How Much Is Too Much? (warning, expletives)

So half of my WIP is a man. (cop, ex-military, non-religious)

And half of my WIP is a Mennonite. Mhhmm..I made her Mennonite this morning. German Baptist was so similar that it the only difference mattered to me and confused all readers everywhere. Now she wears a lot of florals. That's a different post.

Both people live inside me, so yeah...I don't have a problem switching back and forth. (go ahead and commit me now)

But, there is the way a man *like this one* speaks in reality and the way you make him speak in fiction. In reality, fuck is verb, noun, preposition, adjective, term of endearment, modifier, article, dangling particle...okay I was making up shit on the last one.

I've been around enough people to know how to speak like that. And they say people who curse aren't creative. *rolls eyes*

But you can't say that stuff in fiction. And when every word counts, I have to be careful not to use fuck as a placeholder, which I'm wont...want? waunt? -is that even a word?- which I tend to do.

I never studied the use of fuck so much in my life.

I don't have this problem with the Mennonite. Cursing is a big.effin.deal in a community like that. It's like they have label makers for people and as soon as you let an f-bomb slip (or taking God's name in vain, they are about equal) then the label maker spits out one entitled "wayward sinner" and it gets stuck on your forehead until you've done at least fifty years of penance. (not penance, that's Catholic, but you know...until you bake enough pie and do enough laundry to make up for it, which is essentially penance)

But even then they won't forget. They'll just end the story with "but that was awhile ago and she's not the same person."

Fudgeballs. That's one I say a lot as a substitute for the f-word. It sounds dirty and yummy all at once. I've given it over to the Mennonite to use as she wanders in territory where she wants to curse (because she knows she can, and she's an adult) but where it still feels strange leaving her tongue and she's still looking over her shoulder for a broad chested lady in a black apron with a label to stick on her forehead.

Yeah.

Because that's how awesome my book is. So awesome it's got fudgeballs and fuckery.

Picking a Point of View (not a how-to, more of a crisis)

There are tons of articles online about picking a POV (point-of-view). Pretty much every writer blog/website ever discusses the semantics of picking one.

Some stories are just meant to be told in a certain way. Those are easy.
Some people only know one way to write. That's easy too.

But then there are people like me.

In a word?

Lost.

I started writing in third. Always in third. I grew up reading the classics, and I aspired to write stories like the books I loved. The classics are written in third. (Before the 20th century).

Then, I pulled out what would eventually become Tantrum to Blind, and I decided to re-write it in first. This may or may not have anything to do with reading approximately a million stinking words of Twilight. Plus, I made the mistake of thinking I could simply replace "She" with "I" and everything would be the same.

Yeah.

So, after getting a beta reader, I realized I had to learn how to write in first person. I fought and struggled against the third "author" voice in my head. After all, that's where I felt my strengths where. But my seventeen-year-old MC, Lily, would not be describing things the way I would. So I pushed and pushed (the keyboard buttons) until I edited myself right out of the book.

And you know, I still look at it and feel kind of regretful. Most often I'm listening to CCR (creedance clearwater revival) and there is something in the music I wanted in the book, but isn't there.

For a very short period of time I had an anonymous writer mentor. She was cranky, and most everyone found her abrasive to the point of being a troll, but once you got over the roughness of her words, I realized the truth in everything she told me about my writing. While struggling over first, she had me re-write a portion of Tantrum in third. Said it was better. I wanted to cry.

But, I finally got the point where I can write in first pretty well. At least, I understand how to edit myself there.

When I read what I've written on my adult project, I know it's good. I know I've hit my sweet spot in first person and in story-telling. But I can't help but feel, the story could be so much bigger if I wrote it in third. And I'm constantly wondering the same question:

Am I writing it in first because it's easier for me, or better for the story?

I don't have an answer. ImpressMe, where are you? Writing glorious literary novels about rocks, I know...

