Messy Boxes

Photo Credit

It's the beginning of a new year. It's my first post of the new year. Yet the new year is new only in reference to dates. Life hasn't changed; the simple reason being that I've carried it with me into 2015. And I'm finding that my life has grown a bit messy with regards to the roles that I've been called to play, particularly the roles of my writing and my mothering.

I've always been militantly intentional about keeping my writing separate from everything else. When around my kids, my mothering hat takes precedence--and I don't mind. It seems built into my hat-wearing system. I can be anywhere, doing anything, and if I hear my kids, they will direct my attention away from what I'm doing. I'm not complaining about this, nor do I begrudge them my attention. I love them. I love being their mom. I love mothering. However, when it comes to writing, I can't have my mind splitting off and opening the Mothering box when I need to be attending to the Writing box.

Thus Writing and Mothering were kept in their respective boxes--the Writing box being opened only when the Mothering box was closed and I had a quiet house or friendly coffee shop at my disposal.

My boxes, however, have gotten messy. They're intermingling. And, at least initially, it surprised me and even made me a little nervous. It started, actually, when I used my daughter's name as one of my characters in my novella that was published last year. She was 7 at the time, and suddenly aware that when I said "I'm writing", I am actually producing something. It isn't a nebulous distraction that results in my disappearance for unspecified periods of time. She now understands that I am writing stories. Stories that other people read. And that seems to have piqued her interest. Because now she's often asking me about my writing. About the stories I'm writing. About the people in the stories I'm writing.

"What do you write about?" she asked.

"About things that I see or people I meet or places I visit."

"Did you write about my messy room?"

"No."

"Did you write about all the firewood I carried from the shed up to the back porch?"

"No."

"Did you write about the toaster strudel I dropped on the kitchen floor this morning?"

"No."

"So, what do you write about again?"

"Um...."

Obviously, her ego-centricity (which is specific to a child her age) is still figuring itself out. But, just as she is aware of my Writing box, I am aware of her interest in my Writing box. And I like it. I like that I am able to show her that words matter. That words have power. That words transcend the boundaries of time and place and race and gender and religion.

Right now she may not understand all that, but by letting my Mothering and my Writing boxes intermingle, I find that both benefit from the exchange.

To be sure, there will be times when I will closet myself away in my Writing box of the imaginary and the literary. When the Mothering box will close and I will step away from it for a while (even happily, perhaps). But I'm finding that the hard lines I once drew between the two don't have to be so hard any more. I haven't struck the perfect balance by any means--and I'm sure I'll never perfectly master that--yet there's an unexpected freedom in the mess that I'm coming to accept and even enjoy.

I hope your New Year has begun as hopeful-y and as intermingle-y as mine!

Anna

Seattle's Best--and I'm not just talking coffee

I'm in Seattle. At a writing conference. And, as is the case whenever I attend a writing conference, I don't actually get a chance to do much writing. So I'm sitting in a little cafe--Le Panier--along the cobbled street of the Pike Place Market, where the smells of coffee and seafood and the sounds of a busking accapella group and the whir of footsteps and ferry horns coagulate. And I'm going to write. Just for a moment. Because I want to immortalize this experience; I want to write it out so as to understand it; and, of course, I want to share it with you, my blog-o-sphere family. 

I am with my writing friends. My Terrace Dwellers. Those dear souls to whom I don't have to explain a thing. Because they understand. Because, in the words of Browning, our hearts beat "each to each" and the company of each other is enough. Yet we can talk writing and literature and aesthetics and dreaming and never tired of any of it.

Last night each of us presented a reading at a quaint wine bar called Bar Fer'nand. Charming ambiance. Relaxed atmosphere. Blissful experience. 

This morning a panel of comp teachers inspired us to keep flirting with the impossible and press forward in our teaching of writing.

This afternoon we lunched at the Pike Place market, savoring smoked salmon chowder and comfortable conversation. 

Into the original Starbucks we wandered and stood in the tourist line to hear our name called--Anna! Skinny Caramel Latte!   

Because Original Starbucks. Because coffee. Because skinny. 

 

Tonight we anticipate sushi and the brilliance of Annie Proulx. And onward and onward and onward through the weekend.

So hopefully you get a taste of the loveliness, the companionability, the delight I'm feeling at the moment. And I'm wishing for each  of  you, too, an oasis of friends and fun and froth this week.

With love from Seattle,

Anna

Animal Crackers and Rainbow Looms . . . among other things

I have stacks of work and writing to do. I have loads of cleaning to do. I have places to be and coffee creamer to buy. So I've made a command decision to echo the words of brilliant heroine Scarlet O'Hara, "I'll think about that tomorrow". Instead, I'm writing a blog post. Because that's far more fun. And, since I'm here, I thought I'd share with you an Item of Interest (I.O.I.) or two from my neck of the woods:

I.O.I. #1: My ECE (Critical Thesis for grad school) is done, submitted, and accepted. Boom! It was a nail-biter there for awhile, but we got there in the end. So now I'm in the process (and by "in the process" I mean it's been sitting in a pot on a back burner getting black and gloppy) of changing the MLA formatting over into Chicago-style formatting so I can start submitting it to different journals and magazines in the hopes of it finding a home for publication. Because if I spent that much brain-power, tears, hours, and tubs of Nutella writing the darn thing, I'm at least gonna push it out into the world and see what it's made of. The Wright brothers didn't build a flying machine just for it to sit in a field and look interesting. Let's let this baby do what it's been built for! (I'll let you know what happens.)

[ASIDE: anyone an expert in Chicago-style formatting that wants to format my essay? My brain is in the midst of at least its second implosion, and it's starting to get dark and scary in here.]

