An Unwanted Gift

I've been told I am naïve.  And, yes, even gullible.  Like that's a bad thing.  Haha.

For example, I have a hard time understanding how people can be so mean.  I think:  "Wow.  You must have had a terrible childhood."  Or : "Wow.  You don't really like yourself."  Generous assumptions to make.  But not for someone who is naïve. 

It seems I start a lot of my posts with "When I was little..." Someday I'll have to make a list of transitional phrases to interchange, but for now... When I was little I believed in inherent goodness. I believed that everyone was good and maybe Satan himself was good but just hadn't been convinced of his goodness.  Yes, I actually believed that with my whole little 6-year-old heart.  Can you imagine?  How naive I was.

Even when people hurt me, I still believed that somehow they were good.  Perhaps I had done something to deserve being hurt.  Yes, that was it.  It was my fault!  Then I would punish myself appropriately.  Oh, the vile words that mean people sneered were nothing compared to the things I told myself.  I would do my penance.  Then I would start the cycle all over again.  Again, I was so naive.

It isn't any accident that my stories revolve around people problems.  Relationships.  Meanness.  As a writer, as a human being, as a celestial soul I am trying to figure it out.  I refuse to accept that people are anything but inherently good.  I give my characters a LOT of room for failure.  I expect my characters to overcome.  To be better.  I am awed at how they do it.  How do they do it? 

Would it be wrong then to think my naivete is in some way a gift?  Because of it, not only do I expect I will be a better human being, but that you will be also. 

So, go ahead.  Be mean.  Say I'm naïve. 

I'll be writing.

Losing

When I was a kid, I spent a lot of time at the library.  I mean a lot.  I could walk there from my house on Warner Street.  The house with its corners full of garbage.  The library was a place I could escape. 

I had a few favorite authors.  Roald Dahl was my absolute all-time fav.  Madeline L'Engle.  E.B. White.  But the number of books my favorite authors had written didn't fit the number of hours I spent in that little brick building.  I went out of my comfort zone a lot.  But it was ok.  A book was an easy commitment to make.  If I opened it and didn't like it, no problem.  I just slipped it back into the little door for book returns.  No one even had to know I didn't read it all the way through. 

There was one book I remember reading about a girl who ordered wings through the mail.  Yes, I think it was something like she ordered these wings from the back of a cereal box.  But, when they arrived and she put them on, she couldn't get them off!  They grew into her.  It sounds gross, but the way it was written was marvelous.  Because these wings became a part of her.  And they allowed her to fly!  What kid--or grown-up for that matter--doesn't dream of being able to fly away whenever they wish?  Well, the best thing turned out to be the worst thing for this girl when the wings grew into her back.  Because, she couldn't be a normal girl.  I don't remember exactly how it ended, but I remember that she went on an adventure with a flock of geese.   I remember how the author actually made me feel like I was flying.  Gosh, it must be 32 years ago, and I remember that vividly! 

I guess my point is, this wasn't a famous author.  Who knows who this author was?  I can't even remember her name and couldn't remember it two weeks after I'd read the book, because I went back and tried to find it again and couldn't.  This author may have only written and published that one book.  Who knows?  Did she win a literary prize?  Ever?  Maybe.  But most likely not.  Does it matter? 

I wish I could write an open letter to that author.  And to myself.  Because we don't write for prizes or New York Times Bestseller List recognition.  Would it be nice?  I'm not going to lie; of course!  Gosh, I really wanted to win that contest (PNWA Literary Contest Category 7 for Children's Literature... There.  Now you know.  Go look it up.  Hmph.)  I wanted to win and run into the arms spread-wide-open of the literary world.  Where have you been?  The literary world would ask me.  Right here.  I would answer.  I've always been right here.  Now shower me with your praises!  Which would be immediately followed by clapping and cheering and fanfare.  And $700 in prize money, which my children have already mentally spent, by the way.

Alas, no.  It wasn't meant to be.  But I ask again... Does it matter?

When I went to the library so many years ago and took down that author's book about a girl turning into a bird, I had no idea who she was.  But what she wrote made a lasting impression on me.  If I could give one child that gift, I will call it good. 

Congratulations to the eight finalists.  You have earned it. 

Begin clapping and cheering and fanfare :)

 

The Life of a Writer in a Haiku

Finish line why do you
Taunt me?  Always moving further away when
I might have crossed you? 

Yesterday I Told a Lie

Yesterday I told a lie.  It was a whopper.  The thing about the lie was I tried to convince myself it was the truth.  "No.  No.  No." The inner editor nagged me.  "Shut up!  I'm working here!" I nagged back.  But the lie was there.  And it was about to get bigger.  Because the thing about telling a lie (or showing, even) is that you have to continue to lie to cover it up.  Then it's all a lie, and I just want to throw it in the garbage, which is really where it belongs.  What was the lie?  Does it matter?  You'll never know (Ha!  Take that!) because I'm going to go back and untell it today.  First, I have to figure out where the lie began, then go back and do the difficult thing, the thing that makes writers sip coffee in their pajamas until dinnertime... I have to tell the truth.  It's frightening, humbling.  I had a goal, you see... write 1000 words a day.  At any cost.  But that's what a hack does.  I'm not a hack.  So, no more word, page, chapter goals!  Because I will get there... but not to The End necessarily... to The Truth.     