Points for first-person for Black Mountain Crank:

• It's a story about two people. Writing it in first keeps the focus on two people working out their shit in a marriage. Which is what I wanted the story to focus on. If I switch to third then you've got all these "bigger" roads to wander down-- like the drugs and cultural conflicts-- when it's not a story about those things.

Points for third-person:

• I could say more.

But maybe I would just be adding pointless words?

Another thing to consider is that maybe I just haven't learned how to write as well in first. There are glimmers of things I love in my writing. Things that combine everything I want in third with everything I am in first. Where I don't feel restricted in the least in the voice:

“What do you mean? You don’t understand this?” I gestured to the chasm spreading out before us. The gorge snaked below our feet, fog already trailing its smoky fingers across the bottom as the sun sunk below the mountain ridge. The only man-made thing in sight was the Bridge. But even it seemed a part of the landscape. The rusted steel sprung from the gorge like twisted and curved beams of sandstone, bowing to each other as they met in the middle.

He tipped his head at the velvet sky, smiling.

I put the cigarette to my mouth as I plotted how to untangle that ponytail out of his hair. I exhaled in a sigh, the smoke catching in the wind, twisting above me as the breeze pulled it away.

If I could sustain this moment in writing, I would never have this discussion with myself.
But mostly I'm writing like this:

I breathed the tingling tobacco smoke, imagining it brought more than eventual lung cancer. The smoke floated in the air, almost seeming to bend around the shape of the ghosts crowding around me. I glanced at Williams as he stared at the closed and lonely doors. "You gotta come back here, holding a big fat surprise winner check, and then everyone'll open the door."

“Got one handy?”

"Who called it in?" I flicked away ash as the wind tugged and pulled.

Williams rolled his eyes. "Anonymous tipster."

"Oh, fuck."

Tobacco might be an actual character in this book. It's everywhere. But anyways, this is a big scene...and I'm falling short and  I know it. It's not bad. It's just not great. I need every. single. word. to count in this story. I keep repeating myself, and I don't care-- this is the best story I will ever tell. It's the closest I will get to writing the great American novel. I almost wish I could have someone else write the story, someone who would do it justice. Now I want to cry because I really wish someone great could write it. I'd rather the story be told the right way, than mess up the telling.


All I know is, there needs to be writer therapy. I need a mentor. I need a guide. I need a visit with the mentor (haha writer's journey).


I'm chewing my nails and drinking coffee and I don't know which way to go.

The Anomaly

I have a writing anomaly.

It's this adult book I've written that is a strange, twisted little story. I am convinced it's the greatest story I'll ever write. And I am excited to one day see it in print, because I know deep in my gut that it's a good story.

But it's the only one of it's kind in me.

By that I mean, this is an adult romance/suspense. And everything else in me is contemporary young adult.

This is where the idea of a career comes into play. If I wanted to sell this book first, I'd get an agent that fell in love with this book and a publisher that fell in love with this book and a bunch of readers that fell in love with this book. And I'd be sitting there, pleased as pudding, but with nothing else to tell that is similar to this book.

I mean, it's an epic modern love story type of shit. Also a little throwback epic love story. It's epic. Oh god, am I fourteen?

See what I mean. I write young adult. I am stuck at seventeen. For my anomaly, I had to step into my husband's head to write something that did not undercut every dramatic moment with humor. Wait, that's actually exactly what my husband does. Never mind. I don't know whose head I was in for that book.

Instead, I'm choosing to build my career on young adult. I don't want an agent who will love my anomaly, I want an agent who is going to love the other 99% of my writing. I figure, when the time comes to publish my anomaly, I'll figure it out. This way, it stays an anomaly.

But I have a feeling whoever lands me for young adult, will also fall in love with this one. I am serious. It's just the feeling in my soul that I've written something good. Like the same feeling when I know the gender of my kids (two for two) or when I know something bad is about to happen (unfortunatly I'm pretty good at sensing drastic change in my life).

I say all the above with the understanding that I could be totally wrong and it's a pile of shit. But that's cool too *shrug* it will still be the best story I've written, to me.

