things not expected

He looked for himself but he could not find himself anymore. -Victor Hugo, Les Miserables

Well. Here I am again. Post-blogging break, post-everything break. I did, indeed, get that life sabbatical, and so many things that I wanted to happen... well, they happened!

I went off to England for two weeks, and followed it up with another week in Louisiana. Three full weeks of change: I swapped time zones, I swapped cultures, I swapped food and habits and patterns.

I searched for beauty and found it. I looked for good reading and found it. (My nightstand is piled with books, books of all kinds. I'm an unabashed reading glutton, lately, and I am loving it.)

And I wanted to write aimlessly and vulture-free, and oh my friends, did I ever do that.

Quite aimless. Quite vultureless. In two weeks of English rain and English sun, I filled a notebook with crazy drawings, copied conversations, notes on what strangers were reading, lists of street names, ideas for the future, thoughts, descriptions, and pure heedless rambling.

Yum.

There's just one catch.

I promised myself I would come back with something to say. I went off looking for new ideas. A new gist, a new crux, a new kernel that would turn into something, something great. Ideas for novels, chapters, character names. Ideas for our Etsy store, ideas for this lovely blog.

And it's funny. I searched everywhere for ideas, and all I found was a huge plateau of silence.

I'm back home, facing my computer, and where there used to be tangles of words and armies of characters, milling around in my brain, there's just peace and quiet.

At first, I was completely taken aback.

And then, being me, I asked myself "what the heck does that mean?" a dozen times, and in a dozen different ways.

I've settled out what it means for my writing life: I'm taking this peace and this lull, and turning it into days of reading, studying, diving into creativity books, savoring new pages of my trusty dictionary, and generally praying my head off.

Not a bad way to spend an August.

But as for the blog: well, my friends, I'm not going to be posting anymore. Not for the foreseeable future, anyway.

The foreseeable future: a phrase that's made me laugh lately. This summer has taught me many things, one of which is: I can't see five minutes in front of my face, let alone The Future. Three months ago, I felt sure of all kinds of things. And now, I'm sure of ... well, not much.

But there's such peace in this quiet, peace in the not-knowing, that I'm not sorry for it. And no, I wouldn't trade it for the three-months-ago me.

It's a lovely break from the Jenn who knows everything. For a while, I get to be the Jenn who doesn't know much, and it's a stunning relief. Like mental rain after too much sun.

If that's not a life sabbatical, I don't know what one is.

So. Here is the last thing I have to say:

It is an enormous privilege to have an audience. To be read by my friends and also found by strangers. And so, for all your kind listening, thank you.

Good luck, with everything you're doing. I know you're doing big things: I wish you well in that.

But take some time, this late summer and early fall, and seek a little mental rain. Bring a stack of books, and a cup of coffee, and know that I'll be doing the same.

a book crush, the dream discussion, and #10. (at last.)

So here's a new book for your summer list, especially if you're an artist, a dreamer, or a candlestick maker...

I admit, it's not my usual kind of recommendation. A book about business, Christian media, VeggieTales, success, failure... not my typical cup of tea. And I thought it was an okay book, until I hit Chapter 21: "Dreams, Part II."

Which is currently changing my life.

Phil Vischer, obviously enough, created VeggieTales. Watched it get really really big. Watched it die. And in the end, he learned a lot about business management, creative enterprise... and dreams.

It's the dreaming thing that got to me.

I've dreamed of writing for as long as I can remember. I was a good student all through school, a super good student. Give me a tough assignment, I double-dog-dare you. I worked hard; I did well. And when I graduated, I came home to write, determined to change the world.

Or at the very least, the young adult section of every bookstore in the U.S.

(What can I say, I'm modest. Ha ha ha.)

Over the last five years, I've worked hard. I've got drafts of three novels, in various states of disrepair. I've learned a ton about characters, pacing, plot, setting, dialogue...

I also decided that my identity was that of Girl Writer Taking Over The World. My sense of worth depended on how well work was going. I loved the books I was writing. I also hated how crazy I felt, how exhausted I was, and how it felt like these books would never be good enough. Ever.

I knew I was working against myself somehow, but I couldn't quite put my finger on it. (Hence #10 on The List: my attempt at quelling the noise in my head.) And I was pretty sure that if I just worked harder, it would all be good.

Enter Phil Vischer, Me, Myself, & Bob, and Chapter 21. Where Vischer talks about a lot of crazy things, super-crazy. He talks about Christians and their dreams of changing the world for God. And a lot of what he says sounds just like me. Exhausted, driven, determined, Girl Writer me.

Crazy things. Like:

When people of great faith in the Bible don't know what God wants them to do, they don't just run off and make stuff up. They wait on him.

I've actually read that before. I've read this chapter before, nodding my way through. I know what God wants me to do: how many times have I said I was called home to write? I sincerely believed that, and I still do.

But what to write?

That's where I made stuff up.

Then he said this:

The Christian life wasn't about running like a maniac; it was about walking with God. It wasn't about impact; it was about obedience. It wasn't about making stuff up; it was about listening.

Maniac. That rings a bell. So does "impact." And "making stuff up."

He asks if we serve our dreams, or if we serve our God. And he also says of himself:

My ambition, my dreams, my misplaced sense of identity and value were dragged kicking and screaming up onto the altar. And now they were dead.

Like I said, I've read this chapter before. I always flinched away from those sentences, but this week, this week it feels like something's unraveling inside me.

