First off, thanks so much to all of you who have followed and supported Write Present. If you'd like to continue in my blog-o-sphere, please visit my updated site:
August McLaughlin's Blog
I look forward to sharing and connecting with you soon!
All my best,
August
Wednesday, September 7, 2011
Wednesday, August 17, 2011
Heart Ache and Loss
It’s been said, and joked about, that life’s greatest challenges provide fuel for writers. When bad things happen, we write our way through them; the pen becomes our coping device. But that doesn’t make the “bad” any better.
A few days ago, I witnessed a horrific car accident from a mere twenty feet’s distance. I watched a car spin out of control, flip in the air and come crashing down, taking the life of the young driver. Since then, it’s replayed like a film clip in my head and my heart has remained heavy. I can only imagine what his family is enduring...
I don’t believe that everything happens for a reason, particularly not in tragedies such as this. But I do believe that we can give meaning to turmoil. One man’s accident can lead us to drive more carefully and cherish our lives and loved ones more actively. And our selfish efforts to cope through writing or other art forms might one day touch another.
I suppose that artists' ability to empathize and hurt deeply for others is duel blessing and curse. If given the choice, I imagine that most of us wouldn't trade our heightened sensitivity for any level of numbness. Would you agree?
Words of others can also prove medicinal:
"The true artist's heart searches not for treasure at rainbow's end; But is instead content to play upon the colour there-in."
Karen Sapp
"The heart is an artist that paints over what profoundly disturbs it, leaving on the canvas a less dark, less sharp version of the truth."
— Dean Koontz
"No matter what sort of difficulties, how painful experience is, if we lose our hope, that's our real disaster."
— Dalai Lama XIV
A few days ago, I witnessed a horrific car accident from a mere twenty feet’s distance. I watched a car spin out of control, flip in the air and come crashing down, taking the life of the young driver. Since then, it’s replayed like a film clip in my head and my heart has remained heavy. I can only imagine what his family is enduring...
I don’t believe that everything happens for a reason, particularly not in tragedies such as this. But I do believe that we can give meaning to turmoil. One man’s accident can lead us to drive more carefully and cherish our lives and loved ones more actively. And our selfish efforts to cope through writing or other art forms might one day touch another.
I suppose that artists' ability to empathize and hurt deeply for others is duel blessing and curse. If given the choice, I imagine that most of us wouldn't trade our heightened sensitivity for any level of numbness. Would you agree?
Words of others can also prove medicinal:
"The true artist's heart searches not for treasure at rainbow's end; But is instead content to play upon the colour there-in."
Karen Sapp
"The heart is an artist that paints over what profoundly disturbs it, leaving on the canvas a less dark, less sharp version of the truth."
— Dean Koontz
"No matter what sort of difficulties, how painful experience is, if we lose our hope, that's our real disaster."
— Dalai Lama XIV
Thursday, August 11, 2011
Pretty Songs and Dresses
I had an experience yesterday that drew me back to high school. (Yep, one of those...) After opening night of the fall musical, during which I made a wrong dance move and twirled myself off stage, a friend rushed up to me and the rest of the cast. “Oh my god. You were awesome!” she said to a fellow cast member. “And, um, wow... You...looked cool in your costume,” she said to me. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve laughed about the experience, after the initial embarrassment wore off.
So yesterday, in response to reading my cookbook proposal, an editor said, “Well, I looked at your proposal and your website. You have a great singing voice.” (She was referencing my YouTube video featuring one of my songs.)
I nearly burst out laughing as I envisioned myself twirling again off stage in that ever-so-cool costume...
She went on to point out my strengths and the proposal's prominent flaws. Granted, it's but one person's opinion. And I sincerely I take no offense. To be honest, I was relieved that she wasn’t gung-ho, ‘let’s get started,’ seeing as my heart is in my fiction, as is, it seems, my agent’s.
On a positive note, the editor did compliment the short story I wrote, which serves as the cookbook’s preface. I suppose I can take that as an affirmation that I’m on the proper path.
So yesterday, in response to reading my cookbook proposal, an editor said, “Well, I looked at your proposal and your website. You have a great singing voice.” (She was referencing my YouTube video featuring one of my songs.)
I nearly burst out laughing as I envisioned myself twirling again off stage in that ever-so-cool costume...
She went on to point out my strengths and the proposal's prominent flaws. Granted, it's but one person's opinion. And I sincerely I take no offense. To be honest, I was relieved that she wasn’t gung-ho, ‘let’s get started,’ seeing as my heart is in my fiction, as is, it seems, my agent’s.
On a positive note, the editor did compliment the short story I wrote, which serves as the cookbook’s preface. I suppose I can take that as an affirmation that I’m on the proper path.
Brain Spa: FAR, FAR, FAR
Yesterday I woke feeling what I’ve come to call “groggily.” (It reads like an adverb, speaks like an adjective and need not make sense, seeing as you use it when you feel blah, foggy, gross and/or blob-like.)
Was it hormones? Lack of sleep? My early-morning bull dog alarm? Regardless of the cause, I couldn't shake it. Once I realized that I’d written almost a full article on the effects of caffeine on cellulitis, which was supposed to cover caffeine’s effects on cellulite--a completely different animal, I surrendered to a much-needed break.
I headed to the salon for a haircut, met a fabulous stylist named Spring... (My last stylist was named June, go figure!) then came home for a pretend nap to the tune of an Oprah rerun in the background. My mother instilled this in me as a youngster: “If you close your eyes and rest, it’s just as good as sleeping!”
Last night I slept like a rock and have been writing away all morning, my intellectual capabilities for the most part replenished.
My New Year’s resolution was to rest more and yesterday served as a reaffirming reminder.
In his book, “The Power of Rest: Why Sleep Alone is Not Enough,” Dr. Matthew Edlund offers a valuable technique for instilling rest into your every day. Food, Activity, Rest. I’m recommitting to FAR as of this very moment. Which means...it's time for a snack.
