probably offhand comment by a frustrated artist killed my creative spirit. I stopped writing, took a job in politics, went to graduate school to learn how to run political campaigns. Met my husband, so I guess I need to thank her at the same time. It’s one of those things, the road not taken, which baffles me. I can’t imagine doing it any other way, but what if she had been encouraging, thought I should go ahead with my MFA? Would I still be here?
Fast forward to 2003. I’m living in Tennessee, am in between jobs, and have some time on my hands while I recover from back surgery. I’m reading John Sandford’s Prey series front to back. I have a wild hair. I’m going to write a book.
What inspired you to write this book?
In 2006, I saw an article from a North Carolina newspaper about a young pregnant mother named Michelle Young who was found murdered by her sister. Her death was unspeakably violent, and her child had been alone in the house for days with her mother’s corpse. The media reported a number of salient details, including the bloody footprints the child had left through the house. I watched the case, hoping there would be a resolution. Unfortunately, Michelle Young’s murder still isn’t solved. Her husband is the prime suspect.
Her story became the opening of JUDAS KISS.
The crime stories that seem to capture our interest as a society are the ones that take place where we feel the safest, which is inside our own homes. That’s where the majority of homicides take place. And we all know how much the media loves a good suburban murder, especially in my fictional Nashville. In the novel, there’s a sense of the fantastic surrounding this case, an “it could have happened to me” mentality couple with the media frenzy – satellite trucks parks on quiet streets, reporters camped on the lawns, every moment chronicled. It doesn’t happen that way in the Section 8 housing. The drug and vendetta killings don’t make the news very much. So in a sense, I’m capitalizing on what does capture our attention.
What kind of work routine did you use?
I’m a night owl, so I rise late in the morning, do the business side (answer email, read Murderati, Twitter, etc.) From 12-4 I write. I shoot for at least 1,000 words a day. It takes me six months to write a book – one month for research, four for writing, and one for editing. In a perfect world, I’d be writing a solid eight months out of the year, and researching and edited in the other four. Unfortunately, it never works that way, because the books go through their process at the house, and need touring, promotion, etc. It’s a juggling act, but an awful lot of fun.
What was the biggest challenge you encountered completing this book?
Actually, I had a lot of trouble because it was the first book I’d ever had more than a bare bones outline for. I had an in-depth 13 page synopsis, and it threw me for a loop because I’m a pantser – I write by the seat of my pants. My feeling is if I’m surprised, the reader will be too. I also think that despite my difficulties having a script to follow, the book is my best effort, the most solid of all my stories. I’m working on the sixth book in the series now, and I’m outlining that one, simply because I have the time and I’d like to see if I’m still anti-outline. I can always throw it out if it becomes too confining.
What was the greatest reward?
The starred Publisher’s Weekly review, hands down. I was shocked, and thrilled.
Why did you choose this particular title for your work?
It’s a literal title – the kiss of betrayal. I named it two years before I wrote it – sometimes a book knows its name from the start. In contrast, my fourth, THE COLD ROOM, is on its third title. I also must, must, must have a title before I can start writing. I can’t work without one.
What advice would you give to writers trying to get published?
Write every day. Read. Write every day. Read. Write every day. Read. Read. Read some more.
And follow your heart. You always hear write what you know. Well, I knew less than nothing about being a cop, but I’m passionate about forensics and behavioral analysis. I wanted to write something I’d enjoy reading, and knew I’d love doing the research. And I get to hang around with a bunch of cops now, so it was all worth it.
What book would you tell them is a must to read and why?
Stephen King’s ON WRITING and Elizabeth George’s WRITE AWAY. King’s book changed the way I thought about my writing. I read it while I was writing JUDAS KISS, and it shows, I think. The George book I read back at the very beginning. It’s a hugely detailed “Process,” and I highly recommend it for writers doing standalone, because it teaches how to world-build. And Christopher Vogler’s THE WRITER’S JOURNEY, which covers the mythic structure of fiction.
Who is your favorite author and why?
I’m a huge, huge fan of so many writers, it’s hard to pinpoint just one. I take different things from different authors and different styles. That said, in crime fiction, John Connolly is one of the most talented writers alive. John Sandford and Lee Child are brilliant series writers, Diana Gabaldon writes my favorite historical time-travel romances. I also love Nabokov, Austen, Rand and Rowling.
What book are you reading right now?
Jeff Abbott’s COLLISION. Mr. Abbott is another one of my favourites – the smart reader’s thriller writer. He’s fantastic.
What advice would you give to a debut novelist to survive in today’s publishing world?
Patience is a virtue, and perseverance is key. Be a good teammate, and MEET YOUR DEADLINES. I can’t emphasize that enough. When your book goes on submission, start the next one. Write thank you notes, and be sure that any kindness you receive, you pay forward. Karma is hard at work in the publishing industry. I have more tips on my website, JTEllison.com.
Thanks for having me!
My pleasure. Thanks for dropping by and all the best with the new book.
June 01, 2009
When Ego Attacks
Hubby and I went to a concert a couple of Saturdays ago, one I’d been looking forward to for weeks. Months! Billy Joel, with Elton John.
Now, for the record, I adore Billy Joel. Adore the music, the stories, the way he engages the audience. I’ve seen him in concert before, and it was one of the best shows I’ve ever seen. It was at the Cap Center (now US Airways Arena) in Landover, Maryland. I was in high school, which meant a limited allowance, so I could only afford to purchase the cheap seats. Obstructed view. Behind the stage. I was a little bummed, but figured I’d be able to hear, even if I couldn’t see.
Boy, was I surprised. Billy Joel set up his stage with pianos on all four corners, and made a point of playing to every section of the crowd. Even though my seats were “obstructed,” I had a great view, and for a quarter of the concert, Billy sang directly to me. He was funny, self-effacing and charming. The music was outstanding. I went home feeling like I’d been a part of something special, something unique. He’d touched me, without ever having set eyes on me, or knowing I was there. Now that’s power.
Fast forward to current day. We can afford better seats now, though through a timing error we ended up in the nosebleeds. My vertigo and I enjoyed that. Thankfully, the lights went down quickly, and out came Billy and Elton. They played two songs in duet, then Billy exited the stage and Elton took over.
And I mean it when I say Elton took over. The lights. The flash. The pure, unadulterated rock. The individual songs that went on (and on, and on) for fifteen to twenty minutes. And after each song (finally) finished, Elton ran around the stage, banging himself on the chest and inciting the crowd for applause. If I had a microphone near his mind, it would have very clearly screamed LOOK AT ME!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Yawn.
We slipped out, took a break, got a drink, walked around, and still he played. Now, don’t get me wrong, there’s a lot of Elton John that I like. But this was a full-on Wembley Stadium show sandwiched into the Sommet Center. And there was this crazy thing that was also supposed to be going on..... Oh, right. Billy Joel.