Do you have anomaly books? Does it affect how you envision building your career?

My Pinterest for my anomaly (also known as BLACK MOUNTAIN CRANK)

The Story is in the Details

On Monday, I had a rather harrowing mommy experience where I spent a few days in the PICU at Georgetown.

By a few days I mean, a little over twenty-four hours that felt like a lifetime.

I'm not going to go into it, because it's kind of boring and in the end, he's fine and that's not what I'm posting about. I'm posting about these bad boys:

When I left the house, I was in a rush, trying to sip some last minute coffee and add enough blankets to my kid's car seat to keep him warm. I stepped outside, coffee mug in one hand, car seat in the crook of my arm and I looked at the shoes on the floor.

Oh, I'm just going to the ER, I'll be home in a couple hours. It's still wet outside and the boots are easy to slip on.

So, I shoved my feet into my muck boots and off I went.

A day later, I'm clomping around Georgetown's PICU with my rubber boots. I'm riding in the ambulance, with my rubber boots. I'm discussing options with pediatric specialists and GI doctors in-- you guessed it-- my rubber boots.

The nurses laughed. Most asked me what I was doing before I came, or why I had chosen the boots. I live on an old tobacco farm and it was raining. 

In the ER I had to actually say, quite possible the most redneck thing in my life--- uhh, I have a dollar in my boot, can you get me a soda?

I clomped through the hospital, with all the young and pretty PICU nurses daintily stepping around me (they are all young and pretty in pediatrics).

When I told this story to my best friend, she told me about the time she rushed to the ER with her oldest, while on a beach vacation...in her swimsuit.

I think I prefer the boots.

Are the details telling a story in your writing? My boots told people an awful lot about me and my situation-- a powerful detail requiring minimal space.

Hard Work and Failure



Image here

 I never saw a land I couldn't get to on the basis of hard work.

Well, that's not entirely true. Somewhere around the age of sixteen I figured out that, while I could major in a math based program (engineering or calculus), I would have to work ten times harder than the hardest worker to stay even remotely competitive. I decided it wasn't worth it and majored in Pre-Law. *rolls eyes*

I wanted...oh-so-badly-wanted to major in English or Creative Writing.

I know.

But since I was the one paying the bills on the whole college education thing, I felt an English major was an indulgence and wouldn't benefit my job prospects. After all, the goal of a college degree is to get a good job. So I majored in a slightly less worthless category and rationalized it with working as a paralegal while gathering applications to law school.

But I had to take some English classes, and I happened to take a class taught by the chair (head?) of the English department.

The very first day he had us write and essay, on the fly, and (after review) read mine out loud as the best one. I wrote about seeing my sister born and he particularly liked the line-- "I didn't know whether to laugh, or cry or throw up..."  It was the first time I felt like I had a real chance to become a writer someday.
He tried to get me to major in English. Begged.
And I chewed my lip and sat in my dorm room for a long time trying to come up with a realistic way an English degree would pay my bills, and it just wasn't happening. (for me)

But I tucked that experience away for use later. "Write a book and sell it" was what I planned to do after I became a stay-at-home mom. When I was older, more experianced and had time.

I pulled out my manuscript-- the book I wrote when I was fifteen-- when I went on bed rest with my first at 33 weeks. No one told me that motherhood fried your brain cells so I just stared at the page and thought about food and my blood pressure.

I tried again after he was born. I had creative energy, but this time I just blinked at the computer and thought about sleeping.

When my first was eight months old, I started writing. And I re-wrote. And re-wrote.

Then I tried to do a query and realized I had nothing even related to a plot.

I re-wrote again.

I sent it to beta readers, and realized I had a lot to learn on the craft of writing.

So then I re-wrote.

And re-wrote.

And then I wrote another query and had another round of betas. This got me to something okay. It was sparse and it lacked...a lot. But it was closer than I'd ever been. I thought about querying, but I was too scared to fail.

So I put it away.