Was it hormones? Lack of sleep? My early-morning bull dog alarm? Regardless of the cause, I couldn't shake it. Once I realized that I’d written almost a full article on the effects of caffeine on cellulitis, which was supposed to cover caffeine’s effects on cellulite--a completely different animal, I surrendered to a much-needed break.
I headed to the salon for a haircut, met a fabulous stylist named Spring... (My last stylist was named June, go figure!) then came home for a pretend nap to the tune of an Oprah rerun in the background. My mother instilled this in me as a youngster: “If you close your eyes and rest, it’s just as good as sleeping!”
Last night I slept like a rock and have been writing away all morning, my intellectual capabilities for the most part replenished.
My New Year’s resolution was to rest more and yesterday served as a reaffirming reminder.
In his book, “The Power of Rest: Why Sleep Alone is Not Enough,” Dr. Matthew Edlund offers a valuable technique for instilling rest into your every day. Food, Activity, Rest. I’m recommitting to FAR as of this very moment. Which means...it's time for a snack.
Saturday, August 6, 2011
A Cup of Agent-Tea
When I finished my first novel, about a year ago, my mom flew down from Minnesota to help host a “Novel-Tea” party. I knew as soon as the characters and story began formulating in my mind that I’d want to celebrate in such a way. A handful of my dearest friends gathered to make dream-centered crafts, eat tasty food and talk about our creative goals.
A friend who couldn’t attend told me he’d be at the next one, which would be “even better,” seeing as it would mark the day I landed an agent or signed a publishing contract. Although I didn’t say it, I disagreed; you only finish your first novel once. I suspect that no event will match the unique sensation that brings. Sure, I had revisions to complete, then the whole query letter, agent-hunt spree. But regardless of what happened next, no one could take what I’d accomplished. (I hope all writers feel this way...)
A couple of days ago I came upon photos from the tea party and noticed that the pink flowers my mom planted during her visit had sprung to life, seemingly overnight. I then received two exciting emails from agents, both interested in representing my novel.
Before the phone meetings, a crazy mix of hope, eagerness, glee and punched-in-the-stomach nausea overwhelmed me. I listened to songs from the tea party and songs my dad has sent me via iTunes (they always seem to speak to where I’m at) and headed to the park to sit in a quiet place.
I wrote, more like scribbled in hyper/nervous pen, in my journal that regardless of what happened next, I wanted to recall and savor the current giddiness. It’s about the journey, after all -- right?
Yesterday I signed a contract with a fantastic agent at an incredibly reputable agency. After I stopped floor dancing (don’t ask...) I shared the news with loved ones.
I’m so glad I took time to observe and mentally record how I felt beforehand. The happiness and gratitude I feel now marks another step, another beginning, in my writing career. And none of it would have happened if I hadn’t finished the darn thing in the first place! (See how important that first draft is???)
Okay, so perhaps I’m stating the obvious: Not completing your book is the one sure way to not get agented or published. What’s more important, in my opinion, is the bumpy, cool ride and diligence it takes to get to that final page, paired with appreciation and willingness to celebrate every step along the way.
I’m the same person and writer I was before the flowers sprouted, the agents beckoned and the contract appeared. But now I have the joy of bringing my vigor regarding this next step to the page. (The other vital aspect of writing success: KEEP WRITING. Most days I feel as though I couldn’t help or stop if I tried.)
Fellow writers with whom I’ve shared my latest news have offered big time support and encouragement, I imagine because they truly get it. Many of them are significant steps beyond my current stage, yet they all seem to recall what it’s like to sit here. With them in mind, I’ll sip a spot of agent-tea then get straight back to work. One of the best parts of new beginnings: the work, responsibility and possibilities they bring...
A friend who couldn’t attend told me he’d be at the next one, which would be “even better,” seeing as it would mark the day I landed an agent or signed a publishing contract. Although I didn’t say it, I disagreed; you only finish your first novel once. I suspect that no event will match the unique sensation that brings. Sure, I had revisions to complete, then the whole query letter, agent-hunt spree. But regardless of what happened next, no one could take what I’d accomplished. (I hope all writers feel this way...)
A couple of days ago I came upon photos from the tea party and noticed that the pink flowers my mom planted during her visit had sprung to life, seemingly overnight. I then received two exciting emails from agents, both interested in representing my novel.
Before the phone meetings, a crazy mix of hope, eagerness, glee and punched-in-the-stomach nausea overwhelmed me. I listened to songs from the tea party and songs my dad has sent me via iTunes (they always seem to speak to where I’m at) and headed to the park to sit in a quiet place.
I wrote, more like scribbled in hyper/nervous pen, in my journal that regardless of what happened next, I wanted to recall and savor the current giddiness. It’s about the journey, after all -- right?
Yesterday I signed a contract with a fantastic agent at an incredibly reputable agency. After I stopped floor dancing (don’t ask...) I shared the news with loved ones.
I’m so glad I took time to observe and mentally record how I felt beforehand. The happiness and gratitude I feel now marks another step, another beginning, in my writing career. And none of it would have happened if I hadn’t finished the darn thing in the first place! (See how important that first draft is???)
Okay, so perhaps I’m stating the obvious: Not completing your book is the one sure way to not get agented or published. What’s more important, in my opinion, is the bumpy, cool ride and diligence it takes to get to that final page, paired with appreciation and willingness to celebrate every step along the way.
I’m the same person and writer I was before the flowers sprouted, the agents beckoned and the contract appeared. But now I have the joy of bringing my vigor regarding this next step to the page. (The other vital aspect of writing success: KEEP WRITING. Most days I feel as though I couldn’t help or stop if I tried.)
Fellow writers with whom I’ve shared my latest news have offered big time support and encouragement, I imagine because they truly get it. Many of them are significant steps beyond my current stage, yet they all seem to recall what it’s like to sit here. With them in mind, I’ll sip a spot of agent-tea then get straight back to work. One of the best parts of new beginnings: the work, responsibility and possibilities they bring...