Something that, surprisingly, I don't mind losing as much as I thought I would.

Misplaced sense of identity and value? Hmm. Hmmmm.

God is enough for you, Vischer writes. But you can't discover the truth of that statement while you're clutching at your dreams. You need to let them go. ... The impact God has planned for us doesn't occur when we're pursuing impact. It occurs when we're pursuing God.

Over and over, Vischer talks about walking with God. And waiting on God. Waiting. That's what got me. Wait? I don't want to wait for anything. I wanted to write a brilliant novel in one year flat.

But this week, that goal has fallen away. All that running uphill, all the urgency and frustration... those crazy ambitions are unstitching in my heart.

And here's what I'm left with: if I write at all, I only want to write the book God tells me to write.

I don't mean that in a silly way--like there would be a cherub sitting on my shoulder, dictating every paragraph. That's not what I mean. But I want to be still in the midst of my writing life. To be still, and to listen, and to wait.

I don't want to keep chasing every novel idea that comes along. I want to write the book I'm supposed to write. It's actually that simple, that strange, and takes effect immediately.

My June plans are still in full swing: I'm still journaling, reading, doing those writing exercises. I'm also praying a lot more, and feeling the burden of my writing life slip from my shoulders. And can I just say: that's a huge relief.

So that's summer. Tending the soil of my writing life. Being faithful to still put my time in, practicing, and listening. I don't know what's coming next, what seeds there might be in this soil. But I'll keep watering it and waiting, and we'll see.

I feel free. Excited. And free.

Recommendation: Frankly, you don't even have to read this whole book if you aren't interested in VeggieTales. Just skim it, get the gist of it, and then slow way down at Chapter 21.

Read every word, my dreaming friends, and I promise it will change you.

writer in progress: homesick.

It is the gift of all poets to find the commonplace astonishing. -- Margery Sharp

So it's been busy. A busy week, a busy month, a busy year so far. Busyness. Bleck. It's like the opposite of writing. Dashing about at a million miles an hour, versus letting words drip onto a page.

No surprise, then, that writing has pretty well tanked these last two months. They have been wonderful months in their way, full of family and celebrations and joy and change. But then when I sit down to work, all my brain has is a slideshow of past events, or far worse, a gently hissing static.

Which is when I start asking myself bad questions, like, Why am I writing anyway?

But last weekend I had a brilliant conversation with a good friend, and we were talking about rest. Rest. Just thinking about that word makes me want to breathe differently.

Anyway, as we talked about what recharges us, I felt my vision for June shifting. And I started asking myself, with a very different tone, So, why am I writing anyway? Why do I write? Why is this part of me, what do I love about it, what's so great about words?

So instead of whipping myself, my writing life, and my novel back into shape (my usual tactic), I decided to try a different kind of strategy. I'm putting the novel aside temporarily, and I'm going back to basics this month. As in: really basic.

Like--writing exercises. I haven't done writing exercises in an eon! I usually despise them, but all of a sudden I'm thirsty for miniature writing challenges... working my way through this lovely book and its sequel. I love Monica Wood's perspective on the whole writing life: she is so cheerful and sound.

Also, I'm getting reacquainted with journaling. How did I let journaling go, for pete's sake? No idea, but somehow it turned into a burden, when I felt obligated to do it.

Not anymore. I've been sitting by the window, letting myself ramble across the pages, talking about anything, anything, anything. Just writing for the bliss of solitude. Putting one word after the next for the sheer joy of it. Such a luxury, really. And if I'm writing about the view out my window as the sun sets, and if I'm sipping a glass of wine, well, so much the better.

And then reading. Oof. I've so let my reading life slide, and it's horrible! How can you write novels when you forget the intoxicating feeling of being swept away in someone else's world? Encountering their characters, and being encountered in return?

I'm firmly convinced of reading's importance in a writing life, and yet it's so hard to make time for it. It feels too much like relaxing, like something I should just wedge into my day at the very end... not anymore. I'm giving myself acres of time to just sit and devour novels.

So that's June. And I'm giddy about it. ... Can ya blame me?

Because I do love writing. So very much. I've missed these basics, and it's good to come back to them, good to come home.

writer in progress: drink deep

A few weeks ago, I was privileged to see the exhibit of Carol Carter's Italian Suite. It was the perfect kind of night to begin with: great conversations with my family, all the collective excitement of an opening night, and, um, Thai food.

And then, the paintings. The paintings were exquisite.

As in, draw in as deep a breath as you can, because you think you can probably smell the Italian countryside, you can hear the voices, you feel the change in air. That kind of exquisite.

Her paintings are full of a bright, clear beauty that reminds me of the best summer evenings, the very best. You want cool white wine and your closest friends, and you don't want the night to close in, not just yet.

I thought: gorgeous.

I thought--not for the first time, either: So, when can I move to Italy?

And I also thought: she spent ten days in Italy, ten days. And produced eighty paintings for that exhibit. Eighty stunning paintings.

So, what kind of mega-inspiration can I pursue for ten days? What kind of landscape can I immerse myself in? And might I have a similar outpouring of work?

Landscape. Hm. I've been wishing to trade my landscape lately.

Maybe I'll move into the art exhibit, or run away to an art museum? Maybe I'll find a train after all? 

(Also, it is totally fun to mess around with the kids' section of an art gallery... yay for interactive paintings! Completely brilliant idea... they should do that with novels, yes?)

The exhibition opening also reminded me of this: the deep, deep value of spending time around other artists. The important exchange that happens between creators.

