Inspirations
I’m crying. Just thought you should know that. (The men click out.)
Now that it’s just us girls, I’ll make like this is a sleepover and spill my guts. I’m two days out from turning Unbounded over to my editor (“over” and “out” both in that sentence). I’m exhausted. I’m dreaming words, scratch marks, corrections. I’ve learned so much, even in this last edit, about what it takes to produce a book at this level. Suffice it to say that it ain’t easy.
But that’s not why I’m crying.
I’m crying because something magical happened this past weekend. A truth about the story emerged, a puzzle piece clicked into place–an unknown fact about a very dear character that’s not only so poignant that it made me cry, but that clarifies another significant event and an abstract concept. I know that’s vague. It’s the best I can do right now. But what has me sobbing in my tea over this is that it’s such a gift. Writing, I mean. Because, for me, these moments are the king of rewards. Not money. Not contracts. Not pleasing other people. These moments are IT. The reason I do this.
It’s so wonderful to be reminded now, in the 11th and 11/12th hour, about that fact. Because when I’m this tired and worn and desperate for a break, this is the very best fuel. I certainly wasn’t looking for ideas, twists for my plot. I’ve been polishing and cutting an overly plump ms. That’s it–head’s down polishing and cutting. Yet, there it was.
I wonder, sometimes, where these gems come from.
Read MoreShakespeare looms large on our cultural map. His extraordinary work continues to inspire, fertilise and enrich the lives and work of countless people all over the world. But many writers are wary of treading in the Bard’s footsteps: of pinching a bit of spice here, a sub-plot there, a character or two, a hint of gossamer, a whiff of sulphur, a touch of mystery, from the work of the greatest writer of us all. Perhaps that is understandable. After all, he looms as the Writer’s God most of all, a major anxiety of influence.
But it doesn’t have to be like that. It is enormous fun, and not as scary as you might think, to merrily plunder and delve within the Shakespearean corpus to produce your own work. I’ve certainly found it so. Four of my novels have been directly inspired by Shakespeare’s plays: Cold Iron (1998), based on A Midsummer Night’s Dream, The Tempestuous Voyage of Hopewell Shakespeare (2003), based on The Tempest and Twelfth Night, Malvolio’s Revenge (2005), also based on Twelfth Night (which is my number one favourite among the plays), and the forthcoming The Madman of Venice (2009) based on The Merchant of Venice and Romeo and Juliet. I’ve also just finished writing the first draft of a fifth, The Understudy, which is based on Hamlet.
How did it all start? As someone whose native language is French, not English, I had little idea of the idolatry in which Shakespeare was held until I was in high school. In fact, my first introduction to Shakespeare was as a songwriter, because my music-lover of a father had bought a record of songs from Shakespeare’s plays, sung by the counter-tenor Alfred Deller.
Read MoreThere are so many of us in the world. I sometimes think about this as a plane flies over neighborhoods in some city I have not yet met. There are those tidy streets, the trees, the circle where children play, where teenagers fall in love. There is the mall, the swimming pool, the neighborhood grocery store. I peer out the window thinking of the kitchens and dishes, the rituals of dinner (what dinners do they eat?) in that house and that one and that one, of the people who ride their bikes there. By way of positive thinking, I try to imagine copies of my books on nightstands, borrowed from the library, bought from a store, reading it for the book club that meets in that house by the park or for the recipes or because she is divorced and trying to get through it however she can.
These imaginings are my way of grappling with the staggering number of us that there are in the world. Each of us unique, rare, incredible. There used to be a feature on one of the Sunday news programs wherein a man would throw a dart at a town, travel there, and pick a name out of the phone book, and then find out what that person’s story was. He always found a story. (Every single week, I said to whoever might be listening, “that would be such a fantastic job!”)
Because the news comes at us with such ferocity and in such massive quantities, we all have to draw away from that vastness, keep the greatest tragedies at arm’s length. As writers, however, our job is to dive in and gather them up, to notice—without initial judgment—what people do. How they behave. What narrative their lives take over time. From those gleanings, we gather our fiction.
It’s been a terrible news week here in the US. We are all probably half insane with the buildup to the election, and maybe that’s why it has been such a violent week. A Little Rock newswoman, young and beautiful and charming, beaten to death in her own house, and no apparent motive. The murders of Jennifer Hudson’s mother, brother, and nephew. Horrific crimes, both of them.
But the one that caught me was one about five high school cheerleaders going home from a football game who died in a “fiery car crash.” They always say it like that, “fiery car crash.” The other news stories are terrible in their own way, but as a mother, that particular disaster, of teenagers getting into some terrible accident, was my absolute nightmare. Yours might be something else—my mother fretted obsessively over leukemia because she knew someone who lost a daughter to it.