I.O.I. #2: It appears that Helen is hanging around for awhile longer because weather.com has announced the Snowpocalypse is coming. Which sounds to me like the best kind of -pocalypse. I know that many people, particularly in the North East, are tired of snow and ice and cold and all things winter. But I still get school-girl-giddy when when I hear a big ol' Nor'easter is coming down the pike. And apparently it's set to hit us late Wednesday night and carry on into Thursday. I got my firewood, Nutella, and toilet paper all stocked up, so snow me in Snowpocolypse of 2014. I'm ready.

I.O.I. #3: And speaking of being snowed in, I have finally gotten over my loathing of the Rainbow Loom. I got my two oldest girls these looms (that I found at Ollies for $5) on which you make bracelets and necklaces by weaving little rubber bands together. My kids are crafty--in all senses of the word, really--and I thought it'd be something to hold their interest and keep them busy while being home-bound, building something pretty rather than badgering each other to death. Well, the instructions in English that came with the loom were written by someone who does not actually speak English. So I had to go onto YouTube to find an instructional video. And apparently there's a billion different designs you can make with these bracelets. The design my kids wanted to do was termed "advanced." (That should have been a red flag. Unfortunately, red is my favorite color so this flag gave me no pause.) It was a starburst design that requires the patience of Job and the nimble fingers of Rumpelstiltskin. I have neither. So for two weeks we tried to master this bracelet--but it required the girls loading up their looms with the rubber bands (in the PERFECT order and sequence as advised by the 11-year-old who is doing the YouTube instructional video. urg.) and then I had to take the hook and do all the weaving because it was too hard for the little ones. And, to put it mildly, it didn't always work out. After hours of painful concentration and admonitions of "stop asking when I'll be done or I'll bury this loom out in the snow and you won't find it til Spring", we would end up with a shambles of a bracelet that may or may not stay together long enough for my daughter to put it around her wrist. To paint you a picture, we managed to make 3 bracelets in 2 weeks of arduous work. The cost-benefit ratio was way out of whack. Finally I had a brainstorm: find an easier design. Back to YouTube. Scoure all the How To's (all by 11-year-olds). And finally, success! Now my kids are delightfully occupied making bracelets they are able to do all by their big selves, which frees me to up to, I don't know, eat more Nutella and do more laundry. (Okay, I'm still rethinking my position on this whole thing.)

I.O.I. #4: Shirley Temple has just passed away. This is very sad. Not only was she an icon, I felt like she was also a friend. Her dancing and singing and throwing ashes all over the pernicious Lavinia in The Little Princess was an integral part of my childhood. I watched this movie on auto-repeat with my grandma when my sisters and I would sleep overnight at her house (We watched avidly both The Little Princess and The Apple Dumpling Gang--ah, good stuff). Although I guess back then there wasn't auto-repeat--we had to take the VHS tape out of the VCR, put it in the separate rewinder machine, listen to it whir, and wait for it to pop open so we could watch this magical movie all over again. (Now I feel old--like my parents must feel when they talk about 8 track tapes and their first ride in a horseless carriage.) So anytime I hear Shirley Temple mentioned I think of my grandma, and despite the sadness of Ms. Temple's passing, the thought of my grandma makes me smile. Because Grandma was hilarious. Because she could make a pouty face with her lower lip stuck out (which we called a "shippy") that looked exactly like Shirley's. Because she sang "Animal Crackers in My Soup"--which until today is a song that I thought my grandma had made up, because she tended to make up silly songs to make us laugh. Now I know that it originated with Shirley, which makes me feel an even stronger affinity for Ms. Temple. So, as I sit and smile and think on memories of Grandma (who I'm sure is in heaven keeping everyone entertained), I'll leave you to enjoy Shirley in an encore presentation of "Animal Crackers In My Soup".

Stay warm, everyone!

Steaming and Streaming: it may be procrastination or it may simply be neuroses (but I blame Scott Foley)

Yesterday my husband and children were away, and I was left blissfully alone and to my own devices. So I took the day to do some writing, but more importantly, to create a writing schedule to help me organize deadlines and set aside the time I need to get writing done. Yet, if you're like me, the path to true organization and creative productivity never does run smooth. Here's a little glimpse into my internal monologue as I sat down to work:

Okay, for the month of January what's my writing schedule look like? Oo, I should create a table on Word and help myself visualize, no, not visualize, well, yes visualize, but also have something to refer to because my brain doesn't retain information the way it did in college when I was a double major taking 29 credit hours in a semester and never needing to use a planner or post-it notes for anything besides phone messages for my Brazilian roommate who never looked at them anyway. [takes out laptop and boots up] Oh, that's right, I'm out of post-it notes at work, so I should maybe bring a couple pads from home to restock. [walks downstairs to office, retrieves post-it notes, puts in work tote, looks at coffeemaker] While I'm down here I should make myself some coffee because I just watched Scott Foley on an old episode of Scandal and he's sipping a steaming beverage from a cool-looking mug and it makes me want to sip something hot from a cool-looking mug [walks to cabinet and retrieves said mug] especially since it's 11 degrees out and I haven't turned on the heat yet this morning. [places mug in Keurig, realizes the water in the Keurig needs refilled before more coffee can be brewed] Jonathan always refills the water in the Keurig, I'm not sure I know how to do it . . . but it's not rocket science. I passed Statistics in college on the first try, so I know that the left part of my brain has at least some functioning power. Ugh, I hated statistics. An early morning class that required an IV of caffeine to get through. [Pulls water canister from side of Keurig, walks to sink, refills and returns to Keurig.] Now, coffee. Because I want to look cool like Scott Foley. I remember when he was on Felicity, oh, how I loved that show in college. And it's on Netflix now. I should have a Felicity marathon. Because I clearly have so much free time on my hands. Although I'm not sure I can handle any more conversations that start with "Hey." [Rolls eyes. Places K-cup in Keurig, presses the "start" button, listens to the Keurig whir to life.] I can't wait to get my hands around a warm cool-looking mug. Warmth. That's right, I was gonna turn on the heat. [walks to thermostat] It's 45 degrees in here! No wonder I'm cold. Is it going to snow today? I should probably check the weather and see what the forecast is. [pulls out iPhone] Hm, freezing rain. Maybe we'll get a delay tomorrow for our first day back to school after 2 weeks off. It's gonna be painful tomorrow getting up at 5:30 AM. But I'm not gonna think about that right now. Instead, since I'm already on my phone, I may as well check Facebook and Twitter. Sweet, 6 more followers on Twitter. Hm, just can't seem to break a 1000 Twitter followers. I've been in the 930s for months. Why don't people follow me? I would follow me. Facebook, wow, lots of new status updates just posted. Sheesh! So-and-So just posted 87 new pins from Pinterest as a status update, because it's not enough for Pinterest followers to see those new pins, the Facebook world must know as well. And look at all these new years resolutions to lose weight, read more books, and haha! someone said they want to organize their K-cups. K-cups. My coffee. [returns to kitchen] Dang it. Coffee's cold. It's no wonder. It's still 45 degrees in here. There are icicles hanging from the nostrils of my cat. And now I can't sip a steaming beverage like Scott Foley because this is no longer steaming! Microwave to the rescue! [heats coffee in microwave, pours in creamer] Oo, we're nearly out of creamer. I should put that on the grocery list for this week. Shoot, I put my last post-it pad in my school bag. I'll need to use something else to start a grocery list. [rifle through debris on kitchen counter] Envelope from Poets & Writers promotional subscription letter. Perfect. Which reminds me, I need to take advantage of this great subscription deal. I've been meaning to subscribe for awhile, but this seems the perfect time to do so! [begins to fill out subscription info. hums.] There, subscription complete. I'll write out the check later. I should write that on a post-it to remind me. Wait. No more post-its. I'll use this now-superfluous envelope from my now-complete Poets & Writers subscription letter. But wasn't I going to use this for something else? Yes, grocery list. But what was I going to put on my list? No idea. [takes sip of coffee] Cold again? Already?! [places mug back in microwave and heats beverage in cool-looking mug] That'll do it. Good, steam. I see steam rising. I can drink my beverage that is steaming. [takes a sip] hot! Too hot! Well, I'll take the still-steaming mug upstairs and let it cool awhile so I can get back to writing. [after more iPhone checking, grocery list creating, and coffee reheating that takes nearly 45 minutes, stairs are climbed and writing resumes]

See? Cool, right? I know.

And now you see why this writer's productivity level is so ridiculously low. But before I go on, let me address the questions that you are, I'm certain, begging to have answered:

• Yes, I think in complete sentences
• Yes, I burned my tongue and it still has that tingly feeling you get when your mouth has been scalded
• No, I did not feel nearly as cool as Scott Foley looked when sipping from a steaming mug

Now, if you want to criticize my internal monologue, you can send complaints with a SASE to:

Complaint Department

c/o Olivia Pope (a.k.a.the Fixer)

1 ABC Television Studios and/or Netflix Instant Streaming Blvd.

Washington, D.C. 55555

After doing so you will immediately be apprehended by covert group B613 and thrown into a dark hole in the ground. Because that's how we deal with judgy people. Okay, so maybe watching 2 seasons of Scandal in 1 weekend was too much.

Happy Monday, all!

Waiting & Hoping & Drawing Badly

I finished my critical thesis (aka: ECE). And I submitted it. Now I await the stamp of approval from my professor so I can then submit it to the Program Director . . . to then wait for more approval. A flurry of manic activity and excruciating brainwork, and now I sit, listless, and wait. So, while waiting, I thought I'd draw you all a picture of my experience while writing this thesis.

I know, I know. A weak attempt, but I can't help it. I get an absurdly childish delight in drawing these pictures.  And, before you go running off to purge your eyes of my "artwork", be sure to enter our Merry Christmas Giveaway and receive a copy of A Pioneer Christmas Cookbook!

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If Silence Could Speak Then I Wouldn't Have To (except then it wouldn't be silence)

I've been away awhile. The Silent Isle has indeed been, well, silent. I did a guest post on Wednesday, and you're maybe wondering, "She's got time for someone else's blog and not her own?" A fair question. (And one for which I lack an answer.) So, to take a cue from the delightful blogger Danni McGriffith, I thought I'd just give you the low-down on the goings-on 'round these parts.

Rain, Rain, Rain

It's been raining for about 2 days. I love the rain. I get irritated when it doesn't rain. (Which means I'm irritated most of the summer months.) So, with the near-constant natural irrigation presently falling on Lancaster County, I have been jig-dancing (at least in my head) in meteorological glee. Except this morning when we had to cross 2 different bridges that had the cow creeks flooded nearly up over the road. My 5 year old asked, "Mommy, what happens if we bump into the flood?" (Translation: what if we have to drive through the water?) Excellent question, dear one. I guess we won't be taking the country roads home today after school.

A pic I "painted" while babysitting my 4th period study hall:
yet another sterling example of why I have no business in the visual arts world.

Spam-A-Lot

The Silent Isle's been spammed. You'll notice now, when leaving a comment, that you need to enter those numbers and letters (that are always nearly impossible to read) in order for your comment to be published. I'm incredibly sorry that I had to add this tedious step to commenting, but someone somewhere with too much time on their hands and not enough compassion for those of us slogging our way through the "how-to"s of technology decided to be a jerk. I suppose, in the unhelpful words of Jonathan, "It is what it is."