I love to think of us all sitting around an endless feast of inspiration, all kinds of artists, each sparking off the others. I was walking around that exhibit, drinking in the way Italy looks through Carol Carter's eyes, and it make me think of essays I could write, of a slim perfect novella of self-discovery in Italy, of food essays (shocking!), maybe a children's picture book ...

It made me think of who I am, who I've been, who I want to be. It made me want to write the way she painted--to get down the feeling of her colors, get that into words somehow... I walked around and around, and I felt like I could write forever.

I forget too easily how much I love this kind of thing. And lately, especially lately, when my brain feels like a collection of lists, it is too easy to forget the need for inspiration. The need to see things I couldn't dream up on my own, the need to hear new sounds, taste a different kind of air, to be challenged out of the way I usually think, see, imagine.

So maybe I'll hop on a plane to Italy. Maybe I will. Until then, I'll stare at the Carol Carter postcard I've tacked to my bulletin board, and I'll think, dream, and write myself there.

writer in progress: learn from the little

The first secret of good writing: We must look intently, and hear intently, and taste intently. ... We must look at everything very hard. -- James J. Kilpatrick

Once again, some of the best writing lessons come from watching my niece. Watching her intent expression as she studies everything, as she looks at everything very hard.

Little writer in training, perhaps? Not that I've been reading her my writing advice books. Well... not often.

Spending just two full days with her (and for the best and loveliest of reasons!), I'm amazed all over again at what she notices. The spot of chocolate on the floor, the faint freckle on the back of my hand, the way a paisley print looks like a turtle.

She sees it all, and points it out earnestly to me.

And there it is, a tiny slice of world at the tip of her finger.

And I'm so grateful to her--for many reasons, but this is certainly one of them. She slows me down, brings me close, and helps me notice, helps me see everything like she does. The little things.

Together we crouch down and look intently, we look very hard.

A vital refocusing. And today, on my own, I'm noticing, looking very hard at the new burst of flowers on our crabapple, looking at the little hyacinths, blooming when we thought they were dead.

I thought everything was dead with the freak snow last weekend. But no, everything is blooming, and so I'm hopeful for the rest of spring.

That trick candle hope. I had given up on so many things, and now, suddenly, I'm eager for the lilacs to come, craning my head to spot the early tulips.

And when they come, I'll take a cue from my niece and put my face up to them, too close, and let my eyes refocus, and then, and then, I'll see what I can see.

writer in progress: what my characters sing in the shower

So, this much you already know: The major theme of my last five years has been: How do you write a novel?

And part of that is coming up with dozens of ways to answer this question: How do I cross the gap between my life, my thoughts, my voice ... and get over to where and who and when my characters are?

How do I get rid of Jenn and jump into them?

I'm finally getting a few clues, a few tricks. There is, finally, something up my sleeve.

I work up some kind of mental shorthand: for a character, a moment, a theme.

So, for last fall's project: If I could conjure up the smell of rain hitting stone, if I could think about the sound of rain and a certain color of grey... then I was ready. I could keep writing.

Something about the feel and sound of the rain got me right back into the world of that book, the sense of who those characters were.

Wow. ... That looks so funny typed out, and yet it was such a huge part of my process!

And then, last summer, I realized that one song could be a thumbnail sketch for a whole character's story--her worldview, captured in three minutes of lyrics. The song held a place in my mind, got me right back into that character's point of view, reminded me of what she was up against.

It was invaluable. I could slough off everything that had been on my mind, whatever dramas, whatever busyness, whatever familiar chaos I had in my pockets, and presto: I was set. I was writing. The characters came out when they heard the music, and they had so much to say.

So now I have whole playlists for my novels-in-progress, dozens of songs that sum up the main character, the love interest, the villain, the funky little side character that (hopefully) makes us all laugh... it's all done in songs.

If I listen to it straight through, I'm itching to get back to work. It's like my novel's musical. (Just without the brilliant dancing.)

I've been wondering all week why this song has been in my mind so much:


And this afternoon, I realized it. It is the perfect song for one of the characters in this current project. I mean it. The perfect song.

For anyone else, it's just a fun little love song. But for her, it represents everything that she's gone through, how she's changed by the end of the book. Oh, this character. She's learned so much, she's a different girl... and this is exactly what she'd say.

Yep. This is Jane's song. Jane's song in the last chapter. There we go.

(Jane would like me to mention: the lyrics sound like her. Ingrid's whole space-travel-plant-thing? The hair? The mascara action? Not so much her. The gloves--well, okay. She'd like the gloves. And the words: yes. Crazy eyelashes: no. Not this book at least. Check back for the sequel.)

writer in progress: clothes make the writer

Today I'm rediscovering the joy of writing in pajamas. It's overcast outside, but inside it's cozy-warm and I'm oh-so comfortable... and the writing is going brilliantly! So I'm being productive... and lazy... at the very same time. I love it.

The only thing we need now is chocolate.

writer in progress: cobwebs

It used to freak me out.

I'd have a few days--sometimes, a few weeks--of being, oh, just the littlest bit brain-dead. Something would happen, some kind of huge renovation project, or a minor crisis, or a major happy occasion. My routine crumbled to ashes, the writing stopped, and the story grew cold.

Sometimes, I just forgot that I was a writer for a few days in a row. Sometimes it was that simple.

Whatever the cause, there have been times when I've stopped writing.

Which means, there have been many times when I've had to figure out how to start again.