A year or so after my youngest graduated from high school, there was one of those horrific crashes in our neighborhood. The teens went to school with my son, and the accident itself was on my walking circuit, so I had to change my route for awhile to steer clear of the giant altar that grew there.
As we all know, writers can be a bit too empathetic. […]
Read MoreA few weeks ago I blogged about whether readers are born or made. I also wonder if writers are also born or made.
I’ve spoken to so many writers who say as soon as they could read, they’ve never known a time when they didn’t want to write stories (except Therese!) They were making stories up in their heads or rewriting episodes of Gilligan’s Island or forcing their friends to listen to their stories. It was a feeling in their gut that writing was what they were born to do.
I remember the moment I wanted to be a writer so clearly. I’d just finished reading Little Town on the Prairie by Laura Ingalls Wilder. Man, I hated that scheming Nellie Olsen! I got to thinking what it was in the story that gave me that sort of response. I mean, I never felt that way about Mrs. Basil E. Frankweiler. Or The Wicked Witch of the West. Or even the Gollum of The Hobbit. Nellie sparked something particular in me. How, I wondered, did Laura Ingalls Wilder do that? Because I wanted to do that too.
My mom came in with some clean laundry. I sat up in bed and told her I want to be a writer. “Yeah, ok, put these socks away.”
I’d said it. I was going to be it. A writer.
Read MorePsst, WU readers! Allison Winn Scotch’s new release, Time of My Life, has just gone into its second printing! Her novel has not only made People Magazine, it’s made the Today Show’s list of “10 can’t miss fall reads!” (See this list HERE.) Is it possible Allison will make the NYT best-seller list this weekend? Have you purchased your copy yet?
Allison recently posted an inspiring essay on her blog about the secrets to success. We’re happy she’s allowed us to re-post that here for you today. Enjoy!
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I was asked this week, on one of my writer’s boards, to share the secrets of my success. The question made me both laugh and cringe, and it feels really narcissistic to even indulge myself into thinking that I’m someone who should have secrets to her success, much less share them, but once I started thinking about it, I thought, eh, maybe I do have some tips that might be helpful or inspirational to blog readers, and so, here are a few ways that I think I helped boost my career. Take them for what you will, knowing that there are many, many writers out there who are more successful than I am, and that I in no way am placing myself into their vaulted category.
So anyway, here are some tips:
1) I’m not afraid of failure. For me, it’s not that failure isn’t an option. Of course it’s an option, but it’s not a reason not to do something. I push myself my very, very hardest, and I truly and fully believe that I will succeed at virtually everything I do, but I also know that if I don’t, it’s not the end of the world. Failure really isn’t that scary to me, but I think for some writers that fear of failure can be paralyzing. But you know what? So what if your ms doesn’t sell? Mine didn’t. Eat cookies, move on. (As I’ve been known to say.) Use it as a lesson for improvement.
2) I’m open, very open, to constructive criticism.
Read MoreWhile I see writers bemoaning the misery of a block, or that their work is crap, I can’t recall seeing much about the inner emotional side of writing. I’m not talking about the obvious joy of landing a publishing contract, but the private moments that come unbidden at the completion of a creative task.
Maybe it’s just me, but there are times when writing—or, more accurately, the result of having written—brings a real, physical sensation of joy, or elation, or even arousal. Yes, writing can be sexy.
After finishing the first draft of my first novel, I read through the whole thing in one sitting. When I reached the end, “rush” is the only word that describes the joy and sense of accomplishment that swelled. Damn, it felt good. I walked around for an hour with a smile on my face.
I’ve been in the business of being creative all of my working life, first with over 20 years in advertising. There were many times when the lights went up after a screening of the final cut of a commercial that a wave of delight rippled through me. The successful realization of a creative act brings a sense of accomplishment like no other.
I first noticed the sexier side of writing when I worked as a story editor/script writer for an animation company in L.A. We did half-hour television programs for Saturday morning TV. One particular day I was really in the zone, and a script poured out with all the right elements of action and humor. When I read through it, it was a hoot.
Read More(Note: I live in the cool highlands of Northern New South Wales, Australia, in a region that is called New England. Hence the reference, which might otherwise confuse US readers.)
It’s a crystal-clear, sharply-cold, bright blue New England winter morning, and I’m walking the three kilometres to the general store. All around me as I walk, the landscape reveals itself like an illuminated page in an ancient manuscript: parchment-coloured grass, subtle grey-greens and silver of trees and bushes, flashes of stained-glass colour of parrots and rosellas, smoky-blue hills in the distance. There are no cars around this morning, and nobody else around at all.