Tuesday, August 2, 2011
Writing Cave
Time and conversation with loved ones is a prime cure for loneliness unless you are a writer. Don’t get me wrong—I savor and rely upon such connectedness as much as anyone. But investing too much time and energy into non-writing pursuits feels to me like being in the wrong relationship. (If you feel lonelier with him or her, it’s time to get out...)
And since gone are the days when writers simply wrote (unless you're fabulously wealthy or care little about those trivial things...rent, shelter and the like), the passionate ones create and prioritize time in our own "caves" -- places with little distraction, carved out of our ever-hectic, fast paced lives. My friend Darin is a talented writer by night and a physician by day. Ernessa T. Carter, author of "32 Candles," wrote her first novel by writing for 30 minutes every day and working 40-plus hours per week at a radio station. We all have the same amount of time each day and night to do with what we wish. Yes, we have obligations and responsibilities...but some of the most important ones are to ourselves.
"Of course, when one is faced with a canvas, one is no longer alone, and the sense of solitude diminishes. This can be an agreeable passage of time. In fact, solitude then becomes a kind of companion." Pierre Alechinsky
And since gone are the days when writers simply wrote (unless you're fabulously wealthy or care little about those trivial things...rent, shelter and the like), the passionate ones create and prioritize time in our own "caves" -- places with little distraction, carved out of our ever-hectic, fast paced lives. My friend Darin is a talented writer by night and a physician by day. Ernessa T. Carter, author of "32 Candles," wrote her first novel by writing for 30 minutes every day and working 40-plus hours per week at a radio station. We all have the same amount of time each day and night to do with what we wish. Yes, we have obligations and responsibilities...but some of the most important ones are to ourselves.
"Of course, when one is faced with a canvas, one is no longer alone, and the sense of solitude diminishes. This can be an agreeable passage of time. In fact, solitude then becomes a kind of companion." Pierre Alechinsky
Thursday, July 21, 2011
How to Write Efficiently on Planes
Your right elbow is two centimeters from your neighboring passenger's and if his eyes wander toward your computer screen ONE MORE TIME, you'll use it. The woman in front of you finally stopped yapping at the top of her vocal capabilities only to recline her chair back so far back it nearly crushes your beloved laptop, ripping you from the end of what was sure to be your most poignant sentence to date. (Crap! What was I saying???) She then snores through your none-too-subtle knee jabs to her back, which seems to trigger a nearby infant’s screaming fit. But you have three uninterrupted hours to WRITE! And dang-nabbit, you're going to.
How you ask? Here is what's working—er, um...I imagine would work, for me:
1. Open a document or web page featuring information sure to off-put your neighbor. StopVaginitisNow.com for example, terrifies young, embarrass-able males... Masturbation Techniques for Her might stave off a persnickity, anti-feminist female. (Caution: Do not mistakenly use option B for passenger A.)
2. Type I KNOW YOU’RE READING THIS, BUSTER! in bold, large letters. (If you feel so moved, add cuss words.)
3. Bring your fire to the page. This is your win-win. Gather all of your frustration and convert it into writing fuel. Use your anger to strategically kill off the bad guy...your despair to convey the loneliness an imprisoned woman feels knowing she may never pursue her dreams...your humor to write a goofy satire involving a frustrated writer whose trouble-filled plane ride leads to fame, fortune and countless best-sellers...
Ideas to add? Please...do tell.
How you ask? Here is what's working—er, um...I imagine would work, for me:
1. Open a document or web page featuring information sure to off-put your neighbor. StopVaginitisNow.com for example, terrifies young, embarrass-able males... Masturbation Techniques for Her might stave off a persnickity, anti-feminist female. (Caution: Do not mistakenly use option B for passenger A.)
2. Type I KNOW YOU’RE READING THIS, BUSTER! in bold, large letters. (If you feel so moved, add cuss words.)
3. Bring your fire to the page. This is your win-win. Gather all of your frustration and convert it into writing fuel. Use your anger to strategically kill off the bad guy...your despair to convey the loneliness an imprisoned woman feels knowing she may never pursue her dreams...your humor to write a goofy satire involving a frustrated writer whose trouble-filled plane ride leads to fame, fortune and countless best-sellers...
Ideas to add? Please...do tell.
Saturday, July 9, 2011
Ten Things I Loved About ThrillerFest
1. NYC!
2. Submersion in bookworms.
3. Eavesdropping—er, um, overhearing cordial conversations about blood, murder, weapons and psychopaths.
4. Waking to car horns. (How I've missed that...)
5. The smell of sweet nuts poking through the humid garbage stench.
6. Hanging with two of my favorite artists. (Thanks A & R!)
7. Books...and more books...
8. A new book I could scarcely put down.
9. This comment: "Your protagonist is female? The agents already want you!"
10. This comment: "Send me the whole thing. Pronto."
2. Submersion in bookworms.
3. Eavesdropping—er, um, overhearing cordial conversations about blood, murder, weapons and psychopaths.
4. Waking to car horns. (How I've missed that...)
5. The smell of sweet nuts poking through the humid garbage stench.
6. Hanging with two of my favorite artists. (Thanks A & R!)
7. Books...and more books...
8. A new book I could scarcely put down.
9. This comment: "Your protagonist is female? The agents already want you!"
10. This comment: "Send me the whole thing. Pronto."
Tuesday, June 28, 2011
Just Leap
I quit modeling more times than I recall throughout my career. Today, I quit officially -- no more contract renewals, no more "leaving my options open." That method likely works well for some people, but it doesn't bode well with me.
Knowing that my agent might call with an appointment, check my availability for a job or, god forbid, a booking, felt like having a boyfriend while continuing to flirt with other options, just in case! Well...just as I've committed to Mr. Lifelong (today's is our 3 year anniversary, by the way ;)), I've committed to my writing career.