For about four years, my "favorite" technique was: Let's make a list. (You're shocked, aren't you. Aren't you? Yeah, me neither.)

You can make a list for anything, right? It's like building a beautiful, optimistic ladder in black and white, and if you touch every rung, you make it to the top! Brilliant! Perfect!

I'd program myself to death, and maybe I'd get started again.

Lately, though, I've abandoned the list-making technique.

This morning, the first Monday back at it, after the blaze of holidays and vacation... I've come back to it peaceably. Without lists. Without stress.

Instead of the programs and lists, it's a lot more fun to find the bits of the project that I love.

To flip idly through the last draft and come across the moments I still believe in, the bits of dialogue that make me laugh. It helps to look my characters in the face, and remember why I'm writing about them, why I'm telling their story, when it could have been anyone else's.

When I get reacquainted with the heart of the story, when I find my own heart as a writer, then it's the easiest thing to brush out the mental cobwebs, and to start typing again.

I write because I love it, after all.

It's a small lesson, maybe. But one I come back to again and again: if my heart isn't engaged in the words, then I might as well not do this. If I'm not writing for the love of it, then it's time to find a new job.

writer in progress: me and my nine-to-five

"Suppose we change the subject," the March Hare interrupted, yawning. "I'm getting tired of this. I vote the young lady tells us a story." -- Lewis Carroll, Alice's Adventures in Wonderland

The significant, life-forming times are the dull, in-between times. -- Jan Karon, In This Mountain

When I am fifty-three or so I would like to write a novel. ... For the next thirty years or so I shall be collecting material for it. If anyone asks me what I work at, I shall say, "Collecting material." No one can object to that. -- Stella Gibbons, Cold Comfort Farm

It's actually not as alarming as it once was.

When I first came home to write, answering the question What do you do? was a white-knuckle event. And I would stumble through some kind of explanation, a mini-autobiography. So terribly afraid of what people would think.

Now, it's a lot easier. Now it's just a little weird.

Sunday was a day of introductions, meeting new people. I found myself talking with a Navy pilot and a forensic pathologist, and thinking about their worlds of propellers and bloodstains. And then the question comes, of what is it that I do?

Though I don't break out in a sweat anymore, I still don't know quite how to answer that. I'm a writer. I'm writing a novel. I'm learning how to write novels! I'm working on a novel...

I write things down on paper. And try to get better. And hope it all amounts to something good eventually?

The challenge is in the tone of the thing: how do you say I'm writing novels! without sounding like you're saying "I'm building a moon rocket in my backyard! All by myself!" I feel about six years old.

I think that's the trouble.

I've decided not to talk about manuscripts: it's hard not to make manuscript sound snotty, a little too inkstained. I say projects. That sounds so tidy and productive! Sometimes, too, I wave the word three around, three projects! Think of all those pages! I promise it's really work!

That makes me feel a little more stable...

It's such a silly, simple thing, but I'm not the only one who has a hard time saying it. Which is why I have a soft spot for that moment in Anne of Avonlea, you know? I'm a teacher, I'm a writer, Actually I write books... I have so been there.

Embarrassment isn't so much the issue anymore; it's just a tricky thing to talk about, a hard thing to describe. I do something that's ill-defined, which takes all my time, and isn't generating any money (yet).

Maybe novel writing is too limiting of a term. Maybe sometimes I think the noveling process is what's writing me. Maybe there's no good way to describe it, to say, this is what I do:

Right now? Right now I'm spending my weeks redefining a ficticious world, with its village matriarch (the one with the weird feet), underground passages, lamplit waterways, owl costumes, and the man with the missing hand. I'm having a blast, and working hard, analyzing, changing, fine-tuning...

There! There, I finally have it, that's my explanation. Now I'll just commit that to memory and toss it out next time the question comes up...

writer in progress: the gift of your presence

Once I planned to write a book of poems entirely about the things in my pocket. But I found it would be too long; and the age of the great epics is past. -- G.K. Chesterton

Personally, I want the sea always ... and with it sunshine, and wine, and a little music. -- Max Beerbohm

I am in love with this green earth; the face of town and country; the unspeakable rural solitudes, and the sweet security of streets. -- Charles Lamb

I guess I said it last week, didn't I? And I'll say it every time I think of Leif Enger and his work. But it's still true, and so I'll keep saying it: words are gifts. It is a gift to read and a gift to be read.

Even Starbucks has picked up on it: did you see the new cups? I tacked one of their cardboard sleeves on my bulletin board for inspiration: Stories are gifts: SHARE.

It's so true. Receiving such a thing, a gift like that, makes it obvious that you have a debt to pay, some huge story account to feed your words back into.

I have so much wonderful time I "owe," so many moments where stories, essays, words were gifts to me. And yes, that's a fact that keeps me at my desk: books have done so much for me. Without that awareness, there's no way I'd be a writer.

I remember one Grand Rapids winter that was particularly rough. I was going through a hard time, and most of my close friends were traveling. I ended up facing the cold and loneliness with a book of essays (actually one of my class textbooks--oh the joy of being a nerd and loving your assignments!).

I sat by the fireplace in the lobby of my apartment building. I brought my coffee, and I would read for hours, devouring these personal essays. Their words were so immediate, so fresh and frank that my loneliness evaporated, there in the company of Seneca, Montaigne, Thoreau, Fisher.

