Freefall

Weird things happen to people who don’t experience fear in a normal way. One of those things is that they develop a nearly constant ache for some kind of adrenaline rush. When I was sixteen-seventeen, I was obsessed with jumping off cliffs. I made my friends drive to outlandish locations far and wide in upstate New York and dragged them on endless hikes miles into the wilderness to feed my need for freefall. (My parents would not sign a consent for skydiving or bungee jumping, so I had to improvise). Now, a million years later, I am restless and desperate for that sensation again (and again and again).

There is a moment, a split second really, that happens between the safety of the ground and the plunge downward. Maybe other people don’t feel it because they are too filled with fear. But in the blip, my mind gives up, goes completely blank, my emotions are numbed beyond numb as I surrender to fate. As soon as I register that I am falling, reality rushes in to kill that peace, but an echo of it returns deep under the cold water where everything is silent and slow.

As a writer there are moments when I experience this too. There are rare and sublime moments where my ego is so obliterated by a character, a scene, or an interaction that I can let everything else go. In these moments my writing is more than good. I had one of those moments this week and I want to share it here so badly, but then again I don’t. What I really want is to pass it on to the other writers in and should-be-writers in my life, especially Cathy and Jeremy. I want to take them to the edge of the cliff and like Elena heal them of every vestige of fear and self-criticism. I want to show them how to fall, ugly and ungraceful, but most of all uncaring, through the air. I want to pull them down deep into the muck at the bottom of the river where light cannot filter in. I want them to fly.

Postscript: This post comes with a warning. There is a distinct downside to flight. Once you take to the sky, walking and even running seems so ordinary, slow, and pedestrian. The higher you go, the further you fall. Gravity is inevitable and unalterable.

Mirrors and Love

My friend and fellow author, Jen Hritz, did the coolest thing last week. She put up a quiz that tells you which character you would be from her novels. If you haven't read her books you need to (not just so you can take the quiz) because you will fall in love. I fell in love with Joel and coincidentally Joel is the character I would be based on Jen's quiz. Here comes the point of my blog today. There is a saying that opposites attract; I say not so. We fall in love with our mirror. It is always about the mirror.

Think about your friends, the ones you love so much that you would go out and rescue in a driving snowstorm in the middle of the night an hour away. The ones you call when you need to cry or talk about an impossible crush that can never really be anything, but who tell you anything is possible (trust me anything is NEVER possible, but it is so nice to hear that it is). These are the people who inform your identity. And in a sense I am in love with those friends (like Jen) because I see something of me in them. It works with those crushes and the ones who become lovers too, but for me (like Joel) we always end up mirroring some dysfunction rather than something positive as with my friends.

In a book I fall in love with the character who is most like me. In my books I don't need a quiz to tell me I'm Sage. That's why she told the first story. Now to extend this idea to the characters in my books I have to be honest about who each character really is. Elena and Sage could not be more different, and Elena's love for Sage is really more of hero worship; she wants to be like Sage, but Sage is not her mirror. Finn and Sage are definitely mirrors though. And many of my readers are rooting for them to be together. That leaves Ethan. Ethan. Ethan. Ethan. My sweet and powerful enigma. I will not give you any spoilers today.

The closer I get to writing in Ethan's voice the more nervous I am. In my mind I am nothing like him, but I love Ethan the most, so if my hypothesis is to prove out, he must be my mirror in some way. I have a feeling that when I figure out how, not only will his voice and story come easily and powerfully, but I will learn something very valuable about myself through the journey.

So go read Jen's books, I Too Have Suffered in the Garden and The Crossing.  Take her quiz and fall in love with your mirror.  http://jenniferhritz.com/

The Strength it takes to be Vulnerable

I’ve been thinking a lot about vulnerability lately. I mentioned it in my interview with Jen Hritz. I think about it in terms of my characters in The Geodesy Series. I’ve seen it in my brave friend, Aideen Walsh who published her autobiography. I watched one of my actors embrace it in the photo shoot for the book covers and trailers. I even counseled a single-mom friend to accept it on the day she moved when she went outside to find her truck had two flat tires. And yet NOTHING makes me so uncomfortable.