The last time I passed on a big film audition, I finished my first novel -- that very day. After I turned down a walk-on TV role a few months later, I got a new writing client and a marked pay raise. Who knows what today's decision will bring...
I do know this: When you're honest to yourself, you are honest to the world. It only makes sense that professional authenticity and success should follow. I also know that when I write, I'm happy.
If more people pursued their dreams, I imagine many of the world's problems would end, if not minimize. As long as I've listened to my heart and moved forward with purpose, I've had food on the table and joy in my heart. Okay, so some of those days, my food came from the 99 Cent store... But you know what? Even then, I felt rich.
It's not that I don't look before I leap... I just don't wait for the giant net and "GO" sign to do it.
Knowing that my agent might call with an appointment, check my availability for a job or, god forbid, a booking, felt like having a boyfriend while continuing to flirt with other options, just in case! Well...just as I've committed to Mr. Lifelong (today's is our 3 year anniversary, by the way ;)), I've committed to my writing career.
The last time I passed on a big film audition, I finished my first novel -- that very day. After I turned down a walk-on TV role a few months later, I got a new writing client and a marked pay raise. Who knows what today's decision will bring...
I do know this: When you're honest to yourself, you are honest to the world. It only makes sense that professional authenticity and success should follow. I also know that when I write, I'm happy.
If more people pursued their dreams, I imagine many of the world's problems would end, if not minimize. As long as I've listened to my heart and moved forward with purpose, I've had food on the table and joy in my heart. Okay, so some of those days, my food came from the 99 Cent store... But you know what? Even then, I felt rich.
It's not that I don't look before I leap... I just don't wait for the giant net and "GO" sign to do it.
Thursday, May 26, 2011
Your Book Made My Butt Hurt (My Fan-Letter to Mike Sirota)
Let me explain...
For whatever reason, I read best at the gym. Amidst a hectic couple of weeks, I found myself longing to delve back into the book that "had me" from Chapter One.
I brought my Kindle to the stairclimber, hoping for a solid 30 - 40 minute reading/workout session. Well... an hour later, the darn machine turned off! (Apparently there's a time limit...)
Chapter One was one of the most original, haunting -- okay, and intimidating -- pieces I believe I've read. It's a stand-alone story that could itself be made into a movie. I'll likely read it again and again.
It stayed in my mind throughout the book, which was more like stepping into an entire world than a novel. (I suppose great novels do that.) I was equally struck by the realness of the characters, the places, even the ghosts. There were no "jumping cats," as they say in the film business -- every bit made perfect, even rational sense. The way you wove the characters and story together, switching from one character's perspective to the next, blew me away... Odd as this may sound, it read more to me like a symphony than a book.
I wondered at first whether this supposed "love story" was actually going to happen. Once it did, HOLY SCHMOLEY. I read faster, probably climbed the stairs faster, and before I knew it... The End. (What? No!!!)
A young man "climbing" next to me said, "Must've been a good one."
Huh? "Oh...the book. Yes!" (Reminder to self: You're at the gym.)
Apparently he'd tried to nab my attention twice and I ignored him. After I briefed him on the book, he typed "Fire Dance" into his i-phone and promised me a review next time I see him. If, that is, I can get his attention.
Thanks for writing such a fun, readable book. It reminded me of the reason I first fell in love with reading in the first place -- no better, or cooler, escape. ;) So hurry up and finish that next one! In your own good time, of course.
And don't worry. The exercise wasn't compulsive -- only the reading. I plan to replenish lost calories and more ASAP. As for my butt ache, it was worth it.
Your fan,
August
Buy FIRE DANCE
Tuesday, March 8, 2011
In Her Shadow
Hi All,
I haven't posted in a while, so I thought I would share the initial pages of my novel for those of you who haven't gotten a peak. I've been busy working away on my second, querying agents to represent my first and enjoying life overall. I hope all's well in your world, too!
Best,
August
She gulps the swig of poison like an eight-year-old inhaling cough syrup – nose plugged, eyes squeezed shut, her face pulled into a tight round ball. Toxic, metallic tasting vapors trail the liquid down her throat, filling her with venomous stench and nausea. Swallow, she instructs. Gulp. Breathe. There, that’s it. She did it.
She trembles on the floor, her sweaty back pressed against the bedside, awaiting action. The wrapper from the candy bar he forced into her mouth lies on the floor beside her, crumpled like an odd bit of wrapping paper on Christmas morning. No celebrations today, though. Well, maybe after. She withholds her tears, clinging as though to a ledge of which she can’t let go. If she cries, the poison might come out and that would ruin everything. Come on, she thinks, work. Damn it, work! If it doesn’t start soon, she’ll have to sip some more.
A moment later she feels it. The gurgling in her stomach, the slight lift in her gut, the poisoned-food-particle-stuff moving raucously around inside of her, ready to be regurgitated. Yes, she thinks, it’s working!
Vomit shoots violently from her, a volcano erupting. It cuts slashes in her esophagus, wounds that will sting like paper cuts. She doesn’t mind the pain. In a way, she likes it. Proof of her efforts, her un-doing of the food forced in.
She stands, dizzy, and grasps the countertop for balance. She takes a moment to collect herself. Easy does it. Bumping around or toppling over would make noise, and any noise is too much. She tucks the bottle away with caution, conceals the evidence before flushing. The gushing water obscures the swishing sound in her mouth. She puffs warm breath onto her cupped palm and sniffs it. Well done. No scent, no flavor, no cause for HIM to suspect.
She teeters back to her bed, heaviness pulling like a vacuum on her body. Dizziness clamps her brain as she tucks herself in, the sheets now cool from her absence. She rests her head on her pillow. Slumber finds her quickly, a far cry from the insomnia to which she’s accustomed. A dream captures her before she can detect the blood trickling from her nose.
I haven't posted in a while, so I thought I would share the initial pages of my novel for those of you who haven't gotten a peak. I've been busy working away on my second, querying agents to represent my first and enjoying life overall. I hope all's well in your world, too!