My favorites, though, were the three I adopted as my uncles: G.K. Chesterton, Max Beerbohm, and Charles Lamb. I read their essays over and over, imagining the men themselves sitting around me in tweed jackets, smelling of pipe tobacco, their eyes large behind their glasses, gesturing with strong square fingers as they spoke. They were encouraging, entertaining, and laughed me out of my self-pity.

I mean, really. No matter how grey the weather, how exhausting and lonely the weeks, how can you not laugh at G.K. Chesterton's "On Running After One's Hat." The title alone is a little bit of brilliance, and the essay itself is wonderful. ("I am inclined to believe that hat-hunting on windy days will be the sport of the upper classes in the future....")

Near the end he writes: An adventure is only an inconvenience rightly considered. An inconvenience is only an adventure wrongly considered.

You see, a perfectly charming uncle. Funny, engaging, and full of that wisdom that stays with you.

I remember those essay-reading nights and think again about the gift our words can be, across classes, across oceans, across generations. How books can meet us even in the places where other people cannot. And I feel both humbled and determined to work again.

writer in progress: the joys of being nosy

Writing is not hard. Just get pencil and paper, sit down, and write it as it occurs to you. The writing is easy--it's the occurring that's hard. -- Stephen Leacock

A book is not an end in itself, it is only a way to touch someone--a bridge extended across a space of loneliness and obscurity. -- Isabel Allende

You will wonder: Is the work hard because you're following the wrong path? Or because it's just hard? -- S.L. Wisenberg

Eventually everyone learns his or her own best way. The real mystery to crack is you. -- Bernard Malamud

It goes without saying, but just in case you missed the memo, here I am to say it:

If you write, do yourself a favor, and read books on writing.

If you're like me, you can't help it. You do this regardless. I have stacks of books on my desk right now that are crammed with writerly wisdom, writerly advice. Not so much of the "here's how to plot, here's how dialogue works, here's how to find an agent." That's all vital and good, but it's businessy, and what I'm after is this:

Here's how I sit, this is my morning routine, this is what works for me, this is what doesn't.

I am deeply nosy about how they do the work they do. It's both a comfort (when I'm stalled, scared, procrastinating) and a friendly spur to get me started on my own projects.

So I read. I eavesdrop on their lives.

Read Rules of Thumb to get permission from Kate Bernheimer: you're allowed to keep your work a secret. Or to hear from Steven Barthelme: fill your work with your obsessions. His: cats. Mine: outcasts. Good to know that's allowed.

Or pick up Bird by Bird, by Anne Lamott, and learn about short assignments, fill your life with index cards, learn to do a plot treatment. Along the way, watch how she copes with disappointment, how she finds inspiration. And for goodness' sake, let her teach you how to forgive your first drafts.

One of my favorites is The Writer's Desk, with its stunning black and white photos of Stephen King, Eudora Welty, P.G. Wodehouse...

And how comforting is it to know that Anthony Powell has a hard time ignoring the telephone, just like me? That Robert Coles stares out the window, that Joyce Carol Oates daydreams, doodles, doesn't hurry?

Maybe it's silly to need permission to be a writer, to have writerly quirks, but I do love to get it.

It's the camaraderie of the thing: someone's keeping you company in what is, otherwise, a lonely, weird, and occasionally desperate endeavor. They shine light into the places you're confused about; or at the very least, they say hey, that's dark for me, too.

They keep me company in my flaws, speak to my weaknesses, identify the craziness and blindness of it all. They're also good at giving permission to celebrate those successes, joys, and all the bliss when the words are right.

It's a wonderful cycle: Writers comfort other writers with words. They send us our favorite gifts (books!) with wisdom attached. It's kind of sweet.

writer in progress: you have the right to revise

Begin doing what you want to do now. ... We have only this moment, sparkling like a star in our hand--and melting like a snowflake. -- Marie Bryon Ray

In writing, you can make a silk purse out of a sow's ear, but first you have to create the sow's ear. Your first draft is the sow's ear. -- Charles Parnell

There's no Muse of Epic Revising. But I say: This is where the real miracle takes place. -- Carole Burns

Revision: though it can be the never-ending bane of my existence, it's also one way that writing is better than real life. You get do-overs. A lot of them.

A lot.

How many times have I looked over my shoulder and thought: could I revise that conversation? That isn't what I meant to say. Or, alternately, I had the perfect reply on the tip of my tongue, but couldn't figure it out until just now...

So behold the constant, writerly pleasure of revising. The cut and paste. Select all and delete.

Welcome to the cutting room floor, the eraser smudges, the palimpsest.

The unending search for the perfect word.

If I may say so, I'm a pretty decent reviser. All you need, really, is enough dogged persistence to keep moving forward. That and an iron stomach: it can be a bit of a shock to tear up paragraphs, chapters, whole drafts.

Or maybe the key is this: loving the book it should be more than you love how it looks right this moment.

Maybe that's the real mindset that has galvanized me through four drafts of my main novel. There's a gem of a story buried in there somewhere; it's just taking me a long time to find it.

And yet: knowing this, knowing that I can revise and revise, knowing I can keep questioning the characters and the plot: it gives me courage to face new drafts. That's what got me through some truly horrible places (I have no idea what I'm doing!! And neither does my character!!) in my latest project.

That's where I get the guts to reopen last year's Nanowrimo novel. I'm pulling it out of storage and diving back into it tomorrow. Kind of fun, really, to work on its second draft while all the Nanowrimo writers fire up their engines.