I worked on another book. Got pregnant and the same mental state hit-- the one where I couldn't do anything but think of food or sleep when I tried to write. So I didn't touch the keyboard for a year.
When I returned to writing, I returned to the latest project, until I was so sick of seeing it I couldn't even look at my desk.

And finally, I circled back to querying the first book.

Three years since I first started, I finally understood why more people aren't novelists. Why they say the first million words are practice (I think I'm right around the million mark).

The novel I'm querying isn't fantastic. I mean, I can look at more recent work and see the difference in quality. I'm starting to hit my stride in story-telling instead of fumbling with how to put the pieces together. But I worked my ass off on that story, and I got it the best I could. I owe it to myself and Lily (the MC) to try.

If I fail. I fail.

Don't get me wrong, I have existential crisises all the time about whether or not I should keep working so hard at something I'm continually failing at. But for now...I'll keep going.

It's like this:

I'm really bad at under hangs in rock climbing. Get me on anything less than vertical and my butt just peels right off. I can barely do a move over an arete. And by barely I mean, I usually don't even try. At the gym the other day, I got on a problem in the boulder cave. Completely upside down, big juggy holds for my hands (I think it was a V1 in case anyone knows what that means-- pretty easy for those who don't) and I made it one move in. Then maybe five tries later, I got two moves in. Another few attempts and I almost had the third move down.

I didn't complete the problem, didn't succeed by any stretch of the imagination. Fell on my ass over and over again. But there was something intensely gratifying about trying so damn hard and making tiny bits of progress. People around me were doing things much harder, much better. But I was happy to focus on my own problem, whether I failed or not.

That's how I feel about writing.

P.S. That's Christ Sharma in the picture, the world's greatest rock climber. He's upside down on the world's hardest boulder problem. He falls a lot. But he's great because he's combined amazing talent with a lot of knuckle scraping, tendon popping, muscle shaking hard work.

Assateague Island

When I was...*goes to check my name and age printed on the inside cover of the book* ahh, when I was eight, my mom did what any good-slightly-insane-about-horses-and-still-thirteen-inside mom does.

FYI: Your mom is still thirteen inside. And she's got an seventeen year old in there as well.

Anyways, mom gave me MISTY OF CHINCOTEAGUE. And I read it, and liked it, but I wasn't all ape-shit over horses so it wasn't like the greatest.thing.ever. Which was kind of how my mom viewed it.

We went to Ocean City, Maryland for vacations as a kid, and one year my mom convinced my perpetually grumpy father to drive over to Assateague Island to see the ponies. (Clarification: There are two islands. The book is written about wild ponies on Assateague Island that the kids bring over to Chincoteague Island. Chincoteague is inhabited, Assateauge is not)
It was raining, so I guess he figured it was better than sitting in the motel.

We didn't even get out of the car. And I think I was going through a "rap phase" at the time so I had my earphones in and just stared at the marshes and was like- uh-uh, got it mom, ponies!!

I remember this vacation for several reasons:

1. The trip to Assateauge (least cool)
2. I was twelve and finally allowed to go on the boardwalk with the older kids without adult supervision. (Very cool)
3. In five years I would look back on that vacation and know that also wandering the boardwalk was an eighteen-year-old bad-ass with muscles who I would eventually see naked. (THE COOLEST)

Now I made myself blush.

Anyways. Last year, aforementioned bad-ass and me celebrated our fourth wedding anniversary by going to Ocean City in the middle of winter. I was pregnant, so the cold did not disrupt my plans of eating my way through the town. Buffets, doughnuts, diners, Thrashers, Dumsers, oysters, crab...
Let's just say I gained about fifteen pounds in that one weekend and leave it there.

We also headed over to Assateague. Which was much cooler with a hot guy than with my pony crazy mom. Don't worry though, I texted her some photos.

Turns out, Assateague is awesome.