Best,
August
She gulps the swig of poison like an eight-year-old inhaling cough syrup – nose plugged, eyes squeezed shut, her face pulled into a tight round ball. Toxic, metallic tasting vapors trail the liquid down her throat, filling her with venomous stench and nausea. Swallow, she instructs. Gulp. Breathe. There, that’s it. She did it.
She trembles on the floor, her sweaty back pressed against the bedside, awaiting action. The wrapper from the candy bar he forced into her mouth lies on the floor beside her, crumpled like an odd bit of wrapping paper on Christmas morning. No celebrations today, though. Well, maybe after. She withholds her tears, clinging as though to a ledge of which she can’t let go. If she cries, the poison might come out and that would ruin everything. Come on, she thinks, work. Damn it, work! If it doesn’t start soon, she’ll have to sip some more.
A moment later she feels it. The gurgling in her stomach, the slight lift in her gut, the poisoned-food-particle-stuff moving raucously around inside of her, ready to be regurgitated. Yes, she thinks, it’s working!
Vomit shoots violently from her, a volcano erupting. It cuts slashes in her esophagus, wounds that will sting like paper cuts. She doesn’t mind the pain. In a way, she likes it. Proof of her efforts, her un-doing of the food forced in.
She stands, dizzy, and grasps the countertop for balance. She takes a moment to collect herself. Easy does it. Bumping around or toppling over would make noise, and any noise is too much. She tucks the bottle away with caution, conceals the evidence before flushing. The gushing water obscures the swishing sound in her mouth. She puffs warm breath onto her cupped palm and sniffs it. Well done. No scent, no flavor, no cause for HIM to suspect.
She teeters back to her bed, heaviness pulling like a vacuum on her body. Dizziness clamps her brain as she tucks herself in, the sheets now cool from her absence. She rests her head on her pillow. Slumber finds her quickly, a far cry from the insomnia to which she’s accustomed. A dream captures her before she can detect the blood trickling from her nose.
Thursday, December 9, 2010
The Ultimate Decongestant
I couldn't figure out why I kept waking up feeling like I'd been tumbled around in a clothes dryer rather than sleeping...or why the mucus in my chest and nose lingered, regardless of my super-infusion of soup, tea and vegetables...or why, in response to a friend's question, "How's your new novel going?," I felt chest pain. Roughly 3.5 seconds later, I realized what I'd missed: I'd moved my novel-writing slightly lower on the totem pole in order to make more money, yadda yadda yadda...Another 0.5 seconds later, my totem pole was rightly configured—mine happens to have a Christmas star on top—and my nasal passages, clear.
I woke up the next morning after bumpy sleep...(My novel kept waking me up and telling me to work on it...) feeling again tossed and tumbled. As soon as I began clacking away on my laptop my angst dissipated and I returned to my usual, if hyper/obsessive self. Who needs Nyquil? Dayquil? Those nasty nasal sprayers? Sleep? (Ok, maybe that's important.) I've known for some time what writing creatively means for my emotional health. This episode showed me my body needs it, too.
According to a study published in the "Journal of Psychosomatic Medicine," science may support my "findings." Researchers studied the health and happiness of 334 healthy volunteers at Carnegie Mellon University for 2 weeks. Afterwards, the researchers inserted the rhino virus into each of the volunteers noses. While pessimistic, less-happy individuals weren't more likely to develop cold symptoms, people assessed as "happy" and "fulfilled" developed the fewest cold symptoms. In other words, go get happy! Or stay happy. Or...get even happier.
I woke up the next morning after bumpy sleep...(My novel kept waking me up and telling me to work on it...) feeling again tossed and tumbled. As soon as I began clacking away on my laptop my angst dissipated and I returned to my usual, if hyper/obsessive self. Who needs Nyquil? Dayquil? Those nasty nasal sprayers? Sleep? (Ok, maybe that's important.) I've known for some time what writing creatively means for my emotional health. This episode showed me my body needs it, too.
According to a study published in the "Journal of Psychosomatic Medicine," science may support my "findings." Researchers studied the health and happiness of 334 healthy volunteers at Carnegie Mellon University for 2 weeks. Afterwards, the researchers inserted the rhino virus into each of the volunteers noses. While pessimistic, less-happy individuals weren't more likely to develop cold symptoms, people assessed as "happy" and "fulfilled" developed the fewest cold symptoms. In other words, go get happy! Or stay happy. Or...get even happier.
Monday, October 18, 2010
Bouchercon...Festival of Kindness
When I told an author friend of mine that I'd finished my first novel he told me I "must" attend Bouchercon. ("Boucher-what"?) Well, I've just returned from the crime fiction writer/agent/fan conference, this year hosted in San Francisco, and knew within minutes of arriving that my friend had been right.
I'd contacted the conference registration office to find out if there were opportunities to network with agents. "Just hang out in the bar," the friendly woman told me. Okay... I really had no idea what I was getting into, but figured it was worth a shot. I contemplated strategies. Should I bring business cards? Have my "elevator pitch" ready? Prepare a song and dance?
More importantly, how would I avoid pestering agents the way I've seen actors harass Hollywood executives, agents and models/actresses with agents. As it turned out, the only "strategy" required, if you could call it that, was good old genuine kindness. I've never been in a more welcoming community; the kindness was reciprocal to say the least.
An author from the U.K. shared an on-going joke and point of tension in the British writers community. Apparently someone high up in the mystery/thriller genre commented that mystery/thriller writers are the "nicest bunch of blokes" because they get all of their angst out in their novels. Romance writers, on the other hand, are "a bunch of caddy bitches." I can't say the latter is true, but from my personal experience thus far, the mystery/thriller writers is.
I loved the conversations with fellow writers that went something like, "Are you enjoying the conference?" "Yes! It's great. I love your sweater." "Thanks! Yours too. What's your novel about?" "A man who eats policemen's feet for dinner. Yours?" "That sounds fascinating! Mine's about a cannibal who stalks pedophiles." "Awesome!" And so on...