I'm excited--really excited--to see all my characters' faces again, to see what I think of them, after a year apart. To listen to their voices. I can't wait to see how they'll grow in these next two months.

Revision. It's thrilling, isn't it? It's a chance to grow, to change your mind.

And in the spirit of that, the blog has had a facelift! Goodbye to Serif's Yarn Cafe: I haven't posted about our Etsy work or my adventures in knitting nearly enough to warrant that name. And yeah, while we all know yarn also means "narrative," the first thing I think of is, that stuff we all knit with. So it had to go. I still plan to post about Squirrel & Serif (we're posting fall stuff now! woo hoo!), but you know and I know that I'm mostly here to talk about books.

Books and other things. Coffee and pie. Writing and reading. This and that.

And you can't argue with the ampersand: it insists that good things go together.

So welcome to the revised blog: Welcome to The Ampersand Cafe.

writer in progress: research! let's not and say we did

This is a matter of curiosity; and you have got a woman for your ally. Under such conditions, success is certain. -- Wilkie Collins, The Woman in White

He wasn't exactly lost, because cats never get lost. He merely didn't know where everything else was. -- Terry Pratchett, The Amazing Maurice and His Educated Rodents

How often is imagination the mother of truth? -- Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, The Valley of Fear

I have to lower my voice on this one, because it would seem, yet again, that I'm committing a writerly heresy, but here is the nasty truth:

I hate research.

I know. Stunning, isn't it?

I didn't think that this was much of a revelation until I began digging deeper into writing circles--reading writers' memoirs, listening to talks at writing festivals. Over and over I'd hear a writer say something along the lines of this:

"I love research. I just love researching so much! It's the actual writing that's miserable, and I put it off by researching. The danger is getting lost in the research, letting it stretch for ever, and not getting the writing done!"

I heard two writers saying as much once in a room full of writerly listeners, and everyone chuckled, as if to say, I know just what you mean!

I was the one scratching her head saying, really? I can't even imagine what that's like!

Research has been the bane of my writing life--I'm stunned to hear that it's the other way around for some.

In fact, I wish I could inject a bit more of that mindset into my life, because I'll do just about anything to avoid research. In my mind, I've already done my share: There's a number of competent research papers with my name on them. Yes, I can regurgitate facts from other books... point proven. Let's move on.

Which is one of the reasons I landed in the fantasy genre. I look over my shoulder a bit nervously at the unicorns and dragons and wizardly writers, the "real" fantasy writers. I'm not quite there, but I do like stepping away from reality, giving my characters enough room to make up their own places, their own rules.

And also, or so I hoped, I would get myself off the research hook.

Yeah, right.

Truth is: even when you're making up a world from scratch, there's still plenty of research that has to be done. Readers are plenty savvy, and I'm guessing they know a lot more than I do. So I'm still piling up history books with a groan, and putting off the day when I need to read them all.

That is, I was. Until I finally saw the light, the big beautiful key to research: I don't do it.

Or at least, I don't call it research. And I don't treat it like research. Instead, I looked at all the learning and nonfiction I was already doing, naturally, on my own. All the stuff I was reaching for, without the big ugly Research bird on my shoulder.

What do I love learning about? Can't I write about that?

What if I write about the subjects that fascinate me no matter what. Things I was learning on the sly. If I write about that, if my worlds and scenes are based around that, then I'm home free. The learning gets done, the scenes are written, and I'm passionate about the subject--an enthusiasm that, hopefully, shows up in the characters and action.

Why did it take me so long--four years?!--to realize this? Is there a Puritan streak in me, which thinks, if it's fun, it's a bad idea? Maybe. But somehow, I was writing about subjects that 1) required research, and 2) I wasn't interested in learning about.

Looking at it objectively, I can see now that it was a bad idea. But at the time, it seemed to make sense...

So I've finally corrected my ways. At the heart of my current project--this draft I've been working on feverishly--is a massive library, the library to end all libraries. So I get to read about people who love books, collectors, writers, caretakers... anyone who is crazy about books.

Which is precisely what I would do anyway.

For an added bonus? I went on a field trip last week, to nearby Washington University, to look at their rare book collection. William Morris's edition of Canterbury Tales? A late 15th century book of hours? Yes please.

It's a moral that most people probably knew anyway: to get something done, make it fun.

Or better yet: Write out of your passion.

... And cook what excites you, draw what you've been doodling, knit what you daydream about, embrace the stuff you've always loved.

I don't know why this is hard for me--is it hard for you? Does it dodge you too, elude you? I'm going to practice sticking to what I love, from now on. 

writer in progress: revenge is sweeter than i thought

Anybody who has survived his childhood has enough information about life to last him the rest of his days. -- Flannery O'Connor

I like to write when I feel spiteful: it's like having a good sneeze. -- D.H. Lawrence

I've been drowning myself in writing advice these last few weeks. For some reason, pneumonia walks hand in hand with insomnia, so I've been reading into the wee hours, piles of books about writing.


I'm calling it "the late late night writer's conference." Most of the books I've been browsing are compilations of writing advice: a few dozen writers offering various and conflicting points of view on what they do and why.


It's been a real blast--all those writerly voices crowding my head! Grumpy, inspirational, practical, mysterious, prosaic. I love binging on writing advice.


Write what you know. Write what you don't know. End each day mid-sentence. Revise before you write. Write before you revise. Show don't tell. Draft before agents. Work at night. Work in the morning.


And here's one I've heard several times: Write for revenge.