Come Oooon, Bessie

In my MFA program I am required to write a Critical Thesis (what we succinctly refer to as the ECE--Extended Critical Essay) in our 3rd semester and a Creative Thesis (the culminating project in our chosen genre--for me that'd be fiction) in our 4th and final semester. I am in my 3rd semester and consequently am in the throes of battle with my ECE. And it's starting to get painful. (Who am I kidding. It's been consistently painful since I opened the Word document and typed my MLA heading on the page.) I had entered into the endeavor with little trepidation because I teach literary analysis for a living. It's what I do. It's how my mind thinks. But my chosen topic has little written on it by The Scholars Of The Literary World (whoever they are), so I feel most days like I'm groping along in the dark, relying on my own intellectual prowess rather than the Great Thinkers that are supposedly out there. I guess those Great Thinkers are  just thinking on something different than my topic, which (not surprisingly) is on the use of silence in fiction. Why can't these papers just write themselves so I can get back to my novel-in-progress that has been carping at me to pick it up again after weeks of neglect? I suppose the answer to this question is the same as the answer to "why do spammers spam?" Again, Jonathan's wisdom prevails: "It is what it is."

Nutella and other comforting things

I believe I've made my affinity for Nutella clear before now. But this heavenly concoction of milk, hazelnuts, and cocoa has become my standard coping mechanism for stress. Kids are driving me crazy: Nutella and pretzels. My ECE isn't cooperating: Nutella and peanut butter on Ritz crackers (or, in more desperate moments, no Ritz crackers required). Annoying driver in front of me going 10 miles under the speed limit: daydream of Nutella and try not to rear-end the slow-poke. The government still can't figure out how to actually do the job its been created to do: Nutella in one hand and wine in the other, making toasts to all of our Veterans doing awesome stuff in defiance of ineptitude and ridiculousness. All of life caving in: Nutella straight from the jar with a large serving spoon and eaten like a popsicle. But I would also like to add that I am not the only one who resorts to Nutella when the pressures of life begin to build. (see above)

Also, because the weather has turned cool and drippy (with both rain and leaves) I have announced the official arrival of Soup Season. I have made chicken corn soup, taco soup, and will this weekend be whipping up some potato corn chowder. Because soup makes me believe (just as Nutella does) that life will work out okay. (And if it doesn't, then I'm going down with a spoon in my hand.)

Other things I've found to be of great comfort amidst the tumult of my life are:

• watching TV shows of an evening where each in its own right momentarily lends itself as an escape hatch: Downton Abbey, The Vampire Diaries (yes, I watch this, don't judge), Friends reruns, New Girl, Sherlock, and This Old House. A suggestion has been made by dear friend Liza Mattison to watch the PBS reality show Frontier House, which I am itching to start watching because it's about history. So that's next on my list.
• wearing pajama pants ('nuf said.)
• listening to some talented musicians: (in no particular order) Christina Perri, Jason Mraz, Nicole Nordeman, Chris Tomlin, Adam Cappa, Christy Nockels, The Band Perry, Joshua Bell and Colbie Caillat. However, I've been doing some listening to my friend Rob Derner who is a brilliant composer. I could listen to him play the piano all the live-long day. So I'll leave you with one of his more recent arrangements (for piano AND orchestra! I know, he's pretty amazing) to listen to as you go your merry way into the long weekend. Enjoy!

Capturing the Alps: how to know which story to tell

In my creative writing class, a student recently asked me, "How do I know which story I should write?" It was a beautifully sincere question, and a question, I assured her, that writers have been asking for millenia. 

"What story should I tell tonight?" the doting grandpa asks his grandchildren.

"The one about the pig!" one child shouts.

"The one with the kangaroo in the barn!" another suggests.

"The one where grandma burned the pie!" a third volunteers.

Grandpa has to make a choice. What started as a simple moment of entertainment just got complicated. 

I keep on my phone a running list of story ideas. Currently I have 58 story ideas on my list--and those are only the ones I've written down. Will I write all 58 of those stories? If I answer yes, I better quit blogging and get to work. But the more obvious answer is: no. I will write maybe 3 or 4 (maybe more, if I'm insanely productive) of those stories from my current list. 

But, as my student asked, how do you decide which story is THE story to tell?

I liken this decision-making process to an experience I had several years ago when I was in the south of Germany. One day we went for a drive along winding, hilly roads until, quite suddenly (or so gradually we were unaware of the change), we were surrounded on all sides by the Alps. 

The Alps are of such magnificence that they surpass articulation. No camera can capture and no words adequately describe their grandeur. I nearly drove the car off the road several times because my eyes refused to move away from the peaks, the view was that enthralling. Finally I pulled the car onto the gravelly shoulder, got out, and stood, mouth agape and nearly panting in my awe-struck stupor, staring at the scenery surrounding me. 

And that is how you choose which story is THE story.

It should always be the story that keeps drawing your eye. The story that enthralls you, moves you, captivates you. The story that makes you stop, get out, and stare.

If the Alps becomes our standard for story selection, the greater challenge then comes, not in choosing which story to write, but in doing justice to the story that you have chosen. Every story I've finished, along with the elation and the sense of accomplishment, comes with a sense of disappointment that I had, in a strange way, failed the story that began in its abstract world of perfection and ended in the concrete world of my limitation.

But we never give up trying to capture. We are all, by nature, story tellers. It comes as easily as humming a tune or thinking in color. Yet you cannot write the story you think some perceived audience or market wants to read. You write the story from which your eye can't look away and which steals your breath, the story that vibrates the artist-chord within you. And you write it with tenacity, using all the power of your creative capabilities, because that's what it's gonna take to capture those Alps. And rest assured, the view is always worth the effort.

Catching the Moments That Matter

Jonathan proudly displaying his 42 lb Stryper.