Elton played for an hour and a half, and after every single song, he paraded around, basking in the adulation. It just felt so forced, so unnecessary. And in contrast, when Billy Joel finally was allowed to take the stage, he started a conversation with the crowd. He apologized to the people with the crappy seats. He told jokes. He talked about his love for, and connection to, Nashville. He took a moment after each song to introduce a band mate. He made it about us, and them, and not about him.
He had the crowd eating out of his hand in two seconds, simply because he seemed to grasp something Elton John didn’t. Billy was there for us. He was playing for us. Elton, sadly, played at us. Elton was a performer, but Billy was an entertainer.
And at the end of the concert, Elton walked off the stage and refused to do the encore. So disappointing.
We’ve all met those kinds of people, the ones who ask you how you are, then immediately launch into a recitation of how they are. The people who self-aggrandize, who bang their chests and do everything to get people to notice them. The people who are desperate for any kind of attention, and will do whatever it takes to make sure they’re at the center of it all.
There’s a lesson to be taken away from this. We authors, for better or for worse, are public figures. There are expectations, and challenges, along the way. It’s a heady, heady experience to have people read your work and appreciate it, to gain fans, to entertain strangers. And it’s very easy to fall into the “me” mentality: to think your life, your work, your stories are more important, more entertaining, and more appreciated than anyone else’s at the table. To let your ego take over and run away with your reputation.
I just hope that no one ever comes away from a conference, or a panel, or a signing that I’ve participated in and think that I’ve pulled an Elton John. Give me Billy Joel any day.
And speaking of Mr. Joel, I am most definitely in a New York state of mind. Literally, and figuratively. As you read this, I’m traipsing the streets of Manhattan, one of my favorites cities in the whole world. Lots of events on the plate: meetings galore, signings, and hopefully, a night to ourselves to have a quiet meal and some good wine. I’d like to squeeze in an afternoon at MOMA, a trip up the Empire State Building, and if my ankle holds up, a walk through Central Park. So please don’t hold it against me if I don’t comment in a timely fashion.
Your questions for today -
What's the best concert you've ever seen? Why?
And what's your favorite city in the whole wide world???
Wine of the Week: Chateau Ross 2005 Big Bitch Red
Now, for the record, I adore Billy Joel. Adore the music, the stories, the way he engages the audience. I’ve seen him in concert before, and it was one of the best shows I’ve ever seen. It was at the Cap Center (now US Airways Arena) in Landover, Maryland. I was in high school, which meant a limited allowance, so I could only afford to purchase the cheap seats. Obstructed view. Behind the stage. I was a little bummed, but figured I’d be able to hear, even if I couldn’t see.
Boy, was I surprised. Billy Joel set up his stage with pianos on all four corners, and made a point of playing to every section of the crowd. Even though my seats were “obstructed,” I had a great view, and for a quarter of the concert, Billy sang directly to me. He was funny, self-effacing and charming. The music was outstanding. I went home feeling like I’d been a part of something special, something unique. He’d touched me, without ever having set eyes on me, or knowing I was there. Now that’s power.
Fast forward to current day. We can afford better seats now, though through a timing error we ended up in the nosebleeds. My vertigo and I enjoyed that. Thankfully, the lights went down quickly, and out came Billy and Elton. They played two songs in duet, then Billy exited the stage and Elton took over.
And I mean it when I say Elton took over. The lights. The flash. The pure, unadulterated rock. The individual songs that went on (and on, and on) for fifteen to twenty minutes. And after each song (finally) finished, Elton ran around the stage, banging himself on the chest and inciting the crowd for applause. If I had a microphone near his mind, it would have very clearly screamed LOOK AT ME!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Yawn.
We slipped out, took a break, got a drink, walked around, and still he played. Now, don’t get me wrong, there’s a lot of Elton John that I like. But this was a full-on Wembley Stadium show sandwiched into the Sommet Center. And there was this crazy thing that was also supposed to be going on..... Oh, right. Billy Joel.
Elton played for an hour and a half, and after every single song, he paraded around, basking in the adulation. It just felt so forced, so unnecessary. And in contrast, when Billy Joel finally was allowed to take the stage, he started a conversation with the crowd. He apologized to the people with the crappy seats. He told jokes. He talked about his love for, and connection to, Nashville. He took a moment after each song to introduce a band mate. He made it about us, and them, and not about him.
He had the crowd eating out of his hand in two seconds, simply because he seemed to grasp something Elton John didn’t. Billy was there for us. He was playing for us. Elton, sadly, played at us. Elton was a performer, but Billy was an entertainer.
And at the end of the concert, Elton walked off the stage and refused to do the encore. So disappointing.
We’ve all met those kinds of people, the ones who ask you how you are, then immediately launch into a recitation of how they are. The people who self-aggrandize, who bang their chests and do everything to get people to notice them. The people who are desperate for any kind of attention, and will do whatever it takes to make sure they’re at the center of it all.
There’s a lesson to be taken away from this. We authors, for better or for worse, are public figures. There are expectations, and challenges, along the way. It’s a heady, heady experience to have people read your work and appreciate it, to gain fans, to entertain strangers. And it’s very easy to fall into the “me” mentality: to think your life, your work, your stories are more important, more entertaining, and more appreciated than anyone else’s at the table. To let your ego take over and run away with your reputation.
I just hope that no one ever comes away from a conference, or a panel, or a signing that I’ve participated in and think that I’ve pulled an Elton John. Give me Billy Joel any day.
And speaking of Mr. Joel, I am most definitely in a New York state of mind. Literally, and figuratively. As you read this, I’m traipsing the streets of Manhattan, one of my favorites cities in the whole world. Lots of events on the plate: meetings galore, signings, and hopefully, a night to ourselves to have a quiet meal and some good wine. I’d like to squeeze in an afternoon at MOMA, a trip up the Empire State Building, and if my ankle holds up, a walk through Central Park. So please don’t hold it against me if I don’t comment in a timely fashion.
Your questions for today -
What's the best concert you've ever seen? Why?
And what's your favorite city in the whole wide world???
Wine of the Week: Chateau Ross 2005 Big Bitch Red
May 23, 2009
Cliff Jumping
"Far better is it to dare mighty things, to win glorious triumphs even though checkered by failures, than to rank with those poor spirits who neither enjoy nor suffer much because they live in the gray twilight that knows neither victory nor defeat."
-- Teddy Roosevelt
This is one of the best quotes of all time. Roosevelt had it right on the money. You must take chances in order to succeed in life. You must give in to your impulses every once in a while, trust your gut, know your own soul. You need to ignore the fact that the drop off the cliff is mighty, and jump anyway.
I had the opportunity to discuss my views on cliff jumping with three people recently. One is my husband, who jumped off a very, very high cliff indeed to start his own consulting firm at the first of the year. I don't think I've ever been so proud as I was when he told me he'd made the decision. It's a risk, certainly. But there is no reward in this life without risk.