I like to think about life in terms of Strength and Weakness. I have described Stellar Navigation as Elena’s struggle with those opposing forces, but now I think that description is inaccurate. Elena’s problem is that she feels vulnerable, and she wants to feel strong. She thinks that one precludes the other. Poor Elena (poor Sue)! It took me half my life to figure out that weakness and vulnerability are not synonyms.  In fact nothing takes more strength than allowing yourself to be vulnerable.

 Let’s take my friend Aideen’s book as an example. She is not a writer by trade, and if you met her on the street, you might notice her Irish brogue and the twinkle in her eyes, but you wouldn’t walk away thinking she was particularly strong or terribly weak as a human. But her story is an intense demonstration of human strength and vulnerability (not weakness). Furthermore, the fact that she has put her story out there for the world to see a testament to her strength because that kind of exposure leaves her so vulnerable. Yet she has embraced that exposure rather than shying from it. Amazing! Poetic!

 And I appreciate it, but ARGH it makes my palms sweat and my head spin to think about the world knowing any details about my life aside from the externals. And being in the presence of vulnerability makes me . . . hide. Bear with me while I set the scene. At my photo shoot this week, I sent all of the actors out of the room except Jeremy (the actor playing Ethan). I needed shots of Ethan sucking his thumb since that is such an integral part of the character, but I didn’t know how to ask my actor to do that. I hemmed and hawed and fumbled. Finally, my photographer, Paul Woodruff, stepped up and explained what I wanted in the gentlest and deepest way. Not only did my actor get it intellectually, but he proceeded to really get into the character and demonstrate the vulnerability that I desperately wanted to capture for this character. It was so achingly honest that I couldn’t watch while Paul took the pictures. In fact it took me two days to really look at the proofs, which left me breathless.  It must have taken a lot of strength for Jeremy to be that exposed.  (I don’t think I could have done this in a million years).

And yet I admire vulnerability. It’s an elusive lesson that has dogged me my whole life. My friend Lacey, who is frighteningly like me, woke up on moving day to find her truck with not one, but two flat tires and an empty bank account. I saw her two days later and she said, “It all turned out fine thanks to all my friends who came to my rescue, but damn I hate to be rescued! And I just wonder what I am supposed to be learning here.” I jumped right in, like I do, to explain how vulnerable we all are and how it’s hard for people like her (and me) to admit that by asking for help. Her eyes lit up and she thanked me for my take. I walked away and thought about how awful it must have been for her to make those calls, how much strength it takes to be vulnerable.

 Now to the point: I am here writing this, making myself vulnerable only because it is so damn hard and it takes so much f_ing strength to do it. I am here growing as a human and a writer because of the people who so beautifully and poetically trust me (and the world) enough to be vulnerable. I will pass this one to Elena and all my readers now. Thanks Aideen, Jeremy, Lacey! Lesson learned.

 

Read the Interview with Jen Hritz at: http://jenniferhritz.com/
See the photos of Jeremy as Ethan at: https://www.facebook.com/geodesy.series
Get Aideen’s Autobiography at: http://www.amazon.com/Peeling-Onion-Aideen-Walsh-ebook/dp/B00H8XCD3Y/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1392807447&sr=8-1&keywords=aideen+walsh

Four-footed Muse

In case any of you out there are writing novels and considering adopting a puppy. Don't! I can categorically say for people as practiced in the art of procrastination as novelists, a puppy is about as big a distraction as you can devise.  Think about all the excuses you have for not writing without a puppy: the dishes need doing, laundry must be folded, a glass of water (or milk or a double whiskey on the rocks) is calling. Now multiply the number of excuses by two . . . hundred. How can you possibly write when a little furry paw is tapping on your leg and the attached face has a tennis ball in its mouth. Well, you can't. You simply can't.