My presence on the Isle has been conspicuously spotty over the last few weeks. I have not kept up with the "Had I But Known" guest series. The social networking venues (i.e. Twitter and Facebook) have not seen much of me lately. And, quite unmiraculously, the world has continued to turn. Your lives have rivered along down their paths with little interruption and with hardly a cursory thought of "I wonder what's happened to Anna" passing through your mind.

Well, for those that are interested, this is what I've been up to:

• I've finished up a short story project that I've been working on for 2 years. 
• I've been researching my novel-in-progress. 
• I've been working on my critical thesis for grad school.
• Most importantly (and I probably should have mentioned this first) I've been spending time with my kids.

To sum up: I've been doing things that I would regret not doing. 

Pickin' maters from the garden and watching the rain from the back porch.

I don't want to be the person who sits around reflecting on a big fish lost to the sea. I don't want there to ever be a moment I should have caught that got away. And if that means retreating a bit from blogging and networking so I can reel in a catch, then I'm gonna do it. I want, at the end of the day, to be grinning like a maniac (like the insane grin Jonathan has on his face in the fish picture above) because I caught the moments that matter.

And I hope that you all will do the same. Go catch some moments and savor them!

Happy Monday, all!!

The Choice of Silence

Each time I sit down to write, there comes a moment I dread. A moment when I switch off my phone, turn off the music I've been listening to, press "stop" on the Netflix rerun I've been watching, silence the bing of alerts on my iPad and laptop . This fated moment lasts only seconds. A blip on the timeline of my day. But I dread the decisive disconnect from everything apart from the whir of my own mind. The abrupt arrival of silence.

Being somewhat more introverted than extroverted, I enjoy being by myself. I enjoy silence. I just don't always enjoy the absence of sound. I know it sounds strange. Noise is disruptive, cacophonous at times. But the noise that I choose to invite into my life--music, entertainment, voices of family and friends--I have around me because I want it to be present. It becomes familiar company. So when I choose to make it absent, my mind seems to stage a mini-riot. 

The deliberate initiation of silence is at times the hardest part about sitting down to write. 

However, I write best in silence. And once that silence is created, I face my laptop or manuscript and in only moments forget--appreciate, even--the absence of sound because the music of my own imaginings fills me. 

At odd moments while writing I may be pulled away from this quiet space by something--the sound of a car door or the running feet of my children--and it jars me. But if silence resumes, I am quickly able to find again that deep, quiet, inner space from where my writing springs.

Once I'm done writing for the day, I lean back, stretch, take a final swig of cold coffee, and stand up. 

Sometimes the stillness--inward and outward--is broken by force. My children arrive home, ask for a snack. Someone comes to the door. The bell rings for my next class to arrive. I have to move on to the next scheduled event of the day. 

Yet it's a gift when I don't have to talk to anyone immediately. I ruminate on what was just written: on the creation of something new or the scrubbing and buffing of something already in progress. I luxuriate in the silence--unwilling to break its hold over me just yet.

Just as I chose the silence, I can choose the moment when I switch on my phone. Press "play" on my playlist. And smile again at the noise I had missed--yet not missed--for a moment in time. 

A few days ago I stayed late at school to write, walked out to a cool breeze, a bright moon, and trees turned golden by the streetlight. I got in my car and didn't turn the radio on until I had passed through the covered bridge, looked up at the bridge's rafters illuminated by my headlights, and slowed to watch two deer with glowing eyes cross the road in front of me. Then, and only then, did I filled the car with music. Music that sounded sweeter because of its absence only moments ago.

_________________________

I've been doing loads of thinking about silence--it's the focus of my MFA critical thesis, it's something I'm trying to incorporate it into my writing, and it's something I'm learning to instill (without a mini-riot) into my life. (If that's not enough, I've even included it in the name of my blog!) I found a fabulous depiction of this ambivalence toward silence and sound in the short story "The Year of Silence" by Kevin Brockmeier. It's a great read that I highly recommend. You can find his story in the Best American Short Stories 2008 collection that was edited by Salman Rushdie, or you can purchase it from the Ecotone Journal (where it was originally published) here.

Two Lessons Learned (and Last Day of the Pioneer Christmas Countdown!)

One more day til Launch Day! And this is the song running through my head....

Yesterday I shared some insider info about things that happened during my writing of A Silent Night. Today I would like to share a couple lessons I learned through the process. Here's my 2 lessons learned:

1. Choose carefully your 1st readers: I'm constantly seeing loads of invitations on Twitter and Goodreads to read and respond to a writer's work--writers trying to get "objective" feedback on their early drafts. (I put "objective" in quotes because no feedback is ever objective.) I will never send my work out in that fashion. I'm particular about who sees my early drafts--and later drafts--because I need to know my words and characters are in safe hands. My mom is one of my 1 readers, not just because she's my mom and massively supportive, but because she's an avid reader and has a sharp eye and a keen sense of what works in a story and what doesn't. (I think, in another life, she would have been a writer herself.) It was Mom who first started the ball rolling toward the new ending that is now part of the finished story, and I took her suggestion because I trusted her instincts. Another 1st reader of mine is my BFF Hannah (who was a guest writer for my blog series). Hannah teaches English  and is a fabulous writer herself. She also has fantastic instincts when it comes to structure, plotting, story cohesion, and character development. Early on, when I wasn't sure Lorna's story (as opposed to the widower's story) was the one that I should run with, Hannah read the early draft and said, "Yes, this is the story you need to write." She saw the potential even before I did. 
2. Trust yourself: I know you hear this all the time on those "feel-good" memes plastered on Pinterest and Facebook, so let me give you a very practical example of what I mean: I overhauled  the opening to chapter 2--where Lorna is no longer in Edinburgh, but in Michigan Territory--and received 2 categorically opposing pieces of advice; one from my agent and another from John Pipkin--my professor who graciously walked through this novella writing process with me.  John suggested one thing, my agent suggested another. I implicitly trust and respect them both, and was conflicted about who to listen to. But at the end of the day, I was the author of Lorna's story. My name was going beneath the title, and I needed to decide what chapter 2 needed to accomplish. I made a choice, and I think I made the right choice in this instance (though I know that won't always be the case.) I think it was A. J. Verdelle who said If you can't make decisions, don't be a writer. True story. And it was another of my professors, Roy Kauffman, who said that the writers who "make it" are the ones who make the most "right decisions" most often. Again, true story.