Second is an author who is a bit of a cliff jumper herself, albeit one who likes to have knowledge of how far the fall might be. And the third is a friend who needed to be shoved, kicking and screaming, right on off the edge. Between the three of them, I engaged in several days worth of fascinating discussions about how fear can inhibit your growth, as a writer, as a person, as a lover and friend. It affirmed what I've always believed - Fear is the most dangerous part of life.
Allow me one of my earnest moments. I've never let fear get in my way. I would so much rather fail, to put it all out there and fall flat on my face, than never try at all. Better to have loved and lost, right? That's my personal credo.
Because, you see, I am a cliff jumper. And I want everyone to jump right along with me.
My darling husband reminds me, at times, that not everyone wants to be a cliff jumper. He says, "Honey, some of us like to walk to the edge, look over and ascertain how far the drop is."
Where's the fun in that?
I hold to the belief that if you look at how far you might fall, you'll back away from that edge and never jump.
Don't get me wrong, I'm not flighty about all this, rushing about succumbing to frivolous impulses. I'm just willing to take chances to further my career, my life and my soul. I never want to look back and say, man, I wish I'd done that. I want to do it. I want to run screaming along the beach and dive off mountains. I want to shoot for the brass ring with my career, and pray that somewhere along the way, the ring turns golden. I want to put my heart on the line, to give myself wholly and completely to my loved ones, even knowing that there's a chance my precious heart will get trampled.
I want a lot of things, and they aren't the kind of items you can buy in the store.
Nike has the slogan that you've heard all of us here at Murderati talk about. "Just Do It" embodies the life of a professional writer. "Ass in Chair," "Just Do It," "Work the Purple..." You've heard those phrases here. And I subscribe to all of them. We've gotten into this racket for a reason - we love to tell stories. We love to have that psychic interaction with a stranger, to affect their being through our words. We love to share our world with our fellow writers, with the readers and booksellers we meet on tour, with the editorial and agent teams we interact with at our houses. This business is one of communication, and if you're not willing to lay it on the line, you're going to have a hard time.
I believe in honesty, in open lines of communication, in taking chances. I believe fear will cripple your psyche. I believe that if you want to be a writer, you need to polish and submit, and that there are no excuses for not. I believe that if you're an established writer, you have a contract with everyone involved in your career to meet your deadlines and put your writing first. I believe that if you love someone, you tell them. It's as simple as that.
There is another quote that I believe in wholeheartedly. I've shared it here before, but this is so apropos to this particular post that I wanted to share it again.
"When you are content to be simply yourself and don't compare or compete, everybody will respect you."
-- Lao Tzu
So what about you? Have you jumped off any cliffs lately???
-- Teddy Roosevelt
This is one of the best quotes of all time. Roosevelt had it right on the money. You must take chances in order to succeed in life. You must give in to your impulses every once in a while, trust your gut, know your own soul. You need to ignore the fact that the drop off the cliff is mighty, and jump anyway.
I had the opportunity to discuss my views on cliff jumping with three people recently. One is my husband, who jumped off a very, very high cliff indeed to start his own consulting firm at the first of the year. I don't think I've ever been so proud as I was when he told me he'd made the decision. It's a risk, certainly. But there is no reward in this life without risk.
Second is an author who is a bit of a cliff jumper herself, albeit one who likes to have knowledge of how far the fall might be. And the third is a friend who needed to be shoved, kicking and screaming, right on off the edge. Between the three of them, I engaged in several days worth of fascinating discussions about how fear can inhibit your growth, as a writer, as a person, as a lover and friend. It affirmed what I've always believed - Fear is the most dangerous part of life.
Allow me one of my earnest moments. I've never let fear get in my way. I would so much rather fail, to put it all out there and fall flat on my face, than never try at all. Better to have loved and lost, right? That's my personal credo.
Because, you see, I am a cliff jumper. And I want everyone to jump right along with me.
My darling husband reminds me, at times, that not everyone wants to be a cliff jumper. He says, "Honey, some of us like to walk to the edge, look over and ascertain how far the drop is."
Where's the fun in that?
I hold to the belief that if you look at how far you might fall, you'll back away from that edge and never jump.
Don't get me wrong, I'm not flighty about all this, rushing about succumbing to frivolous impulses. I'm just willing to take chances to further my career, my life and my soul. I never want to look back and say, man, I wish I'd done that. I want to do it. I want to run screaming along the beach and dive off mountains. I want to shoot for the brass ring with my career, and pray that somewhere along the way, the ring turns golden. I want to put my heart on the line, to give myself wholly and completely to my loved ones, even knowing that there's a chance my precious heart will get trampled.
I want a lot of things, and they aren't the kind of items you can buy in the store.
Nike has the slogan that you've heard all of us here at Murderati talk about. "Just Do It" embodies the life of a professional writer. "Ass in Chair," "Just Do It," "Work the Purple..." You've heard those phrases here. And I subscribe to all of them. We've gotten into this racket for a reason - we love to tell stories. We love to have that psychic interaction with a stranger, to affect their being through our words. We love to share our world with our fellow writers, with the readers and booksellers we meet on tour, with the editorial and agent teams we interact with at our houses. This business is one of communication, and if you're not willing to lay it on the line, you're going to have a hard time.
I believe in honesty, in open lines of communication, in taking chances. I believe fear will cripple your psyche. I believe that if you want to be a writer, you need to polish and submit, and that there are no excuses for not. I believe that if you're an established writer, you have a contract with everyone involved in your career to meet your deadlines and put your writing first. I believe that if you love someone, you tell them. It's as simple as that.
There is another quote that I believe in wholeheartedly. I've shared it here before, but this is so apropos to this particular post that I wanted to share it again.
"When you are content to be simply yourself and don't compare or compete, everybody will respect you."
-- Lao Tzu
So what about you? Have you jumped off any cliffs lately???
May 21, 2009
Of Vampires and Jumpers
I don’t think it’s much of a stretch to say that for writers, life can sometimes seem like a series of vignettes, a compilation of observations that we distill into experiences and memories that propel our work. I’d even postulate that crime fiction writers get a wealth of inspiration from the everyday life going on around us – let’s face it, there is no desert when it comes to crime as inspiration. Just look at your evening news, the majority of lead stories are crime related. If it bleeds, it leads.
I know this is true for me. And over Christmas, I had an experience that shaped my view, sparked an idea, and gave me creative sustenance. I just wasn’t happy about it.
Hubby and I were heading to my parents, and their house is on an island. There are two bridges over to beachside, and we were heading toward the South Causeway, a relatively new structure that allows for large-mast ships to pass through on their journey along the Indialantic waterway. The North Causeway is still a charming drawbridge, the South is mammoth by comparison.
As we reached the base of the bridge, there were cop cars littering the road, and they were directing people to turn away. There have been some terrible accidents on the bridge – the speed limit is much too high, so the first thought was bad smash-up. But I saw a few people walking around at the top and realized, no. It was worse. It was a jumper.