At one point I was wandering in a spaced-out cloud, contemplating the novel I started that morning in my hotel room, when an author I'd met previously approached me. "Did you hear me calling your name and waving my arms wildly?" "Sorry..." I mumbled, blushing. "I was...writing?" Rather than look at me as though I was crazy, the multi-published author smiled, nodded and said, "You're gonna do all right, kid." Affirming, to say the least...
A highlight of my trip came when I stepped out of a panel to get a beverage and decided to sit at a table of two men and an empty chair. "Mind if I sit?" They looked at me, seeming a bit stunned. Fearing I had food bits on my face, I sat down anyway. They promptly asked me if I was a writer.
"Yes, I just finished my first novel—a thriller. I'm starting the "find an agent" process."
The men exchanged knowing glances then asked me what my novel is about. I told them. "We'll take a look at it," one of them replied. "Sure," said the other.
"You will?" (My turn for a shocked glance.)
Anyone with guts enough to talk to them was worth a shot, they said.
*GULP* I walked away clutching a business card, hoping my palpating heart wasn't apparent through my blouse... It wasn't until I returned home that I discovered via Google that one of the men owns a prestigious literary agency. (HOLY CRAP!) The other represents a slew of authors I admire.
Perhaps one day someone will ask me the proverbial "How did you get an agent?" question and I'll reply: "I was thirsty." or "Ignorance." I suspect it will be something like "By being friendly." Of course you have to write your heart out, produce good work, tell great stories, etc... Regardless of what happens next, I left the conference feeling like I was leaving a gathering of friends in a community in which I fit.
"Do it. Whatever it is. If you have a dream, go ahead, take the risks, and make whatever sacrifices you possibly can."
~Robin Black
I'd contacted the conference registration office to find out if there were opportunities to network with agents. "Just hang out in the bar," the friendly woman told me. Okay... I really had no idea what I was getting into, but figured it was worth a shot. I contemplated strategies. Should I bring business cards? Have my "elevator pitch" ready? Prepare a song and dance?
More importantly, how would I avoid pestering agents the way I've seen actors harass Hollywood executives, agents and models/actresses with agents. As it turned out, the only "strategy" required, if you could call it that, was good old genuine kindness. I've never been in a more welcoming community; the kindness was reciprocal to say the least.
An author from the U.K. shared an on-going joke and point of tension in the British writers community. Apparently someone high up in the mystery/thriller genre commented that mystery/thriller writers are the "nicest bunch of blokes" because they get all of their angst out in their novels. Romance writers, on the other hand, are "a bunch of caddy bitches." I can't say the latter is true, but from my personal experience thus far, the mystery/thriller writers is.
I loved the conversations with fellow writers that went something like, "Are you enjoying the conference?" "Yes! It's great. I love your sweater." "Thanks! Yours too. What's your novel about?" "A man who eats policemen's feet for dinner. Yours?" "That sounds fascinating! Mine's about a cannibal who stalks pedophiles." "Awesome!" And so on...
At one point I was wandering in a spaced-out cloud, contemplating the novel I started that morning in my hotel room, when an author I'd met previously approached me. "Did you hear me calling your name and waving my arms wildly?" "Sorry..." I mumbled, blushing. "I was...writing?" Rather than look at me as though I was crazy, the multi-published author smiled, nodded and said, "You're gonna do all right, kid." Affirming, to say the least...
A highlight of my trip came when I stepped out of a panel to get a beverage and decided to sit at a table of two men and an empty chair. "Mind if I sit?" They looked at me, seeming a bit stunned. Fearing I had food bits on my face, I sat down anyway. They promptly asked me if I was a writer.
"Yes, I just finished my first novel—a thriller. I'm starting the "find an agent" process."
The men exchanged knowing glances then asked me what my novel is about. I told them. "We'll take a look at it," one of them replied. "Sure," said the other.
"You will?" (My turn for a shocked glance.)
Anyone with guts enough to talk to them was worth a shot, they said.
*GULP* I walked away clutching a business card, hoping my palpating heart wasn't apparent through my blouse... It wasn't until I returned home that I discovered via Google that one of the men owns a prestigious literary agency. (HOLY CRAP!) The other represents a slew of authors I admire.
Perhaps one day someone will ask me the proverbial "How did you get an agent?" question and I'll reply: "I was thirsty." or "Ignorance." I suspect it will be something like "By being friendly." Of course you have to write your heart out, produce good work, tell great stories, etc... Regardless of what happens next, I left the conference feeling like I was leaving a gathering of friends in a community in which I fit.
"Do it. Whatever it is. If you have a dream, go ahead, take the risks, and make whatever sacrifices you possibly can."
~Robin Black
Thursday, September 16, 2010
Celebrating the Path...and Emulating Gabby
How is it late-September already?! Okay, so I already know the answer... I've been, shall we say... busy. I would venture to guess that you all have been, too, and hope you are happy, healthy and enjoying the beginning of fall.
I finished polishing the final draft of my novel and celebrated with my mother and a group of close friends at a "Novel-Tea Party." I knew as soon as I started my novel that I wanted to share and celebrate its completion, before and regardless of agent/publisher interest. (It's all about the journey...right???) Thus, I scheduled the party before my up-coming meetings with two agents and before my truck-load of query letters go out. The party was a blast, its main hight light, hearing of dear friends' wishes, successes and dreams. I have a feeling that the lot of us will reap success from simply spending that time together... I feel I already have. (Thanks, you guys!)
Our collective dream-board:
Speaking of dreams, one has been drifting through my thoughts since I read Yahoo News this morning. The 25th anniversary edition of Elle Magazine features Gabourey Sidibe—the talented actress and star of the movie, Precious. In my eyes, there is no one better suited to grace the cover of Elle than Gabby. She is beautiful inside and out, talented beyond measure and inspiring to boot. I wish more women, men and children accepted and loved themselves as I've seen Gabby express in interviews. They lightened Gabby's skin substantially for the shot, however, and revealed very little of her physique.