So I hope these 2 little nuggets haven't bored you, even though I'm sure they are things you already know. But, as I've said before, reminders are always helpful. And here's one more reminder for the road:

Tomorrow is Launch Day!!!!

Tomorrow is also the last day to enter the
Pioneer Christmas Giveaway!
You can choose any of the options below to enter (tweet, make a comment, "like" my FB page, follow me on Twitter) or you can do them all! The more you do, the more times you're entered into the Giveaway. Just follow the prompts below. 

Giveaway Prize: 
Copy of A Pioneer Christmas Collection signed by all 9 authors!

a Rafflecopter giveaway


Winner will be announced on September 3. See you tomorrow!

O Platform, My Platform

So you know how I've mentioned that when we writers intend to go out and get something published, the first thing the publishers want to know is: what is your platform? What can you bring to the table?

I now know why.

Going through this process preparing for our book launch, I've seen the edges of underbelly to this beast. The publisher has their own venues for book promotion. But authors are expected to toe the line. Fortunately my novella is part of a collection, so I'm collaborating with 8 other authors (all of which have various platform constructions) to help launch our babies out into the world on September 1. 

I literally cannot imagine going into this process without having set up a hub. A home-base. A homing beacon guiding all other social networking traffic to itself. And that's this blog. That's all of you! (You rock, by the way.)

Additionally, the fact that I already had over 800 Twitter followers, over 70 followers on my author Facebook page, and a smattering of followers on Tumblr and Pinterest (I don't lean on these quite so much--I'll explain in a minute), all gives me a huge boost when the flurry of book promotion starts.

So my only other tasks to broaden the net was to set up an Amazon author page and a Goodreads author page (both of which you need to have some sort of publishing credit in order to set up, so I couldn't do it before now.) 

Okay, to boil it all down, this is what I've learned so far (and I'm certain you know all of this, but I'm gonna say it anyway. Because reminders are helpful.):

• Keep up with your blog/website: this is the brain center of all you do and this is where people will come to find out about you and what you're writing. If you can only focus on one thing, make it this.

• Keep up with your social networking venues: I would say, from what I've experienced, that having 2 or 3 really solid social network venues at work is better than to have 5 or 6 that you manage inconsistently. My focus is FB and Twitter. These are what I enjoy most, what are easiest for me to manage (especially when I'm on the go--I can still manage it from my phone/iPad) and what offers me the widest audience (at least at this point). A couple of the other authors I'm working with use Pinterest religiously. While I occasionally post on Tumblr and Pinterest those are venues I've found more difficult to break into. I also find that in those 2 venues I have varied interests beyond just the literary. I like to pin pictures of travel and photography, which has nothing to do with my writing. So I find I use it more for personal reasons rather than for expanding my follower base. (Others feel the same about Twitter, so it must be like handed-ness. Different things come more naturally for different people.)

• Be open, be a good learner: I've learned so much just by watching other veteran authors going about their business. I've tried a few things that seem to have had great impact, tried some things that seemed to have nil. Sometimes "old school" ideas are great: like mailing postcards to libraries in the area your story is set. (Yeah, snail mail. Who'd a thunk!). Sometimes "new school" stuff works, like making a promo video. (Love this video that Marcia Gruver put together!) I remember a conversation I had with author John Pipkin, and he said when his first book Woodsburner came out he sat in a conference with the publisher's marketing department and they said something like, "Does anyone know anything about this Facebook thing?" Obviously that was a few years ago, but look at where we are only a short while later! So at the end of the day, it's all an ever-fluid, ever-changing process, and we learn as we go. So have an open mind and enjoy the journey.

Bottom line for those of you who are writers, keep writing (always!) but don't ignore that platform--I hope these meager insights have been helpful to you.

Now, staring on Monday, I'll be posting a series of interviews with each of the authors in the Pioneer Christmas Collection. We all answered the same questions about ourselves and our stories, and I've loved reading what each person wrote--such a fun window into the authors and where the seeds of their stories came from.

Also starting on Monday, I'm going to be running a Giveaway for a copy of A Pioneer Christmas Collection signed by all 9 authors. Wooooo! The drawing will run through September 1 (launch day!) and I'll be announcing the winner on September 3*. (I'll also be doing another drawing for a copy of the collection on my birthday on September 11, so be on the lookout! It's crazy fun times!)

Happy Thursday, dear friends!

*ADDENDUM: I had originally said September 2, but we're going to be having a guest writer with us that day, so I want to give her the full spotlight on that day. So I'll be announcing the giveaway winner on Sept. 3! Woohoo!

 

Where My Writing Journey Began: an airport

If you follow me on Twitter or Facebook you are seeing posts about the upcoming release of my novella A Silent Night, which is part of a novella collection entitled A Pioneer Christmas Collection. The collection is composed of 9 novellas with a Christmas theme. Having met the 8 other women who contributed and read each of their stories, I realize that I am so, so privileged to be part of this project.

Yet this project, for me, almost didn't begin. For the purpose of transparency, I need to let you in on a little secret: I almost didn't write this story. But, as Maria VanTrapp would sing, lets start at the very beginning!