Now, this bridge is big enough to do some serious damage if you went over unwittingly. About four stories high. Not a guaranteed death, but you’d get hurt. Badly.
I was horrified at my immediate reaction. We must pull over. I need to see this. I can work this into a story. I need to assimilate the scene, burn the images into my mental retinas. Before I knew it, I was vocalizing my thoughts. I told hubby we needed to stop. I heard myself giving him directions into the local library parking lot, which sits at the base of the bridge. There was already a group of people doing the same thing. But things got worse. I sickened myself when I realized I had my camera. In my bag, at my feet. And as the car stopped moving, it was in my hand.
A familiar sense of detachment flooded me. I got out of the car, and snapped a few shots, telling myself that if I were a photographer and this were my daily job, I wouldn’t have two seconds of hesitation about taking pictures. I’m simply documenting at this point, a purely dispassionate observer. I am not rooting for this man to jump. I am not glorying in his pain. I am not wondering what it would look like if he actually lets go of the railing he seems to be clinging to as if he really doesn’t want to be doing this. My mind can make all of those images and words for me. I am absorbing.
I am being a vampire.
I’ve seen some pretty nasty things. My research has taken me into darkness. I’ve been at a stabbing scene, seen the results of teenage head versus .44 magnum in a suicide, viewed autopsy photos and crime scene photos. But nothing could have ever prepared me for a group of people, gathered at the base of a very big bridge, all yelling one collective word. “JUMP!”
That’s right. While I’m mantra muttering Don’t Do It under my breath, the redneck assholes who were partaking in an afternoon of someone else’s misfortunes are wrapped in their superiority cloaks, screaming at this poor soul to kill himself.
But what did I look like to them? I’m the one with my camera in the air.
I felt a bit like a naturalist. On the Discovery Channel, you wonder how the videographers and photographers and announcers do it. There’s always the story of the lion pride, and the cub that’s gotten lost. We usually see the happy ending, the cub is reunited with his pride. But the tension I feel leading up to that moment is overwhelming. How many times did the cub not make it? When does reality intrude on the entertainment value?
If the documentarians are true to their work, they know there’s nothing they can do to put the cub back on the road to safety. They can’t interfere; it’s nature’s way. But how do they watch, and record, and voice-over while the hyenas strike?
I always tell myself, as I turn off the show before I find out what happens, that it’s happening right now, all over the world. The weak are being preyed upon by the strong. The naturalists know that if they weren’t there to document the process, it would happen regardless. That’s how I justified my actions at the bridge. If we hadn’t stopped for a soda and had been five minutes earlier, we would have driven by and never known the difference. But since we were there, I felt compelled to, at the very least, give the man’s story some credence. I told hubby if he did jump, at least I could find a way to mention it so he wasn’t lost in utter obscurity, didn’t become just another statistic.
He came down. He lived. I didn’t know that until the next day, when a brief mention in the newspaper handled the situation with surprising delicacy. I’m paraphrasing… Police closed the north Causeway for nearly an hour yesterday as they talked with a despondent man... Despondent. What a perfect word to describe the situation.
You may be surprised by that last bit. Yes, we left. I didn’t want to see what happened. I certainly didn’t want to see him go over. I was testing fate by even stopping and taking pictures. I was lucky that he didn’t let go while I was there.
This nameless, faceless stranger has been grafted into my next book; I’ve got a scene with a jumper. I intend to mine it for every detail I can, answer all the unanswered questions, glorify and inflate the situation to fictional proportions. And I have my memories and pictures to thank for guiding me. All’s well that ends well, right?
If I just weren’t thinking about what drove him to that bridge in the first place...
I know this is true for me. And over Christmas, I had an experience that shaped my view, sparked an idea, and gave me creative sustenance. I just wasn’t happy about it.
Hubby and I were heading to my parents, and their house is on an island. There are two bridges over to beachside, and we were heading toward the South Causeway, a relatively new structure that allows for large-mast ships to pass through on their journey along the Indialantic waterway. The North Causeway is still a charming drawbridge, the South is mammoth by comparison.
As we reached the base of the bridge, there were cop cars littering the road, and they were directing people to turn away. There have been some terrible accidents on the bridge – the speed limit is much too high, so the first thought was bad smash-up. But I saw a few people walking around at the top and realized, no. It was worse. It was a jumper.
Now, this bridge is big enough to do some serious damage if you went over unwittingly. About four stories high. Not a guaranteed death, but you’d get hurt. Badly.
I was horrified at my immediate reaction. We must pull over. I need to see this. I can work this into a story. I need to assimilate the scene, burn the images into my mental retinas. Before I knew it, I was vocalizing my thoughts. I told hubby we needed to stop. I heard myself giving him directions into the local library parking lot, which sits at the base of the bridge. There was already a group of people doing the same thing. But things got worse. I sickened myself when I realized I had my camera. In my bag, at my feet. And as the car stopped moving, it was in my hand.
A familiar sense of detachment flooded me. I got out of the car, and snapped a few shots, telling myself that if I were a photographer and this were my daily job, I wouldn’t have two seconds of hesitation about taking pictures. I’m simply documenting at this point, a purely dispassionate observer. I am not rooting for this man to jump. I am not glorying in his pain. I am not wondering what it would look like if he actually lets go of the railing he seems to be clinging to as if he really doesn’t want to be doing this. My mind can make all of those images and words for me. I am absorbing.
I am being a vampire.
I’ve seen some pretty nasty things. My research has taken me into darkness. I’ve been at a stabbing scene, seen the results of teenage head versus .44 magnum in a suicide, viewed autopsy photos and crime scene photos. But nothing could have ever prepared me for a group of people, gathered at the base of a very big bridge, all yelling one collective word. “JUMP!”
That’s right. While I’m mantra muttering Don’t Do It under my breath, the redneck assholes who were partaking in an afternoon of someone else’s misfortunes are wrapped in their superiority cloaks, screaming at this poor soul to kill himself.
But what did I look like to them? I’m the one with my camera in the air.
I felt a bit like a naturalist. On the Discovery Channel, you wonder how the videographers and photographers and announcers do it. There’s always the story of the lion pride, and the cub that’s gotten lost. We usually see the happy ending, the cub is reunited with his pride. But the tension I feel leading up to that moment is overwhelming. How many times did the cub not make it? When does reality intrude on the entertainment value?
If the documentarians are true to their work, they know there’s nothing they can do to put the cub back on the road to safety. They can’t interfere; it’s nature’s way. But how do they watch, and record, and voice-over while the hyenas strike?