As someone who has been on both sides of the photoshop issue (I've seen photos of mine photo-shopped in various publications and have had various parts of my body "stand-in" for other more recognizable peoples'...whom, I can't say...or I might end up in the hoosky...) I have a serious problem with the images the general public is faced, no—bombarded with. When I was modeling full-time, I often tried to justify my career path in my head. "It's like basketball," I once coached myself. "Some people are born athletes." And I was born...photogenic? Unfortunately it isn't simply about photogenic-ism or how well one moves before the camera. I'd feel far more pride regarding my modeling career if the industry portrayed, and society accepted or demanded, a broader definition of "beauty." Some days I feel we're making progress...others, not so much.
I hope we can all emulate Gabby's character. She is a model in truest form:
mod·el (mdl)
n.: One serving as an example to be imitated or compared; worthy of imitation; a preliminary work upon which others will be based
I finished polishing the final draft of my novel and celebrated with my mother and a group of close friends at a "Novel-Tea Party." I knew as soon as I started my novel that I wanted to share and celebrate its completion, before and regardless of agent/publisher interest. (It's all about the journey...right???) Thus, I scheduled the party before my up-coming meetings with two agents and before my truck-load of query letters go out. The party was a blast, its main hight light, hearing of dear friends' wishes, successes and dreams. I have a feeling that the lot of us will reap success from simply spending that time together... I feel I already have. (Thanks, you guys!)
Our collective dream-board:
Speaking of dreams, one has been drifting through my thoughts since I read Yahoo News this morning. The 25th anniversary edition of Elle Magazine features Gabourey Sidibe—the talented actress and star of the movie, Precious. In my eyes, there is no one better suited to grace the cover of Elle than Gabby. She is beautiful inside and out, talented beyond measure and inspiring to boot. I wish more women, men and children accepted and loved themselves as I've seen Gabby express in interviews. They lightened Gabby's skin substantially for the shot, however, and revealed very little of her physique.
As someone who has been on both sides of the photoshop issue (I've seen photos of mine photo-shopped in various publications and have had various parts of my body "stand-in" for other more recognizable peoples'...whom, I can't say...or I might end up in the hoosky...) I have a serious problem with the images the general public is faced, no—bombarded with. When I was modeling full-time, I often tried to justify my career path in my head. "It's like basketball," I once coached myself. "Some people are born athletes." And I was born...photogenic? Unfortunately it isn't simply about photogenic-ism or how well one moves before the camera. I'd feel far more pride regarding my modeling career if the industry portrayed, and society accepted or demanded, a broader definition of "beauty." Some days I feel we're making progress...others, not so much.
I hope we can all emulate Gabby's character. She is a model in truest form:
mod·el (mdl)
n.: One serving as an example to be imitated or compared; worthy of imitation; a preliminary work upon which others will be based
Sunday, August 15, 2010
Stories Untold
There is no greater agony than bearing an untold story inside you.
~Maya Angelou
I believe this with every ounce of my being. I had the pleasure of visiting a good friend of mine last week and the added pleasure of hearing her idea for a novel. She's had the story in mind for years and now feels it's "the time." I hope she does write it; it's a fascinating story and she has the brights and passion to complete it. Writers should write and not let anything stand in their way.
~Maya Angelou
I believe this with every ounce of my being. I had the pleasure of visiting a good friend of mine last week and the added pleasure of hearing her idea for a novel. She's had the story in mind for years and now feels it's "the time." I hope she does write it; it's a fascinating story and she has the brights and passion to complete it. Writers should write and not let anything stand in their way.
Friday, August 6, 2010
I like cleaning?!
I don't actually...Love a clean house, dislike the cleaning process. As I remove the dust and grime from my novel, though, I can't help but wonder if Mr. Clean reaps similar satisfaction from polishing floors. Perhaps I've been saving my cleaning fervor all these years for this process.
I recently read Stephen King's, On Writing--a fabulous part-memoir, part "how to" writer's guide. He writes about his first mentor who told him that the first draft is for you (the writer); the revision is for everyone else (the readers). Though I'm polishing my revision, not my first draft, this insight rings helpful and true.
I'm surprised that I enjoy this tidying phase as much as I do...I get to enjoy my novel as a reader and experience the final draft as it reveals itself. Some days I feel like I'm dusting dirt away to find hidden treasures. When I come across Good Will giveaways instead, I'm happy to make cuts. (So is my editor.)
A few more quotes from On Writing I dig:
"Write with the door closed; rewrite with the door open."
"Fiction is truth inside the lie."
"The road to hell is paved in adverbs."
"A short story is a kiss in the dark from a stranger."
"If you want to be a writer, you must do two things above all others: read a lot and write a lot."
"A little talent is a good thing to have if you want to be a writer. But the only real requirement is the ability to remember every scar."
"Life isn't a support system for art. It's the other way around."
(All quotes from Stephen King)
Tuesday, August 3, 2010
Black Hole PC
Last time I dropped my husband off at the airport, my car battery died in front of LAX. Today after dropping him off, it was worse--my COMPUTER. Rather than the novel I was eager to submerse myself in while dodging rush hour traffic, I hit the power button and found nothing to pursue but a black hole. (Sounds to me like a cheesy greeting card, right?... "My lights go off without you!" In this case, it's tragically true...)
Long story short (not my strong suit, but this is a blog and I've exhausted myself in computer salesman schpeals (sp?) and "how to cut and paste in Mac" tutorials...which isn't as rough as Mac-loathers make it out to be, by the way...