For two years I had been working with my agent trying to get my first novel published. To no avail. Lots of rejection and the feedback I was getting I think was, well, spot-on. My novel needed work. Then last summer (July 2012) I was sitting in the Philadelphia airport waiting to fly to Paris for my MFA residency when I received a phone call from my agent. She had a writing opportunity if I was interested. An editor was looking for submissions for a novella collection that Barbour Publishing was putting together. There were some parameters:

• Christian fiction
• Romance
• Historical--set anywhere between 1700 and late 1800s
• A Christmas theme with the actual Christmas scene in a transient/make-shift setting (emphasis on the idea of "pioneer")
• 20,000 words or less

I took it all on board, thanked my agent for offering this opportunity, hung up the phone. My mind was awhorl. I had 4 weeks to write the first 2 chapters and a book proposal to submit to the editor--2 of those weeks I would be in the throes of my grad school residency, so no writing would be getting done then. That would leave me 2 weeks. Was it possible? Yes, but I wasn't optimistic. I knew there would be a load of people vying for this opportunity and I was, as yet, unpublished. A nobody. It was longer than a long shot. It was a speck on the horizon.

I boarded my plane to Paris and soon the pot that had begun to brew on the novella possibility was put on the back burner.

Throughout my time in Paris the thought of "should I take on this project?" would occasionally surface, and I had almost decided not to bother. I would be writing on speculation, with no guarantee on any payoff. Worse, I could be faced with yet more rejection. Besides, I didn't like the constriction of all the parameters. I tried a couple of different opening chapters--things that I thought might work. But my imagination was not sparking, and I flew home from Paris with my mind made up. This project wasn't for me.

When I got home I spoke with my writer friend, Karen (a wise, wise woman) and my mom (another wise, wise woman) and both of them said, "why not give it a try?" Yes, part of me was afraid of getting yet another rejection. Yet, in a very loving manner, they both pointed to the real reason for my resistance: my own arrogance, my attitude of "I want to write what I want to write." That snobbery was really what held me back from giving this project a chance. I was humbled. There would be time to write what I want to write. But I had been offered a gift--an opportunity to write. Why wouldn't I take it?

I repented of my arrogance, refocused my mind, and sat down at my laptop. I had 10 days till the deadline. And that's when the Spirit started to move. I wrote a 1st chapter. It was okay. I didn't love it, but I found a protagonist that I loved. And that lit the spark I needed. I rewrote those first 2 chapters several times and sent them to my agent. She sent back some suggestions. I made more adjustments. We worked on the book proposal together. It came down to the day before the deadline. I was up until the wee hours of morning making final edits. Then, with a gusty exhale of fear and relief, I hit the "send" button. Now I could only wait.

The school year began and life became chaotic: teaching (at a new school), grad school, children, huswifery. (I always wanted to use that word!) Then one night as Jonathan and I were getting kids ready for bed, my agent called. I went to my bedroom, bracing for news of another rejection. And it never came. 

"She loved the story!" she said. "It's going to be part of the collection!" 

I was silent a moment, mind spinning. She said it again. I stifled my squeals, trying to show a modicum of professionalism. I thanked her. Stifled another squeal. Thanked her several more times. Hung up the phone and screamed. Then laughed and cried at once. Ran downstairs to Jonathan.

"Is this a good cry or bad?" he asked. (A fair question.) My kids ran up to watch the spectacle. 

"I'm getting published!!"

We all cheered and yelled and did happy dances together. It was a bright, shiny moment. Then I called my mom and told her. She cried. I cried some more.

While still in the euphoric glow of my writing finally getting accepted, I began on the rest of the novella. The parameters I had initially resisted became a challenge--a challenge I found fun and intriguing. I sent my manuscript to my MFA prof, John Pipkin, who is a fabulous historical fiction writer. He offered loads of brilliant insight. With his help I rewrote and revised and stumbled along, long after the euphoria wore off, until I finally had the novella that is coming out in September. Did I learn alot about the craft of writing? Yes. About the process of publishing? Yes. (I'll be posting more about that soon.) 

But above all I learned to get out of my own way and embrace opportunity in whatever form it comes. Even from a phone call in an airport about a long shot.

 

Had I But Known What I Knew from the Beginning

guest post by: Alison McLennan

I was three years old when I chose my career: “I’m gonna make books when I grow up, Mommy!” By age six I’d been accused of plagiarism (by a fellow first-grader; bogus charges, I tell you!). I authored my first adventure series as an eight-year-old—the riveting equine saga of ebony mustang Black Thunder and his pinto cohort, Lightning.

Throughout childhood I gulped books like water and exhaled stories as if to stay my pen would stop my lungs from breathing. Never once in my first eighteen years did I doubt my calling as a writer.

Sage Advice?

When I made the journey from Vermont to Pennsylvania for my orientation weekend at Messiah College, I had a plan. I would major in English, hone my creative writing skills, and fulfill my lifelong dream of becoming a novelist. Easy-peasy.

The weekend included an advisory session with a faculty member of the English department—a stoic, bespectacled man I’d never met. He asked about my choice of major and plans for the future.
 

When I shared my aspirations of authorship, he sighed. “I’m sorry, but that’s unrealistic,” he said. “Novel writing is survival of the fittest. A very few great, and I mean really great writers make it as novelists, but for people like us it’s just a waste of time and effort. You need to prepare yourself for a feasible occupation. If you like to write, how about journalism?”
 

I tried to listen as he gave me the hard sell on a new career, but heard little over the sound of my heart ripping in two.

Just the Facts, Ma’am

Crushed and humbled, I reluctantly took my advisor’s professional advice and switched my major. I joined the student newspaper. I studied the structure and style of newswriting. I tried not to cry.
 