On the bright side, the puppy needs to be run a minimum of four miles a day. There is nothing like a run to move the plot forward, to spice up the dialog, to reveal a plot twist that is a revelation even to me. My writing has never been fresher, wittier, or more action packed. Unfortunately, it hasn't made it from my head to the page so much. Hence, if you want to read my next book in February (my self-imposed deadline), you are more than likely to be SOL, unless I get fired from my real job. The good news is that when the puppymoon is over, the book you will read will probably be a better book than you would have had without Zoe (my eight month old German Shepherd-Siberian Husky mix).


So maybe I have to add a caveat to my opening statement. If you are in a hurry to write a novel, DON'T adopt a puppy. If you are not in hurry, go for it. Call Austin Dog Rescue or another rescue organization and meet a few pups. Who knows you might just find a four-footed muse.


BTW: Listen to me talk about my books on March 5th on KOOP 91.7 Austin, "Writing on the Air" program at 6:00 pm. Book 2 in the Geodesy Series - Stellar Navigation should be out soon after, and Book One - Safe Distances will be available for purchase locally at Book People.


Write on!

How do you spell S U C C E S S?

I have a wise and wonderful friend (actually I have more than one) who asked me some really hard questions a couple of weeks ago.  They were as follows:

1. Do you gain a sense of accomplishment/identity from Skye's (my daughter) achievements?
2. Do you lover her whether or not she achieves or succeeds?
3. Is your identity derived from your accomplishments?
4. If all of your success and accomplishments were stripped away would you still accept and love yourself?

Those of you who are smarter than I am will see from question one what my friend was driving at, but it took me an hour of discussion and a week of contemplation to come to the AH HA moment she intended.

At first I felt a little defensive. Of course I do not define myself through my child's success. I know parents who do. Too many of them.(You know them too. The only topic of conversation they have is their kids and nothing happens in their house from the first poo in the potty to the last race ribbon won that doesn't merit a braggy Facebook post, Instagram photo, or phone calls to anyone who might listen) Truly, I take no credit for the wonderful kid who happened to be lent to me by the gracious universe. She has been her own creation from the first breath. I am honored to be along for the ride, and if she wants her successes broadcast to the four corners, she isn't waiting for me to do it. My friend knows this about me. She knows that my love for my kiddo is unconditional. If gets an A or an F, my reaction is the same. If she is first chair or last in band, matters not a whit. If she wins or loses a race, whatev! She is always my awesome Skye and I couldn't love her more or less.

Follow me now; this where the whole thing got hairy for me. I got to question 3 and said, "Huh? Of course, Yes! I am a writer not because I write, but because my scribblings have been selected by random publications and individuals to be read. If I had never been published, I would not call myself a writer. My degrees - four - count them make me an academic. My awards not my experiences in theatre as a writer, actor, and director make me a thespian. What a stupid question? My accomplishments make me who I am. Right?"

Question 4 hit me like a ton of bricks right in the middle of my chest. The honest answer is NO. Sadly in capital letters. I mourned for my shallowness and lack of personhood for 3 days. Then I woke up in the shower one morning and asked, "WHY?" The answer is simple and shallower than my own personal pity puddle. My parents (my mother really) only noticed my sibs and I when we achieved something. We were and are constantly pitted against each other in an unspoken race for maternal recognition based on the number of letters following our names and our spouses', the number of zeros in our paychecks and savings accounts, the numbers appearing on the scale in the bathroom. It's sick and sad.

So success this year will be spelled out not in book sales but in how much I love myself with or without a place on some arbitrary list. I will love myself the way I love my characters with all their flaws and foibles. I will (as my wise friend Susan Jarvis wanted me to) find a way to define myself more deeply and meaningfully and afford myself the same generosity that I afford my child without question. I love you, Susan, for loving me enough to want that for me!

Taking Stock of What's in the Stocking

So the web is abuzz with stories about Christmas wishlists from a century ago. All that talk has made me take stock, not of my own Christmas desires (which consist of more than nuts and fruit, but far less than diamonds and real estate), but of my bucket list. I realize this is just a millimeter short of a quantum leap, but this is how my twisted mind works.