I always tell myself, as I turn off the show before I find out what happens, that it’s happening right now, all over the world. The weak are being preyed upon by the strong. The naturalists know that if they weren’t there to document the process, it would happen regardless. That’s how I justified my actions at the bridge. If we hadn’t stopped for a soda and had been five minutes earlier, we would have driven by and never known the difference. But since we were there, I felt compelled to, at the very least, give the man’s story some credence. I told hubby if he did jump, at least I could find a way to mention it so he wasn’t lost in utter obscurity, didn’t become just another statistic.
He came down. He lived. I didn’t know that until the next day, when a brief mention in the newspaper handled the situation with surprising delicacy. I’m paraphrasing… Police closed the north Causeway for nearly an hour yesterday as they talked with a despondent man... Despondent. What a perfect word to describe the situation.
You may be surprised by that last bit. Yes, we left. I didn’t want to see what happened. I certainly didn’t want to see him go over. I was testing fate by even stopping and taking pictures. I was lucky that he didn’t let go while I was there.
This nameless, faceless stranger has been grafted into my next book; I’ve got a scene with a jumper. I intend to mine it for every detail I can, answer all the unanswered questions, glorify and inflate the situation to fictional proportions. And I have my memories and pictures to thank for guiding me. All’s well that ends well, right?
If I just weren’t thinking about what drove him to that bridge in the first place...
April 27, 2009
World Building
I was at the bank the other day, which is always a trip, because our bank branch is staffed with characters. There’s the comedian chick, the brooding manager, the upbeat and chipper trainee, and the artist. The artist and I get on well, because he’s a writer. He’s done songs, he’s done poems. But lately, he’s been working on a movie script.
You don’t expect to get enlightened at the bank. If anything, that’s about the last place I’d ever go. But the artist dropped a bomb on me, just a simple term that he used to describe what he was responsible for with the script he’s co-writing.
He’s the world builder.
Now I’m sure all you screenwriters just rolled your eyes and said DUH! but I’ve never done any screenwriting, nor worked in Hollywood, and this termed concept of world building was a new one to me.
Of course, I understand that I already have an intrinsic grasp of world building. I do it every time I sit down, open my laptop and create. Each story, each character, each setting, all goes into the world I’m building. I’m the God of my own land, the High Priestess of the Page.
I make the rules.
Oh, heady day!
Science fiction and fantasy writers do a bang up job of world building. Hobbits become heroes, dragons befriend young slayers, vampires turn vegetarian. Trees can speak and witches float around in soap bubbles. Lions rise from the dead and the labyrinth of our subconscious fears are realized. Good and evil have Janus faces, and nothing is as it seems.
In these alternate realities, there are fairy godmothers, guardian angels, and every possible incarnation of death. In Stephanie Meyer’s TWILIGHT series, the books work not because of the vampires, but because of the underlying story – a teenage girl who is uprooted and ends up in a faraway land where normal rules don’t apply. This transportation into a new world allows for a willing suspension of disbelief – that’s the trick. That’s the key.
It’s the driving force behind our culture’s creativity.
If you build it, they will come.
Historical romances sweep us into a land unknown. As a little girl, I remember getting lost in Karleen Koen’s THROUGH A GLASS DARKLY, only to emerge on the other end with a fascination for all things historical. Diana Gabaldon’s OUTLANDER series is completely transcendent. I am there. I am present. I am so entranced that I can see and smell everything the characters do. I’m not reading a book, or a story, I’m plowing through an alternate universe.
J.K. Rowling's Harry Potter books did that for me also. I still lament that I wasn’t able to attend Hogwarts, with all its bizarre idiosyncrasies and history.
Imagination in the hands of a competent world builder is something to be treasured, read and watched over and over again, striking a resonate chord with all who fall under its spell. It's just plain bliss.
The mythology behind these grandiose otherworlds are evident. They all have one thing in common: A hero, called to a journey. I’ve been reading Joseph Campbell and Christopher Vogler, (I’ve got a post coming on why I’m mad at Vogler...) and the whole concept of mythos and world building are foremost in my mind as I sit down to write a new Taylor Jackson novel. How am I going to bring Taylor’s world alive for you? What parts of Nashville have I missed in past novels that will give a real flavor to her world? It’s more than character, it’s using setting to define your story. I’ve always said Nashville is a character in my books. I want to show the essence of the city, the piquancy that comprises its hodgepodge cosmopolitan nature.
But I run smack into a brick wall rather quickly. My world? Already built. I’m using real places, real people, real streets and sights and smells. I can’t deviate from what we know this town to be without causing a fervor – and that’s rather limiting.
I started a standalone a few years ago, between my non-published novel and All the Pretty Girls. It’s about a female assassin named Cassiopeia with a chip implanted in her head that can be turned off and on, activating and deactivating her for duty. Sound familiar? Yes, Joss Whedon just released a television show, DOLLHOUSE, with a similar premise. I haven’t watched it because I don’t want to be influenced, because I’m still writing this book. From what I’ve heard, the brain chip is the extent of our similarities, so I’m not worried about finding a market for it once it’s done.
But it’s fun to write, because it expands reality a bit. I’m hoping this book allows me a chance to build a world outside of the careful construct of Nashville. It will take place all over the world, and I have the opportunity to make that world whatever I want it to be. Look at Michael Chabon’s THE YIDDISH POLICEMAN’S UNION. Sitka, Alaska becomes a world unto itself, with its own rules, its own idiosyncrasies. The characters live inside the construct Michael has laid out, and it works because we’re in the hands of a master manipulator, a writer who knows exactly how to twist the world to his own image.
But even the most humble story, if done well, can transport us into another’s life, into their world. We see through the characters eyes, feel their disappointments and frustrations. Whether the setting is as massive as Narnia or as small as a trailer park, if the author has done their job, we can lose ourselves in another world, at least for a time.
Wine of the Week: Sebecka Cabernet Pinotage An absolutely luscious South African wine with the cutest cork (yes, I said cutest cork) It's cheetah print!
You don’t expect to get enlightened at the bank. If anything, that’s about the last place I’d ever go. But the artist dropped a bomb on me, just a simple term that he used to describe what he was responsible for with the script he’s co-writing.
He’s the world builder.
Now I’m sure all you screenwriters just rolled your eyes and said DUH! but I’ve never done any screenwriting, nor worked in Hollywood, and this termed concept of world building was a new one to me.
Of course, I understand that I already have an intrinsic grasp of world building. I do it every time I sit down, open my laptop and create. Each story, each character, each setting, all goes into the world I’m building. I’m the God of my own land, the High Priestess of the Page.
I make the rules.
Oh, heady day!
Science fiction and fantasy writers do a bang up job of world building. Hobbits become heroes, dragons befriend young slayers, vampires turn vegetarian. Trees can speak and witches float around in soap bubbles. Lions rise from the dead and the labyrinth of our subconscious fears are realized. Good and evil have Janus faces, and nothing is as it seems.