I slowly, painstakingly learned the mechanics of journalism: just the facts, ma’am; cut out superfluous words; keep it short. I gained skill and proficiency, but never lost the sense that I was a square peg trying to cram myself into a round hole.
 

That sensation wasn’t helped by my professors’ expectations of the “journalistic personality.” A journalist needed people skills, boldness, spontaneity. Me? I was afraid of the telephone, uncomfortable in social situations, averse to all forms of conflict. If I had trouble ordering pizza, how was I supposed to cold-call a source? If I couldn’t bring myself to correct a waitress when she served me the wrong meal, how could I ask probing, provocative questions in an interview?

The New Me?

By sophomore year I’d found my bootstraps and given them a hearty tug. Fretting wasn’t getting me anywhere. If I was going to be a journalist, I might as well be a good one. That meant becoming someone else.
 

I signed up for a Myers-Briggs personality test and lied my way into being an ENFP (extroverted, fun-loving, go-getter). I forced myself to join the night owls even when my early-bird body begged for rest. I shortened my name from Alison to Ali. And instead of waiting for assignments from my newspaper editor, I went out looking for them.
 

My efforts, though psychologically questionable, paid off by earning me a fulltime internship with a music magazine in Nashville. I would spend the spring semester of my junior year in Music City dipping my toes in real-world journalistic waters, but first I had to complete a mandatory semester at Temple University in Philadelphia—an experience I approached with all the verve and excitement of a third-shift toll booth attendant.
 

To make the Temple semester bearable I signed up for a short story writing class. It would be worthless in the long run, I knew, but I couldn’t help myself. I lived for those few hours a week when pouring fiction onto paper made my soul sing.

On the last day of class my short story professor pulled me aside. “Can I ask why you’re studying journalism?” he asked. I hesitated, unsure how to answer. “You’re a creative writer, a storyteller,” he went on. “Don’t let that go to waste.”

Nashville or Bust

His words haunted me as I packed up and headed to Nashville for every journalism student’s dream opportunity. As I dashed around Music City conducting interviews, attending launch parties, and covering press conferences, I kept asking myself: is this really what I’m made for?
 

At the end of the internship the magazine editor offered me a job. “If you want to finish out your senior year back at college, I understand, but you’re welcome to stay. We’d love to have you.” It was everything I’d worked for.
 

I thought. I prayed. I cried. And then I turned it down, packed my bags, and returned to Pennsylvania. When asked why, I had no reason to offer other than, “It wasn’t for me.”

Wandering

I graduated, floated between menial jobs, married, and eventually started a family. By that time I’d filed writing under the category Wishful Thinking.

Problem was, it wouldn’t stay there. Every few months the pressure would build. I’d grow restless and irritable. Characters, dilemmas, and scenes would swirl in my head until I sat down and purged my imagination. I felt relief, even hope, with each frenetic, key-tapping frolic. It was like watching a caged animal set free to run with abandon in its natural habitat.

But then I’d remember the cage. I’d remember that some animals are better off in captivity—those who can’t survive in the wild, who are small or weak, who don’t have what it takes. Survival of the fittest.
 

So I’d cage myself again. And again. And again.
 

And then, one day, I didn’t.

Awakening

My husband was the one who put his foot down after listening to yet another diatribe about my vocational frustrations. “You’re a writer,” he told me. “Whatever does or doesn’t come of it, you need to write. It’s who you are. So do it.
”

I wish I could say it was an enchanted moment, that we were strolling along a lonely beach or star-gazing beneath a pixie-dust sky. The truth is I don’t remember where we were or what we were doing. I only know his words awakened something in my heart that whispered, “Yes, yes, yes.”

Had I But Known…

Whatever His purposes for doing so, God etched “writer” into my soul clay. The measure of my talent matters not—my usage of it matters immensely. I can add skills to my repertoire but I cannot change my foundational gift, nor should I.
 

Had I but known the intrinsic value of my divinely crafted nature, I wouldn’t have tried so hard to become a different person. I wouldn’t have forced my undeniably square peg into the round hole of someone else’s expectations.
 

And yet, had I known enough of myself to ignore my college advisor, I wouldn’t have learned to overcome weaknesses, step out of my comfort zone, or write as a matter of discipline rather than in whimsical response to a fickle muse.
 

My academic pursuit of journalism, though difficult and in some ways regrettable, made me a more versatile writer, a deeper thinker, and a stronger woman. That’s why I’m as thankful today for my college advisor’s questionable guidance as I am for my husband’s liberating encouragement.
 

I tried something hard, I succeeded, and I walked away. In succeeding at that which I didn’t really want, I recognized my failure to value and nurture my core being. In walking away, I rediscovered that which I’d been missing all along—the real me.
 

This I believe: we are all created for something glorious, each person crafted with unique gifts purposed to beautify the world and delight the soul. Even our weaknesses, when viewed through discerning eyes, point us to our strengths.

May we all have the vision to see them, and the courage to set them free.

Alison wrangles three children, one husband, and endless words from her rarely clean, always cozy home in Lancaster, PA. When she’s not chasing runny noses, ignoring the laundry, or eating obscene amounts of chocolate, you can usually find her lost in a good book or staring blankly at the computer screen. After dabbling in music journalism, book editing, and business writing, Alison has recently returned to her first literary love: fiction. She also writes about faith, adoption, hypochondria, and all things honest on her blog, AlisonMcLennan.com. If you want to say hi, she’d love to connect with you on Twitter (@AlisonJMcLennan) or Facebook(facebook.com/AlisonJMcLennan).

__________________

And we now, on this Monday morning, have been already in the presence of beauty and brilliance. Thank you, Alison. You are an inspiration. May be all endeavor to pursue our dreams with such tenacity and live our lives with such honesty.