That's one that I've certainly put to work. It's a combination, really, of "write what you know" and "write for revenge." Every protagonist needs an antagonist or two. Every person who has survived twenty-six years has faced her own share of personal antagonists, believe me! I've mined my own life repeatedly, scooping out the people who made me crazy and inserting them into my novels.


That is catharsis, let me tell you! Putting junior high misery to good use! Dragging out the people who have tormented me in their own private way, and giving my protagonist the exhilaration of the perfect retort.


It's half the reason why we should write! And few things have made me so happy.


It's a fabulous noveling technique, and I highly recommend it. The very same people who have blocked my way, who have made me writhe with embarrassment or frustration or helplessness, are just the sorts of people I want troubling my protagonist.


Bonus: I know exactly how she feels!


They're people who brought the very worst out of me--and, it would seem, vice versa. They also bring the worst out of my protagonists, who end up acting on angry impulse, saying the wrong thing, or doing something crazy with their frustration. (Another bonus: my characters exact the revenge that I could not.)


But along the way, something weird has happened, every time I build an antagonist on the foundation of a person who made me berserk.


I can't write about characters that I don't, on some level, like. I can't write about a one-dimensional person, someone whose motivation I don't understand. Even the terrible ones: they have to be real. They have to have a few good points.


And with all the care I've put into building these revenge characters, all the time I take sculpting the antagonists of my past into the antagonists of the novel present... they become more real to me than ever. I find that I'm forgiving the real people. I'm thinking of all the reasons why they acted as they did, why we conflicted so miserably.


They still put my character through her paces, they still make her crazy, or I wouldn't have a story. But somehow, strangely, the sting left in me by the real person slowly fades, until really, I'm not upset at them at all. I can let them go. And, too, I kind of want to apologize for my own bad behavior.


So, yes, this might be a kind of "warning: you could end up in my novel." But I doubt anyone will recognize them anyway--the real life inspiration is truly just a jumping off point. The final product is a far cry from the person I knew.

It turns out to be more about redemption than revenge, really. More about redeeming the frustrating--sometimes agonizing--experience. And along the way, redeeming the person who inflicted it.


I would whole-heartedly recommend this, even though now it sounds like a therapy exercise. Maybe it is. But I get a lot out of it: my character is up against a realistic antagonist, who gets a fitting comeuppance before the end. And by that end, I'm free.

writer in progress: the constant learner

It is my business to know things. That is my trade. -- Sir Arthur Conan Doyle

What's the good of being an author if you can't make up a story? -- P.G. Wodehouse

The true University of these days is a Collection of Books. -- Thomas Carlyle

There are so many reasons to love writing novels. So many. And it's good to remember them from time to time, since the crushing difficulties also show up with unnerving regularity...

But there are so many reasons not to push that pencil between your eyes. So many reasons to keep going.

For instance, you can write plenty of scenes propped up on pillows in bed, putting your protagonist through one crisis after another. Very theraputic, that. I don't mind being sick half so much if my protagonist is rather worse off. What's a little cough, when she's running for her life ... again?

Also, the little things can make my day. I finally get the right name for the character, the town, the chapter? I'm happy every time I see it and feel that hole-in-one glee all over again. And if a gem of a sentence drops onto the page? Brilliant. I bask in that one all day.

Another fabulous fact about this discipline, this life, of writing?

You learn while reading other novels. Which is my first love, of course. I've been a nonstop reader for as long as I can remember. So, feel the delight: some of the best lessons I've learned have been while reading books for fun. And because I write what I love to read, I'm usually reading (and learning from) novels that fit the genre I'm writing to, the age group I'm aiming for, or similar subject matter... or, I picked them up because, hey, they looked like fun.

I always use index cards as bookmarks, and by the end of a novel, they're cluttered with notes: Fabulous sentences, my guesses at who the murderer is, questions about where the plot is going, wondering if a scene is necessary... basically, I'm talking back to the book.

And--okay, confession time--I still write book reports.

I was in the habit already, and I never gave it up after college. So every book I read gets a Word document in my computer. They aren't neat and tidy reports; I ramble about whatever grabbed my attention. I argue a lot. I note pages that I had trouble with. Sometimes I tweak the ending. Or, I just fill it with all the beautiful descriptions the author used, or I dissect the brilliant transitions.

Sometimes I wonder if this means I'm a terminal nerd.

But mostly I don't worry about it, because now and then, one of my book reports saves my novel's life. Those aren't the sorts of habits you want to break.

Two years ago, after reading On the Edge of the Dark Sea of Darkness, by the genius Andrew Peterson, I spent days wondering how he did it. How he could write about the truly dark, the truly scary, but make me laugh from cover to cover? How do you sustain tension and humor at the same time? And I realized that I firmly believed he loved writing that book. He had fun; it was evident.

I was so envious.

And I looked at my ball and chain er, manuscript, and asked: is this fun? Am I enjoying this? Am I having fun writing it? ... It took all that to realize that my protagonist had turned into someone I didn't actually like. I embarked on a massive rehabilitation of the whole project, and was much, much happier.

Or, on the other side of the spectrum, I read a novel that I, um, hated. I mean, hated. I ran around the house reading terrible passages to anyone who would listen, and then I ranted further still into my report. I didn't believe any of the action, the characters, the setting, not one bit. And it had come out in a hardcover edition. What?!

I tore it to shreds, and told myself I would do much, much better than that.