In these alternate realities, there are fairy godmothers, guardian angels, and every possible incarnation of death. In Stephanie Meyer’s TWILIGHT series, the books work not because of the vampires, but because of the underlying story – a teenage girl who is uprooted and ends up in a faraway land where normal rules don’t apply. This transportation into a new world allows for a willing suspension of disbelief – that’s the trick. That’s the key.
It’s the driving force behind our culture’s creativity.
If you build it, they will come.
Historical romances sweep us into a land unknown. As a little girl, I remember getting lost in Karleen Koen’s THROUGH A GLASS DARKLY, only to emerge on the other end with a fascination for all things historical. Diana Gabaldon’s OUTLANDER series is completely transcendent. I am there. I am present. I am so entranced that I can see and smell everything the characters do. I’m not reading a book, or a story, I’m plowing through an alternate universe.
J.K. Rowling's Harry Potter books did that for me also. I still lament that I wasn’t able to attend Hogwarts, with all its bizarre idiosyncrasies and history.
Imagination in the hands of a competent world builder is something to be treasured, read and watched over and over again, striking a resonate chord with all who fall under its spell. It's just plain bliss.
The mythology behind these grandiose otherworlds are evident. They all have one thing in common: A hero, called to a journey. I’ve been reading Joseph Campbell and Christopher Vogler, (I’ve got a post coming on why I’m mad at Vogler...) and the whole concept of mythos and world building are foremost in my mind as I sit down to write a new Taylor Jackson novel. How am I going to bring Taylor’s world alive for you? What parts of Nashville have I missed in past novels that will give a real flavor to her world? It’s more than character, it’s using setting to define your story. I’ve always said Nashville is a character in my books. I want to show the essence of the city, the piquancy that comprises its hodgepodge cosmopolitan nature.
But I run smack into a brick wall rather quickly. My world? Already built. I’m using real places, real people, real streets and sights and smells. I can’t deviate from what we know this town to be without causing a fervor – and that’s rather limiting.
I started a standalone a few years ago, between my non-published novel and All the Pretty Girls. It’s about a female assassin named Cassiopeia with a chip implanted in her head that can be turned off and on, activating and deactivating her for duty. Sound familiar? Yes, Joss Whedon just released a television show, DOLLHOUSE, with a similar premise. I haven’t watched it because I don’t want to be influenced, because I’m still writing this book. From what I’ve heard, the brain chip is the extent of our similarities, so I’m not worried about finding a market for it once it’s done.
But it’s fun to write, because it expands reality a bit. I’m hoping this book allows me a chance to build a world outside of the careful construct of Nashville. It will take place all over the world, and I have the opportunity to make that world whatever I want it to be. Look at Michael Chabon’s THE YIDDISH POLICEMAN’S UNION. Sitka, Alaska becomes a world unto itself, with its own rules, its own idiosyncrasies. The characters live inside the construct Michael has laid out, and it works because we’re in the hands of a master manipulator, a writer who knows exactly how to twist the world to his own image.
But even the most humble story, if done well, can transport us into another’s life, into their world. We see through the characters eyes, feel their disappointments and frustrations. Whether the setting is as massive as Narnia or as small as a trailer park, if the author has done their job, we can lose ourselves in another world, at least for a time.
Wine of the Week: Sebecka Cabernet Pinotage An absolutely luscious South African wine with the cutest cork (yes, I said cutest cork) It's cheetah print!
April 03, 2009
Genesis
A few months ago, my friend Tim Hallinan asked me to participate in a series he was doing on creativity. I loved the concept, and though a bit terrorized to be included in the company of Emmy and Oscar winners, I gamely tried my hand. The basic question he asked us to contemplate: What Is Creativity?
I thought it might be interesting to have that debate here at Murderati, so today's blog is an adaptation of the one I wrote for Tim. I'd love to hear what YOU think.
Defining creativity to me is akin to the government’s views on obscenity – it’s something you recognize when you see it, but no one knows exactly the moment art crosses the line into obscenity. How do you define creativity? What does it mean? Is there a good definition?
I went back to the basics, and looked at what the word creativity means to the official folks who write the dictionary. They’re smart, they’ll have a good sense of it, right?
I loved the definition I found:
Creativity is “the ability to transcend traditional ideas, rules, patterns, relationships, or the like, and to create meaningful new ideas, forms, methods, interpretations, etc.; originality, progressiveness, or imagination.”
Transcendence. Now we’re talking.
But it’s still not perfect.
There is a difference, I think, between creativity and the creation of art. Creativity is simply a new way of doing things, a solution addressing a need. Creativity is problem solving. Anyone, given the right tools and motivation, can be creative. Art, on the other hand, is problem solving in its most esoteric form. Art gives solutions to problems that no one knew existed. Art creates problems to solve.
Look at it this way. You’re lost in a strange city. You approach a friendly looking fellow and ask, “How do I get from point A to point B?”
A normal person will tell you.
A creative person will give you a few routes and look at you quizzically, as if to say, “why couldn’t you think of that yourself?”
An artist, though, will argue about why you have to go from point A to point B. What about trying Point A to C instead, or, better yet, how about forgoing the path altogether and seeking a route to X?
When faced with a problem, a creative person will find a new, different way to solve it. An artist will find multiple solutions, different paths that are laden with color, sound, scent, characters and plot, try them all, figure out which ones work, then discard all of the solutions in favor of the most treacherous, difficult path, the one where no one has traveled before.
Ah, the road less travelled. That’s what separates the creative among us from the artists.
But you can’t get to the point of being an artist without being creative. So we’re back to the same old conundrum: What is creativity?
Creativity, obviously, is creation. It’s as simple, and as complex, as that.
Art, on the other hand, is something creative that transcends conventional ideology to develop something new and original that speaks to the audience. It is a contract between your mind and the rest of the world. Stephen King calls it a psychic connection between the writer and reader; the same could be said of a painter, or a musician, or an architect. Where there once was nothing, now there is something, and the audience sees that. They experience your thoughts through your medium. It’s overwhelming, if you think about it. All of this psychic communication, there for the taking.
That said, you don’t need to have any kind of approval, or recognition, to be creative. But it is the simple act of creating something new, something no one else has before, that makes you an artist – be it a novel, a poem, a screenplay, a painting, a ballet, a composition, a guitar lick, a new angle on an architectural drawing – anything that is creative in its nature can be art.
I realized that I was tightrope-walking the thin line between creativity and art early on, but had that budding insouciance nipped by a decidedly non-creative teacher who told me I’d never be published. There is nothing, nothing worse than fettering an artist. Some rise above the criticism, become because of it. I, unfortunately, did not. I walked away and spent fifteen soulless years looking for something. I knew what I was doing wasn’t right, I knew I wasn’t happy, I knew I was being stifled, but it never occurred to me to sit down and create my way through it.
I found that voice again through reading. I was recovering from a surgery, had oodles of time on my hands, and I lost myself in books. I read a lot during that year, everything I could get my hands on – historical, mysteries, thrillers, literary fiction. The words on the page were my lifeline back to a creative life.