You guessed it--I BOUGHT A MAC. Leaving my trusty...(more like DUSTY, bird feather/dog fur filled) old Toshiba at Best Buy to retrieve the contents the black hole ate made me sad... We've been through a lot together, the "shib" and me. *sigh*
But here I sit, all MAC-ed out, and digging it. I have lots to learn, of course...such as...how did the sales guy use it to take our picture during price check...and how do I make the internet screen and font bigger...and where do my documents disappear to after I upload them...and why is there a purple cup and saucer-type type thing (or is it a paintbrush?) bouncing around on my screen's bottom right now...?
If any writers have pointers on MAC's that might accelerate my learning curve, I'd appreciate hearing them. As for my hubby, I'm grateful I have someone to miss so much...especially in the dark. ;)
I had something deeper to chat about today, but it's long-since forgotten...or at least lurking in the "hole" contents, yet-to-be-recovered. More--hopefully--soon.
Long story short (not my strong suit, but this is a blog and I've exhausted myself in computer salesman schpeals (sp?) and "how to cut and paste in Mac" tutorials...which isn't as rough as Mac-loathers make it out to be, by the way...
You guessed it--I BOUGHT A MAC. Leaving my trusty...(more like DUSTY, bird feather/dog fur filled) old Toshiba at Best Buy to retrieve the contents the black hole ate made me sad... We've been through a lot together, the "shib" and me. *sigh*
But here I sit, all MAC-ed out, and digging it. I have lots to learn, of course...such as...how did the sales guy use it to take our picture during price check...and how do I make the internet screen and font bigger...and where do my documents disappear to after I upload them...and why is there a purple cup and saucer-type type thing (or is it a paintbrush?) bouncing around on my screen's bottom right now...?
If any writers have pointers on MAC's that might accelerate my learning curve, I'd appreciate hearing them. As for my hubby, I'm grateful I have someone to miss so much...especially in the dark. ;)
I had something deeper to chat about today, but it's long-since forgotten...or at least lurking in the "hole" contents, yet-to-be-recovered. More--hopefully--soon.
Wednesday, July 7, 2010
Workaholic, Schmerkaholic...(Vacation's are OK.)
With tears coursing from my cheeks to my keyboard pad, I finished my novel on the 16the day of the 6th month at 9:36am. Seeing as 3's my lucky number--and what better judge of success and possiblitiy is that?! ;)--I'm stoked on multiple levels. I'm now in the polishing/final touches stage, in eager anticipation of meetings with several agents in September. (Cross your fingers and toes, 3 times!)
I've since been enjoying a rather European-style summer, in which I work less and play, rest and travel more, without beating myself up (very often) for my "laziness" (which I don't rationally believe in). Granted, my rendition of "play" often involves writing...and working less still lands me at a reasonably hefty schedule. I am, however, starting to see the value in the Euro-way. When I lived in Paris, I grew tired of people asking me where I'd planned to go "for holiday." Christmas is months away, I kept thinking. It took me a while to catch on... Once I did, I loathed the idea of taking a month or so off work to do, in my opinion, nothing.
Having spent time with my family in Minnesota--relishing my beautiful sister's wedding--and in North Carolina for the 4th of July, I'm finding that respite effects my writing like much-needed "mental health days" home from school. According to a National Sleep Foundation study, the average American employee works 46 hours per week and 38% of Americans work more than 50 hours per week--factors linked with sleep problems, reduced lifespan, yadda yadda... I imagine self-employed/independent contractor types (present company, for example) work even more. Since pursuing work one enjoys improves longevity, I figure I've cancelled my heightened risk factors out...er, I hope. If not, I'll rely upon my European-style summers, which may last days, or weeks or more, and which I may opt to cancel at anytime.
I've since been enjoying a rather European-style summer, in which I work less and play, rest and travel more, without beating myself up (very often) for my "laziness" (which I don't rationally believe in). Granted, my rendition of "play" often involves writing...and working less still lands me at a reasonably hefty schedule. I am, however, starting to see the value in the Euro-way. When I lived in Paris, I grew tired of people asking me where I'd planned to go "for holiday." Christmas is months away, I kept thinking. It took me a while to catch on... Once I did, I loathed the idea of taking a month or so off work to do, in my opinion, nothing.
Having spent time with my family in Minnesota--relishing my beautiful sister's wedding--and in North Carolina for the 4th of July, I'm finding that respite effects my writing like much-needed "mental health days" home from school. According to a National Sleep Foundation study, the average American employee works 46 hours per week and 38% of Americans work more than 50 hours per week--factors linked with sleep problems, reduced lifespan, yadda yadda... I imagine self-employed/independent contractor types (present company, for example) work even more. Since pursuing work one enjoys improves longevity, I figure I've cancelled my heightened risk factors out...er, I hope. If not, I'll rely upon my European-style summers, which may last days, or weeks or more, and which I may opt to cancel at anytime.
Wednesday, June 16, 2010
Cinderella
A diversion from my "usual" writing-fare, but one that's near to my heart... My first music video, directed by my uber-talented friend, Scott David Martin, and starring Hannah Sullivan. Here's to all the "Cinderella's" out there! May all of your dreams come true...
Thursday, June 10, 2010
If Dogs Were Editors...
...man, would we feel loved. My editor is more like Simon Cowell. But every now and again--okay, often--I read aloud to my beloved (did I mention deaf?) bull dog, Zoe. She may be slightly less literate than my Cowell-esque editor, but she sure does listen well (with her heart) and praise me as I walk through the door with my manuscript (with a number she calls, "squirmy-dance-with-wiggling-tail"). Though she occasionally snores mid-listen, she never leaves me feeling unworthy, unloved or "pedestrian" (my favorite feedback term I've heard applied to writers...). Granted, thumbs-up from my editor means a great deal and I find myself perpetually on my toes. I dig him, I should add, he's tres cool; but nothing beats a furry friend writing companion. (I'll address the bird another time...)
No matter who we are, what we do or what echelon of success we meet, life would rather stink without the unconditional support of loved ones...
No matter who we are, what we do or what echelon of success we meet, life would rather stink without the unconditional support of loved ones...
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