I was rehashing everything I despised about the weak villain, and then parts of the villain's character began to sound, oh, just slightly familiar. No. Wait. Was that right? I pulled up my character files, read my descriptions, dialogue, scenes where the villain acted...

Wow. I had fallen for the same traps.

After writhing with embarrassment, I made massive notes for revision, and then sheepishly wrote rules for all future villains. (No antagonist gets to wear black in my books. Ever. Ever, ever, ever. Ev-er.)

And I get all this out of doing what I love to do, doing what I've done all my life: read books that appeal to me. Read for fun; learn genius things.

... Which is another thing I can do in pajamas. Fantastic.

writer in progress: first aid

The special function of literature is to diffuse enchantment without which men's minds become shrunken and cold. -- Constance Lindsay Skinner

"Well, now that we have seen each other," said the unicorn, "if you'll believe in me, I'll believe in you. -- Lewis Carroll

In this daily pursuit of writing, there are so many ways to get off track. So many reasons why, suddenly, I'm not writing.

Sometimes it's as simple as: the phone rang twenty times, curiosity got the better of me, I picked up. Sometimes, it's because everything in our house decided it needed to be repaired, and the family spends a week around roofers, carpenters, appliance repairmen, and the plumber.

Sometimes it's more personal: an emotional crisis wipes out any desire to work, think, imagine. Or, the exact opposite: a week of fun, time with family, brilliant outings with my sisters. It's what we live for ... but it's really hard to get back to work.

Sometimes a beast of an illness has one iron fist around the lungs, another around the throat, and I just don't feel much like writing.

Sometimes everything happens at once--the perfect storm.

And sometimes, I fall off the tracks for no apparent reason at all.

I used to respond badly when my writing schedule got stomped on. I'd make huge, elaborate plans (who, me??) intended to whip me and my novel back into shape, in two weeks, two days, two minutes. That writing superhero stuff. I was so sure it could work.

Except, it never did.

Jenn-as-superhero would stare at the gorgeous, beautifully formatted schedule, the ink still a bit damp, and then wander off to go do something else. Take a nap, watch a movie, unload the dishwasher. Pick at the paint on the walls. Anything else.

So, I got wise. Actually, I finally read enough of Heather Sellers' brilliant advice that she finally convinced me: it's not about whipping yourself into shape, but about inviting yourself into your writing practice again.

Ha, is what I used to say. Invitation? I didn't think so. I knew what got me through college, through one crunch-time after another, dodging the semi-annual minefield of deadlines. I never "invited" myself to enjoy my studying and essay writing. Nope, I pushed myself to the brink and a bit beyond. Everything got done. That's how you work, I concluded.

Except ... it really doesn't work with writing. Not really. Sometimes, yes, you need the firm boot of discipline to kick yourself to the writing desk. Absolutely. But when my writing's seriously off the tracks, I don't kick myself anymore. I do the exact opposite.

So here it is, my best writing first aid: I get lost in all the stuff I love.

To be more precise, I surround myself with all the reasons why I write. I plunge into stories, of every kind, in every form.

Which means, I listen to brilliant musicians, with stunning lyrics and gorgeous melodies. (Right now, that would be Andrew Peterson, Coldplay, David Crowder, and Mumford & Sons.)

Or, I have myself a little movie festival. I watch the stories that tug at me, the ones that remind me why stories are important. Why I love the fantastical narrative. I'll watch Peter Pan and Finding Neverland, hand in hand. Stranger than Fiction usually gets me psyched up to write. Or Tim Burton's Alice in Wonderland, or the Pirates flicks (especially the third), or the recent Narnia movies.

Or I'll go on a book binge. Billy Collins, of course--I'll read him until I'm drunk on words. Or Leif Enger, because he reminds me how perfectly beautiful a sentence can be. I'll drown myself in any of the book crush books, really--especially fiction, especially young adult or middle grade fiction. Or even picture books, like next Thursday's book crush. I read until I believe in books again, until I believe in what a narrative can do.

Or click through some of Anne-Julie Aubry's truly astonishing art work. Browsing her site puts me right back in the mood to write.

The precise tool kit changes with the circumstances, but I usually know what I'm after. It isn't inspiration, not really. I think I'm trying to wave a juicy morsel in front of my inner storyteller. Trying to tantalize the word-loving, story-swallowing part of me, trying to draw her out and back toward the desk.

And it works. Every time, given time, it works.

Suddenly I hear all the stories I've been thinking of; I hear my characters poking at me and at one another. I can see the best settings, hear the fabulous dialogue, get a thrilling, three-dimensional sense of what my story could be. If I don't give up on it.

I remember exactly what it is I love about this, why this is the only life I can imagine. And I'm back to work. ... And it doesn't feel like work.

This is how I get un-blocked with any creative area, really. If I feel bland in the kitchen, I try something crazy at a new restaurant. I browse brilliant cookbooks until I'm drooling on the pages. I get lost at a good grocer. If I can't make myself knit, I go touch all the wool at a yarn store.

In high school, after watching a drum corps perform, I remembered why exactly I suffered through the drills, the wool pants, the August heat. When I couldn't make myself practice piano any more, I'd put on a Debussy CD or go to a piano recital, and marvel at what those keys can do.

I think it's about love, really. Every creative pursuit has plenty of punishment, hardship, failure. Lots of failure, really. And I've learned, I can't discipline my way out of a failed manuscript. I can't force myself to do more hours, bigger leaps, harder assignments.

It's when I put that aside and fall in love with stories again... that's when I'm ready to leap and fall once more.