It’s funny how the mind works. I wish I could say that I planned to become a novelist, that I wanted to play with the form, to create a literary thriller series that showcased my characters, my setting and my words. But I wasn’t that prescient. I had an idea, a spark. A creative moment, if you will, and my main character leapt into my head fully formed. She was tall, like me, blond-haired, gray-eyed, spoke with a slow, smoky southern accent. She was righteous, and good, and would be the protector of Nashville. Her name, of course, was Taylor Jackson. My very own Athena.
And with the name came a storyline from a dream – twin girls leading separate lives, one who would do anything to further her career, one who was dissatisfied with the life she’d been striving to build. And suddenly there was an antagonist, a man who was killing young girls. A backstory.
Before I knew it, I’d written an opening paragraph. In a move so utterly subconscious that I can only look back on it and laugh, I wrote about a murder on the steps of the Parthenon. The skies were sapphire blue, and a squirrel toyed with an acorn.
I actually was moved to tears by that paragraph, not because it was any good – it wasn’t – but because it was the first creative thing I’d written in so very long. Suddenly, I had a story to tell, and I buckled down to tell it. While I did, a strange thing happened. I began to feel lighter, and freer. I became so incredibly happy. I didn’t really think about being published, that came later. Instead, I reveled in the moment, the realization that I needed to do research to make the story come alive, that I was building, slowly, a rather large file of pages that moved me.
It was then that I started to wonder. If this story moved me, might it move someone else?
And there it was. My moment of transcendent creativity. It was a simple thought that broke me free, that allowed me to make the leap from just being creative to becoming an artist. That moment, about halfway through the manuscript, when I realized I wasn’t writing just for me.
I was writing for you.
Wine of the Week: Morellino Di Scansano Rinaldone dell'Osa
I thought it might be interesting to have that debate here at Murderati, so today's blog is an adaptation of the one I wrote for Tim. I'd love to hear what YOU think.
Defining creativity to me is akin to the government’s views on obscenity – it’s something you recognize when you see it, but no one knows exactly the moment art crosses the line into obscenity. How do you define creativity? What does it mean? Is there a good definition?
I went back to the basics, and looked at what the word creativity means to the official folks who write the dictionary. They’re smart, they’ll have a good sense of it, right?
I loved the definition I found:
Creativity is “the ability to transcend traditional ideas, rules, patterns, relationships, or the like, and to create meaningful new ideas, forms, methods, interpretations, etc.; originality, progressiveness, or imagination.”
Transcendence. Now we’re talking.
But it’s still not perfect.
There is a difference, I think, between creativity and the creation of art. Creativity is simply a new way of doing things, a solution addressing a need. Creativity is problem solving. Anyone, given the right tools and motivation, can be creative. Art, on the other hand, is problem solving in its most esoteric form. Art gives solutions to problems that no one knew existed. Art creates problems to solve.
Look at it this way. You’re lost in a strange city. You approach a friendly looking fellow and ask, “How do I get from point A to point B?”
A normal person will tell you.
A creative person will give you a few routes and look at you quizzically, as if to say, “why couldn’t you think of that yourself?”
An artist, though, will argue about why you have to go from point A to point B. What about trying Point A to C instead, or, better yet, how about forgoing the path altogether and seeking a route to X?
When faced with a problem, a creative person will find a new, different way to solve it. An artist will find multiple solutions, different paths that are laden with color, sound, scent, characters and plot, try them all, figure out which ones work, then discard all of the solutions in favor of the most treacherous, difficult path, the one where no one has traveled before.
Ah, the road less travelled. That’s what separates the creative among us from the artists.
But you can’t get to the point of being an artist without being creative. So we’re back to the same old conundrum: What is creativity?
Creativity, obviously, is creation. It’s as simple, and as complex, as that.
Art, on the other hand, is something creative that transcends conventional ideology to develop something new and original that speaks to the audience. It is a contract between your mind and the rest of the world. Stephen King calls it a psychic connection between the writer and reader; the same could be said of a painter, or a musician, or an architect. Where there once was nothing, now there is something, and the audience sees that. They experience your thoughts through your medium. It’s overwhelming, if you think about it. All of this psychic communication, there for the taking.
That said, you don’t need to have any kind of approval, or recognition, to be creative. But it is the simple act of creating something new, something no one else has before, that makes you an artist – be it a novel, a poem, a screenplay, a painting, a ballet, a composition, a guitar lick, a new angle on an architectural drawing – anything that is creative in its nature can be art.
I realized that I was tightrope-walking the thin line between creativity and art early on, but had that budding insouciance nipped by a decidedly non-creative teacher who told me I’d never be published. There is nothing, nothing worse than fettering an artist. Some rise above the criticism, become because of it. I, unfortunately, did not. I walked away and spent fifteen soulless years looking for something. I knew what I was doing wasn’t right, I knew I wasn’t happy, I knew I was being stifled, but it never occurred to me to sit down and create my way through it.
I found that voice again through reading. I was recovering from a surgery, had oodles of time on my hands, and I lost myself in books. I read a lot during that year, everything I could get my hands on – historical, mysteries, thrillers, literary fiction. The words on the page were my lifeline back to a creative life.
It’s funny how the mind works. I wish I could say that I planned to become a novelist, that I wanted to play with the form, to create a literary thriller series that showcased my characters, my setting and my words. But I wasn’t that prescient. I had an idea, a spark. A creative moment, if you will, and my main character leapt into my head fully formed. She was tall, like me, blond-haired, gray-eyed, spoke with a slow, smoky southern accent. She was righteous, and good, and would be the protector of Nashville. Her name, of course, was Taylor Jackson. My very own Athena.
And with the name came a storyline from a dream – twin girls leading separate lives, one who would do anything to further her career, one who was dissatisfied with the life she’d been striving to build. And suddenly there was an antagonist, a man who was killing young girls. A backstory.
Before I knew it, I’d written an opening paragraph. In a move so utterly subconscious that I can only look back on it and laugh, I wrote about a murder on the steps of the Parthenon. The skies were sapphire blue, and a squirrel toyed with an acorn.
I actually was moved to tears by that paragraph, not because it was any good – it wasn’t – but because it was the first creative thing I’d written in so very long. Suddenly, I had a story to tell, and I buckled down to tell it. While I did, a strange thing happened. I began to feel lighter, and freer. I became so incredibly happy. I didn’t really think about being published, that came later. Instead, I reveled in the moment, the realization that I needed to do research to make the story come alive, that I was building, slowly, a rather large file of pages that moved me.
It was then that I started to wonder. If this story moved me, might it move someone else?
And there it was. My moment of transcendent creativity. It was a simple thought that broke me free, that allowed me to make the leap from just being creative to becoming an artist. That moment, about halfway through the manuscript, when I realized I wasn’t writing just for me.
I was writing for you.