All at once, there’s a rustle in the long grass on the verges of the road, and I catch a glimpse of silver-grey coat, a twitch of secret movement. Transfixed, I stand and stare; for slowly, slowly, arising as if from a spell, there is a huge male kangaroo, stretching his body up, as if he is metamorphising, shedding one form and entering another. His bright dark eyes look straight at me. When at last he has reached his full height, he stands there for an extraordinary instant, still staring at me, and then, without hurry, turns, and hops away, clearing a fallen tree in one flying bound. I will go back home with the thrilling splendour and weird terror of that moment deep in me; and it will flow out through my fingers, onto the keyboard, on the screen, into the heart of the novel I’m writing, infusing it with a strangeness and a richness that would otherwise not have been so clear and real.
For all of us, in whatever culture we have come from, animals, who live in an eternal world of timeless tradition, are a reminder of that strange otherness, the mysterious, potent, storied yet non-rational world that lies within and beside the ordinary world of busy human activity. All over the globe, and through all times, people have known that world: a world where time passes differently, where things are not explicable in ‘daylight’ terms, a world that has its own secret laws. Medieval people knew that world well; in medieval Wales, for instance, it was named clearly: Annwfn, the Inside Place, the In-world. Aboriginal people knew it well: it was the Dreaming, where animals and men met and morphed.
Read MoreThird draft specialist Lisa Rector Maass has alerted us to an opportunity for aspiring young writers. If you know a budding writer, this may be the break they’ve been waiting for:
The 2008 Lisa Rector Young Writers Scholarship
Postmark Deadline: September 30, 2008.
1st place, SIWC Scholarship, 2008.
2nd place, 10 page critique by a Literary Agent
3rd place, 10 page critique by an Editor
The winner will be invited to attend the Surrey International Writers’ Conference October 24-26, 2008 in Surrey, Canada. 3-day pass includes entry to an awards banquet announcing the winner and a consult with an agent or editor attending this year’s conference. Scholarship does not include conference meals, travel or accommodations.
Students between the ages of 12-18, currently enrolled in a junior high, senior high or college program, are eligible to enter. Contest is open to Canadian, US and Worldwide residents.
Submission guidelines
Read MoreWU readers may remember that former WU contributor Victoria Holmes, editor of bestselling YA fantasy series WARRIORS, alerted us to a heartbreaking tragedy befalling a young fan of the popular book series:
(In April) We blogged about Emmy Cherry, an eleven-year-old girl tragically killed when a tornado ripped through her home in Arkansas. Emmy was a big fan of former WU contributor Victoria Holmes‘ massive YA bestselling series WARRIORS, which she conceptualized.
I’d been thinking about Emmy all week, as I have a daughter her age who loves books as much as Emmy did. About fate, for one thing. And about loving stories so fiercely they almost seem real. How that love can transform others.
As many of you know, Vicky is honoring Emmy in the next Warrior’s story by creating the character of Brightspirit, who will be Emmy in the book.
A relief fund in Emmy’s name was in the works at the time. The good news is, the fund is now LIVE (ht Galleycat):
Emmy’s surviving family, including grandmothers Kay Cherry and Elaine Kizer, wanted to bring some good into the world in memory of their beloved Emmy, and so they created the Brightspirit Relief Fund, to aid causes that would have been important to Emmy, such as literacy, animal organizations, and storm relief. All funds raised from the auction will go to these causes, with a primary emphasis on helping the communities of Arkansas.
Popular YA authors such as Rick Riordian and Brandon Mull, as well as Erin Hunter, have donated signed copies of their works. This is a terrific opportunity to donate to a worthy cause and receive one-of-a-kind autographed books for the bookworm in your family.
Most of all, you’ll help the children in a community in memory of a little girl who loved books.
Please consider visiting the auction and bidding on a great book to add to your library. The auction ends Oct. 4.
Read MoreAs I write this, my bags are packed and ready to go. In about two hours, I’ll be heading for Australia, and one of my goals is to improve my photography. I’ve studied the art over the years, in high school and then college and then a little more later. A Minolta camera is one of the first things I ever saved money to buy (the other was a pair of extremely expensive hiking boots), and I loved it dearly, though I never had any illusion that I wanted to be a photographer. It was always writing I wanted. Pure and deep and true, an unmasterable passion.
For a long time, I was too busy with writing and raising a family to be able to squeeze in much photography. And yet, it is a hobby that pleases me deeply—the stillness and the singularity of a single shot, expressing something. A mood, a moment, a political statement, and passion for something. A couple of years ago, I made the plunge into digital, and have been working, sometimes clumsily, with it. This year, this trip, my goal is to get a little better.