A million years ago when I stood at the edge of the wood and took the proverbial path more or less travelled, I had some kind of pie in the sky wish for fame that would last beyond the grave. In my ninth grade journal I think I said something about wanting kids to read my books in school after my romantic and untimely demise. (gag me with a spoon)

Fast forward to graduate school where I was doused in the cold hard reality of probable literaty obscurity. I scaled my wishlist back to a thin sliver of hope of publication in esoteric literary journals with a readership of several. Those were the days of nuts in my stocking.

Last Christmas I hadn't finished Safe Distances yet and my carefully worded and thought through desires ended with actually finishing a novel, having it read by more than 12 people, and maybe (hope against hope) seeing it find a home in a library. Check. Check. And as of yesterday, Check! I should feel vindicated, done, sated and proud. And I am - to a degree.

My bucket list said nothing about fame, fortune, or the New York Times Best Seller's list. So why am I querying agents and bloggers till my fingers bleed? Why am I spending every spare minute directing and crafting book trailers? Why am I trying to conquer the Twitter in some vaguely desperate and almost certainly futile attempt to make my hashtag go viral (is that even possible?)? Why? No, really, I need you to tell me.

So this is me taking stock. This is me taking this Christmas to be grateful for a story (or two) to tell, characters I love spending time with, and mostly friends who read my book(s) (and blog) and still love me. Am I going to stop querying? Am I going to stop Tweeting (and bloging)? Probably not. But I am going to stop envying the crappy romance writing indy published shedog, who supposedly did nothing to promote her books and ended up on the NYT Best Seller list - 5 f-ing times. (Okay, I'll work on the bitterness too). I am going to accept that fate is a fickle mistress with no taste and enjoy the check marks in the margin.

This Christmas I am going to write because I love it. I will plant myself at a table in the public library across from the shelf that would hold my book if it hadn't been checked out and be grateful for words.

Crossing the Muse

I finished my friend, Jen Hritz's, second novel, The Crossing, last night. It was amazing. I lost four days and touch with reality.  By the time I finished I had learned more about gay male sex than I ever dreamed possible or prudent, and if it had been possible, the book would surely have given me the boner of the century.  That's not what I want to blog about though. 

Joel, the main character of Jen's book has strikingly similar methods of self-sabotage to me. Falling love with the wrong person, sending away anyone who genuinely cares for him. I think if I didn't have to support myself and my child, I would slide down the same slippery slope he takes to self destruction. But that's not what I want to blog about either.

What I want to blog about is the creative impulse. Joel goes through vicious cycles of inspiration, elation, self-loathing, and crushing dry spells. When he picks up the brush to paint, it comes or it doesn't (like love). I was thinking about his dry spells on my way to work and kept thinking I'm glad I don't rely on those capricious gods to keep me writing. I have to admit I was feeling outrageously superior (Yes, I know he is only a character in a book, but after you read it you will understand why I view him as a real person, a friend, a brother). Anyway I was doing the na-na-na-boo-boo thing in my head. Then I sat down to write. Needless to say, I wrote a pile of crap that ended up on the cutting room floor in cyberspace.

I realized sadly that all artists are slaves to the muse. That sucks no end. But I also realized that, like Joel, stopping and waiting for the muse to text or call is a worthless and demeaning way to be enslaved. I choose instead to work without him (my muse comes equipped - if you know what I mean). If he shows up, I'm game to let him in, and I'll even hand him the remote most nights. I like to think I won't beg him to stay, but I am in no way above begging. 

So the long winded point is that unless painters just paint, writers just write, inspiration doesn't stand a chance. Long ago I would get all loaded and sit down for 10 hours in a stretch and come out with utter brilliance, but no one can sustain that method of reaching artistic nirvana for long, and, like Joel, the minute I came down I was forced to realize how completely icky the product really was. Quality work may come in spurts, but the tap has to be running all the time.

I've been away from Elena, Ethan, Sage, Finn, Jo and all the new characters for a whole week now (thanks to Jen). I'm not sure if reading her book made me a better writer (though I think that immanently possible), but it made me more aware of my own muse and how to summon him. I'm off to séance now. Cheers.

Word of warning: this is not the last you will hear about Joel, so go read The Crossing [http://www.amazon.com/Crossing-Jennifer-Hritz/dp/0615904270/].