Wine of the Week: Morellino Di Scansano Rinaldone dell'Osa
January 24, 2009
Transcendence, or What Is Creativity?
JT has done a guest blog for Timothy Hallinan's Creative Living Series at The Blog Cabin. Click here to read...
January 14, 2009
Fresh Fiction - Fictionalizing Reality
(From Fresh Fiction - January 14, 2009)
Twisted as I am, my imagination usually guides my stories. I dream up horrific endings by villainous creations (who end up giving me nightmares,) and terrorize my adopted hometown of Nashville with crazed killers. But up to now, every story I’ve written has been pure, straight out of my head, fiction.
I made an exception for JUDAS KISS. The fictional murder of my victim, Corinne Wolff, was based on a real case.
In 2006, I saw an article from a North Carolina newspaper about a young pregnant mother named Michelle Young who was found murdered by her sister. Her death was unspeakably violent, and her child had been alone in the house for days with her mother’s corpse. The media reported a number of salient details, including the bloody footprints the child had left through the house. I watched the case, hoping there would be a resolution. Unfortunately, Michelle Young’s murder still isn’t solved. Her husband is the prime suspect.
Her story became the opening of JUDAS KISS.
The crime stories that seem to capture our interest as a society are the ones that take place where we feel the safest, which is inside our own homes. That’s where the majority of homicides take place. And we all know how much the media loves a good suburban murder, especially in my fictional Nashville. In the novel, there’s a sense of the fantastic surrounding this case, an “it could have happened to me” mentality couple with the media frenzy – satellite trucks parks on quiet streets, reporters camped on the lawns, every moment chronicled. It doesn’t happen that way in the Section 8 housing. The drug and vendetta killings don’t make the news very much. So in a sense, I’m capitalizing on what does capture our attention.
But JUDAS KISS wasn’t the easiest book to write. Any time an author is faced with a child at a crime scene, a tightrope appears from your laptop, and gets thinner every moment you spend looking at it. It’s a difficult balancing act. Bad things do happen to children. Bad things do happen to animals. I don’t know about you, but I’m not a fan of reading about either. Reality can stay out of my fiction, thank you very much.
So when I wrote the opening of JUDAS KISS, I didn’t give it much thought, simply because I wasn’t killing Corinne Wolff’s child. I was in safe territory. But one of my independent readers was very unhappy with the opening. She was terribly upset with me for leaving Hayden Wolff alone with her mother’s dead body. “If the husband did it, there’s no way he would leave the child alone like that. No one would. You’re going to alienate mothers all across the country.” I was struck by that statement, obviously. That’s not the goal behind these stories.
So I sent my reader the links to the real case. In the book, I’d actually toned down some of the “real” parts because they were so dreadful. My reader came back with a new eye – she understood now. She was horrified by the real case, understood what I was doing. She realized that I never set out to shock or offend with this story. I only wanted to give the real victim, Michelle Young, some closure. Her story affected me in ways I couldn’t imagine. I’ve found that reality can sometimes throw me for a loop.
We mystery writers are a strange lot. We write about murder and mayhem all day. We walk a fine line between victims and victimizing. I try very, very hard to make sure the violence in my books is never gratuitous. I always strive to make sure that my victims have a reason, a place, a purpose. They aren’t just dead bodies stacking up like cordwood to move the story along. That’s just not why I wanted to write crime fiction. I wanted to find ways to give some justice to those who didn’t have anyone to fight for them, to right the wrongs, and penalize the guilty. In my books, the bad guys get caught, and they are punished. Justice is served. The white hats win. That’s why I got into crime fiction.
But it doesn’t stop me from wishing I could do something for the Michelle Young’s of the world.
Twisted as I am, my imagination usually guides my stories. I dream up horrific endings by villainous creations (who end up giving me nightmares,) and terrorize my adopted hometown of Nashville with crazed killers. But up to now, every story I’ve written has been pure, straight out of my head, fiction.
I made an exception for JUDAS KISS. The fictional murder of my victim, Corinne Wolff, was based on a real case.
In 2006, I saw an article from a North Carolina newspaper about a young pregnant mother named Michelle Young who was found murdered by her sister. Her death was unspeakably violent, and her child had been alone in the house for days with her mother’s corpse. The media reported a number of salient details, including the bloody footprints the child had left through the house. I watched the case, hoping there would be a resolution. Unfortunately, Michelle Young’s murder still isn’t solved. Her husband is the prime suspect.
Her story became the opening of JUDAS KISS.
The crime stories that seem to capture our interest as a society are the ones that take place where we feel the safest, which is inside our own homes. That’s where the majority of homicides take place. And we all know how much the media loves a good suburban murder, especially in my fictional Nashville. In the novel, there’s a sense of the fantastic surrounding this case, an “it could have happened to me” mentality couple with the media frenzy – satellite trucks parks on quiet streets, reporters camped on the lawns, every moment chronicled. It doesn’t happen that way in the Section 8 housing. The drug and vendetta killings don’t make the news very much. So in a sense, I’m capitalizing on what does capture our attention.
But JUDAS KISS wasn’t the easiest book to write. Any time an author is faced with a child at a crime scene, a tightrope appears from your laptop, and gets thinner every moment you spend looking at it. It’s a difficult balancing act. Bad things do happen to children. Bad things do happen to animals. I don’t know about you, but I’m not a fan of reading about either. Reality can stay out of my fiction, thank you very much.
So when I wrote the opening of JUDAS KISS, I didn’t give it much thought, simply because I wasn’t killing Corinne Wolff’s child. I was in safe territory. But one of my independent readers was very unhappy with the opening. She was terribly upset with me for leaving Hayden Wolff alone with her mother’s dead body. “If the husband did it, there’s no way he would leave the child alone like that. No one would. You’re going to alienate mothers all across the country.” I was struck by that statement, obviously. That’s not the goal behind these stories.
So I sent my reader the links to the real case. In the book, I’d actually toned down some of the “real” parts because they were so dreadful. My reader came back with a new eye – she understood now. She was horrified by the real case, understood what I was doing. She realized that I never set out to shock or offend with this story. I only wanted to give the real victim, Michelle Young, some closure. Her story affected me in ways I couldn’t imagine. I’ve found that reality can sometimes throw me for a loop.
We mystery writers are a strange lot. We write about murder and mayhem all day. We walk a fine line between victims and victimizing. I try very, very hard to make sure the violence in my books is never gratuitous. I always strive to make sure that my victims have a reason, a place, a purpose. They aren’t just dead bodies stacking up like cordwood to move the story along. That’s just not why I wanted to write crime fiction. I wanted to find ways to give some justice to those who didn’t have anyone to fight for them, to right the wrongs, and penalize the guilty. In my books, the bad guys get caught, and they are punished. Justice is served. The white hats win. That’s why I got into crime fiction.
But it doesn’t stop me from wishing I could do something for the Michelle Young’s of the world.
September 03, 2008
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