Yesterday, I took my camera out into the moody day and shot some photos around town and the zoo, trying to remember all the things that make a good shot. At first, I was trying to remember everything, all at once—composition and color and freshness and line and everything else in every single shot.
After awhile, the lens itself seems to quiet something, and I can stop trying to be perfect, to get it right, and just enjoy the process and enjoy what I love to shoot. Perhaps it is a reaction to growing up in Colorado Springs, where there are such gigantic views, such amazing scenery, but I tend to like shooting very close. The center of flowers, the cap of snow steaming on a fence, a dog’s eye. But I also like color and pattern very much, and I can play with those.
In play, I learn. In play, I discover that it doesn’t matter very much that only one in ten, or one in 50, or one in a 100 shots is worth saving. Each shot teaches me what works and what doesn’t. What I love and what is true for me. Each one helps me learn more about the quest for excellence.
As with all my hobbies, photography teaches me things about my vocation, about my writing, which is much more than a career, much more than my work. One of the most gratifying and annoying things about a writing career is that novels are a form that can never be truly mastered. There are so many levels, so many things that go into construction and design, detail and wordsmithing, mood and dialogue and character, genre expectation and body of work expectations and editorial expectations….
Read More…it’s the birthday of science fiction and fantasy writer Ray Bradbury, (books by this author) born in 1920 in Waukegan, Illinois. He has written books such as The Martian Chronicles (1950), Fahrenheit 451 (1953), and Farewell Summer (2006).
Ray Bradbury who said, “There are worse crimes than burning books. One of them is not reading them.”
And, “Go to the edge of the cliff and jump off. Build your wings on the way down.”
Read MoreLast week I had the pleasure of spending a few days in New York City and doing all the touristy things.
God, I love NYC. Like Juliet, Sophie, and Barbara I found inspiration in travel. NYC — aka Gotham — a place where filth and beauty sleep side-by-side, and every language in the world can be heard marveling at breathtakingly (and breathtakingly crass) Times Square.
Where else do you see mighty obelisks of chrome and steel . . .
. . . hiding a middle-America icon.
Towards the end of my Enid Blyton phase, in late primary school, I bossily founded a writing club, which I called the Bluebell Club. Why Bluebell, you might ask. Well, I lived in a country—Australia– where scratchy native plants gripped your ankles whenever you were taken by your parents into the bush. My parents came from a country—France– where botany, and the inordinate affection for wild flowers, was the reserve of a few. They appreciated bluebells and other wild flowers as a sign that all was right with God’s heaven, but no poignant memories were bound up with them.
It must have been the English books I was reading, where bluebells and primroses and things like that were commonly found. Whatever, I founded the Bluebell Club and soon had managed to boss a few ragtags into it. Of course, I was the President, a President in messy dark plaits who despaired, sometimes, of the lack of enthusiasm of the troops. I inveigled my younger sister Camille into being the secretary, a position she filled with no little resentment and rebellion.
We sat, we the Bluebell Club, under the trees at the end of the playground, ignoring the bands of boys who sometimes marched past us, arms linked, chanting, “We hate girls! we hate girls!” We knew they were jealous of us as we sat there, telling each other the stories we had made up, which was the ritual of the Club. Each member had to bring a story to the week’s meeting; we read them, admired them, and then it was my job to say which was best, and which would be entered in the exercise book that served as the Club’s record.
Read MoreIn July I travelled to the Baltic countries (Estonia, Latvia and Lithuania) and I’ve returned with my head full of fresh story ideas. I also paid a flying visit to Portugal, home of my most loyal and enthusiastic readership. Fans queued patiently at some length to have books signed during my public appearance at a Lisbon bookstore.
The following day, with members of online fan forum Mundo Marillier, I visited an eccentric palace and garden in Sintra, near Lisbon. Quinta da Regaleira is an extraordinary mélange of architectural traditions, crammed with mythological and esoteric references in which freemasonry plays a major part. Where else would you find a deep, damp initiation well, a library with a perilous trick floor – get too close to the books, break your leg – and a kangaroo gargoyle?
I returned from Europe with dozens of photos, mostly taken to aid my memory for future writing projects. There were many wonderful things to see, from the stunning architecture of Riga’s Art Nouveau buildings to the magical birch forests near the Baltic coast of Estonia. But the key was emotion: the feelings encapsulated in certain experiences, running the gamut from complete joy to profound sorrow. As a writer, I observe and take notes, I process and analyse intellectually, but above all I feel. It’s the emotional responses, rather than the intellectual ones, that form the seeds for stories to be written some time in the future.
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