And tip for the summer: You can swim at Assateague, and change in their damn bathrooms! (for those of you unaware, Ocean City does not allow changing of clothes in their public bathroom and they have bathroom nazi's there to prevent such foolishness. They really want you to buy a motel room to change in, or get naked in your car)

Some things have changed since whatsherface wrote MISTY OF CHINCOTEAGUE. Paul and Maureen will now be electrocuted if they try and slide down the dune like the do in the opening scene.

But maybe it's different further down the coast.

You can get permits to drive on the beach now-- it would be an awesome camping trip to go down the coast in a Jeep, camp at the bottom and come back.

They have brochures about it in the visitor's center. I read all the brochures because said bad-ass:

Loves himself a good visitor center. And this one....this one had a movie, sprawling exhibits, a giant topography table of the island and tons of old photographs.

Man, we were there a long time. Like I said, I had time to read all the brochures. So it's like forty-five bucks for the permit to drive down the beach.

Don't mind me, I only had two fresh-made Boston creme donuts that morning. And an omelet. And hashbrowns. And two cups of coffee. And half of my husband's french toast. Pregnancy makes you as hungry as just-woke-up-from-hibernating bear.

I love being able to visit places I read about. Or read about places I've visited (if the author gets it right). I read MISTY again this morning and it put me right back on the beach.

Minus the belly, cankles and start of fat-face.
(p.s. I was only five months pregnant here.)

Buy MISTY OF CHINCOTEAGUE

Pinterest for Writers

Pinterest. If you haven't heard of it you probably aren't a mom, craft blogger, or about to get married.

But if you are a writer, you should be on pinterest. If you have readers foaming at the mouth for your next project, you should be on pinterest.

Why?

Pinterest is like having a bulletin board for your book. Say you are busy browsing the Internet instead of editing. You come across a picture, word or song that is just like you picture in your head for xyz part of your book. Instead of clogging up your bookmarks with random links to pages that don't even make sense five days later, you click "pin it" and the picture is essentially pinned to your online bulletin board. It's kind of like twitter for images. (sort of)

This means, you have a great visual way to see your book. You can even pin videos on youtube. If you have books out, this is a great way to enhance the readers experience. Okay, this is super embarrassing but after I finished Twilight I totally went all "I must have more!" and went to SM's website. Do you know how awesome it would have been to see a pinterest board with all her "visuals" pinned? Like the picture of what'shisface that she envisioned Edward as (which is on her blog), or how about the song she replayed over and over for writing Chapter x. See where I'm going?

Plus, you never have to worry about copyright issues because the images link back to the original site.

With an online bulletin board for past projects, you use technology to enhance the reader experience. Using it for future projects helps you keep track of inspiration, plus allows you to give hints and build anticipation for future projects.

Anyone can follow you on pinterest, and you can create different boards for each project. It's amazing.
It's also awesome for wedding ideas, crafts, home school, dinner, tattoos, and funny sayings.

Here is a screenshot of my board for TANTRUM TO BLIND. See what I mean by digital bulletin board? If you click on each entry, it brings you to a page where you have the origin link, html code, a direct link to that page and a bigger version of the image. For media, you can also hit play and watch it without leaving Pinterest. Awesome, huh?

Here is my pinterest profile if you would like to follow me: http://pinterest.com/snlemon/

Brownies Beach (only called so by locals)

Okay.

I'm not sure if using both Wordpress and Blogger at the same time will break some sort of time-space-Internet continuam I'm unaware of, but I figure, I'll risk it.

I'm so much more comfortable regularly blogging in Blogger. And Wordpress works so great for easy to maintain websites, that using both seems to be the best option.

Right.

It looks like snow here. I'm looking forward to spring. I missed out on the beach this year because I was busy doing that whole "giving birth and taking care of a newborn", so this summer...

This summer, I'm laying the smack-down on the beach situation.

I have plans to camp on Assateauge once I wrap up this whole breastfeeding thing. Yeah, it's probably going to suck (half the fun of camping is the suckage) but it's going to be fun.

Okay. Time for spring to get here. Unless it's actually going to snow, then we can do snow first.