Why I Write Realistic Fiction

Trying to define
Who I am as an author
Carving a little niche
in the trunk of a very large publishing tree
Writing about real kids in the real world... no magic involved
Unless you count of course a strong character and
Unlikely events that could but probably won't but could happen...
I say "No!" to fantastical wizards or strange uncles with enchanted wardrobes
and "Yes!" to boys and girls who are as ordinary as they are extraordinary.
But why?
Because when a child holds my book and turns the last page
I want him or her to feel as though someone knows what it's like
And it's going to be better than OK
Today will be the magic they make it.

Happy writing,
Rachel

My Writing Process

When I taught elementary school, the writing process took a seat front and center.  It was loud, demanded a lot of management from me, and generally didn't get along with the students. "Look at me!  Look at me!  I'm im-por-tant!" the writing process would brazenly claim.  We dutifully followed orders from the writing process, and dressed it up in 5-paragraph-essays.  But it never seemed to work well with the kids.  If I could grade the writing process, I would've given it an N for Needs Improvement.  But isn't that the point?

Writing is hard.  Messy.  And different for EVERY writer.  Some people prewrite by doodling, writing poems, or even, yes, blogging!  My writing process is to begin by freewriting, until I have uncovered a gem of truth.  My truth.  Without my truth I have nothing to say.  Then it's a lot of filler, trying to put ink on a page and call it "finished."  Without my truth, why write?  I have a lot of other things to do.  If you don't agree with my truth, so be it.  Maybe my truth sharpens YOUR truth for you! 

So, I write freely, uncover a gem, then a character is created.  Depending on who this character is, he/she may punch me in the nose or quietly tip-toe behind me and gently tap my shoulder to get my attention.  And this character may pull me away on an adventure or show me inside his/her home and life for a cup of tea.  And perhaps a confession.  Respect the character.  That's what I've learned about my writing process.  Allow the character some room to breathe.  To make decisions.  Mistakes.  And to learn.  Don't be pushy with a character.  As a writer, I'm invisible.  If you can see my hand moving the character around then it's false and mechanical.  And readers can tell the difference between organic and genetically modified stories.

So I write, find a truth, am led away by a character, and then I begin to think about structure.  This isn't in the sense that I'm leading the story, but instead that I am choosing which parts of the story to tell.  There are lots of boring parts of a story... I hope to skip those.  ANYTHING can be made to be exciting in a story, depending on where it is placed and the question that arises from it.  But ANYTHING can also be made to be extremely boring by poor storytelling and leaving nothing to the reader's imagination. 

By this time, I've already written many drafts.  Starts and stops, I call them.  To me, a draft is something finished.  Why tinker with it when it's finished?  Unless I have notes.  And that's the last phase of the writing process for me.  Sharing and receiving notes. 

I think I'm a pretty good editor, but for some reason I work best on other people's writing and not my own.  This is the part of the writing process that is most difficult for me.  And that is to allow someone else to read... uninterrupted and without my comments... my writing.  And if I've done it correctly, they are reading my truth.  Getting to know me in a way I don't normally let people know me.  Being vulnerable.  Then, I accept comments and criticism, and usually the reader will like what I liked and dislike what I had a nagging feeling about anyway.  Sometimes, the editor (just a term for a person I'm being vulnerable with after I've written a draft, not necessarily a professional in a tie and high heels--what?  You didn't know editors wore ties and high heels?  Not together, silly!) will give me notes I had already deep down given myself but ignored because they were too hard to take... I KNEW something was wrong but didn't know HOW to change it or make it work better!  Then I think and think and work and work and manipulate the draft I have to make it behave better. 

Finally, I have something worth reading. 

And that's my writing process:  write freely, allow a character to show me around, decipher a story, be vulnerable, take notes, and wrestle the beast to the mat until it relents to changes and I have a story worth reading or listening to. 

Easy. 
Ha!  I wish!

Happy writing,
Rachel

This Stinks!

I have learned to ignore and even beware my inner editor when she triumphantly cries, "This is wonderful!"  Because no sooner do I let my computer sleep or put down my pen (yes, I am that old; I still write with pen or pencil and paper!) to swim in the warm glow of satisfaction, than the ratchety inner editor in me climbs down from her perch and rudely pokes me in the temple.  She has something to point out... some inconsistency or big-fat-hole in my storytelling one could drive a reindeer and sleigh through.  And that's when I realize, this isn't wonderful writing.  It stinks!  And it's only then I am REALLY on my way to writing something worth reading.