Perceptions

I gave a talk yesterday, and while my conviction that Ann Lamott's Bird by Bird is a great writing book and everybody should read it had been reinforced, I also realized that my favorite quote from that book could be interpreted in many different ways.

To paraphrase Ann Lamott, you should allow yourself to "write a shitty first draft."

I said that in the comments after my talk. I even said that you could submit it to your critique group. Which put my favorite critique coordinator on her high horse.

Why?

Because we have different ideas of what a "shitty first draft" is.

Hers includes grammatical mistakes, spelling errors, and other basic goofs of a version that I don't even call a "draft." It's a "rough", maybe. It's something between me and me. Not something for anyone to see. My concept of the "shitty first draft" is a grammatically clean version, checked for spelling, verified for as many basic errors of style as you can spot, but still not ready for the public.

In my opinion, the critique group is a very valuable commodity and should not be abused by off-hand submissions of unchecked pages. But the critique group is also not the (ordinary) public and can help sort through the mess of a first draft.

But back to the "shitty first draft." My perception, when I need to remind myself that it's okay, you can, and must write a shitty first draft, is to turn off the long-term editor and to let the movie reel play out.

Stay in the moment and forget the fine points of style and the elegance of narration. Just do it. Get in on the page. Get the images and the speeches and the actions of your characters out onto the paper (or the virtual paper of your computer screen).

It's not about writing badly, it's about just writing when something's holding you back and the story is pushing to get out.

I couldn't NOT check the spelling on my pages. Or switch a word for a better one on the fly if the substitution occurred to me. Because my mind would keep going back to THAT spot.

But I would make myself stop worrying about how I'll get myself out of that situation. How it will lead to the conclusion I vaguely foresee. How I will resolve the new conflict.

I just write.

And worry later.

The smoothness and perfection (such as it may be) will come later, after many, many revisions and interventions, and applications of sandpaper and buffing cloth.

Imagination

South Texas is not green. It's not cool, it's not fresh, and it's not a land of soft, rolling, verdant hills, or tall stately trees.

But then sometimes, after a few days of heavy rains, it does green up. And it revives in spectacular fashion. On a fall day like today, when the morning is cool (all things being relative, of course, after almost two months with highs around 100F), and the sky is a soft blue, and the grass begs to be cut, and the trees have some fresh growth that make seasons irrelevant, you could pretend to be just about anywhere.

Driving through my neighborhood, looking at the bushy trees lining the suburban streets, I can feel other places. The old forests of Europe with their 90-foot trees and trunks so thick you can't wrap your arms around them. The shade so deep that sunlight never pierces it and it's always sweater-cool while the meadows just yards away are burning hot in the summer. The sweet-tart red berries hiding under the tiny umbrellas of their lacy leaves. Or the carpets of knee-high bilberries you pick and eat on the spot.

All this from a five-minute ride through a South-Texas neighborhood. Just because the street turned and went up the hill, and trees bracketed the road and framed the pale-blue sky. And because I didn't have the air conditioning on in the car, just the fan, and I could smell the actual morning air.

And the music? The radio was playing "Black Magic Woman" by Santana. A song that's always been slick and urban to me, a nighttime song of city lights. Not just any city light -- big city lights, slick city lights. Paris, glitz, a night club. High fashion and expensive champagne. Wide avenues and old architecture. High society and old money rubbing elbows with new. Movie stars and financiers. Lust, greed, and cold, cold minds.

A Paris I never lived in, but one I saw and imagined easily enough. My Paris was a middle-class city, of schools and children and neighborhood stores. Of cafés and warm Sunday-morning croissants and hot, strong coffee. Good wine, good food, and large family gatherings.

All this from a quick drive to drop of my kid at school?

Well, yes. It's called imagination. That's how I can sit in a dark room, with a sweltering 100+F summer outside, and write my characters lost in a cold, northern winter. Because I'm wearing a T-shirt and the A/C is blowing on my bare arms.

On the other hand, maybe I'll write about a mysterious desert city next time. To commemorate the time when the A/C broke.

Or not. Some things don't need to be imagined.

Anniversary

September 11

Eight years ago.

I was sitting at my computer like any other day, having sent the kids to school, checking my email and going through my morning routine. Happy and oblivious.

I saw the newsflash on AOL. I didn't believe it. I turned on the TV and I saw the second plane hit the Twin Towers.

I thought this might be it.

You know, it. The End.

When you grow up, as the child of politically engaged Russian émigrés, with the perfect awareness that the Bad Guy is not a fictional construct and that They Are Really After You, anything of this magnitude will glue you to your seat with a mixture of fear, fatalism, and helpless fascination.

Add to that a lifelong preference for fantasy and science-fiction, and you start building scenarios for the counter-strike and retaliation once you realize that it's not an accident.

And you've seen War Games. You know there can be no winner.

Fortunately, they've seen War Games, too.

But there is one realization that doesn't go away.

Someone has done this on purpose. Someone took several civilian planes and used them as weapons. Someone broke the most basic rules of engagement. Someone perpetrated an uncivilized, barbaric act worthy of the darkest moments of the most dramatic post-apocalyptic movies. Something that would have driven Mad Max to tears.

Today, we have monuments to our losses. Memorials. A minute of silence. A moment of rememberance. The president spoke briefly on the occasion. The local newspaper has a small front-page note. Google doesn't have a touching graphic attached to its name.

Has it been so long? Aren't we angry any longer? Almost 3000 people died in one day. I can't believe it wasn't yesterday. It's one of those moments that will always be there. Right in front of me.

Because like eight years ago, it's unbelievable.

Guest Blogger Sandy Lender

Welcome back, Sandy! And congratulations on the release of the sequel of Choices Meant for Gods. Let me say that I love your titles. Of course, I'm a big fantasy fan, and these titles just invite the reader's imagination to fly!

And don't miss the blog-tour special excerpt!

Inspiration in All Places

By Fantasy Author Sandy Lender

http://www.authorsandylender.com

A lot of folks have asked me about inspiration. It’s a question that folks like to ask of creative types like artists and movie stars and writers. (Please notice how I just lumped myself in there with artists and movie stars. Cool, eh?) I don’t like to be glib because anyone asking the question deserves a real answer, but, honestly, everything inspires me.

Duran Duran, baby sea turtles, my parrots, sci fi shows/movies, thunderclouds over the Gulf at dawn, short elderly drivers in huge Lincoln town cars, bizarre chicks in L.A. bars, snow in the mountains, etc. At my fancy new Web site that just launched this summer, my letter to visitors tells of a funky incident from my early teens that inspired a short story in the Choices-supporting chapbook WHAT CHOICES WE MADE.

Something I know that fires the flames of inspiration for me is setting up my writing space. I participated in the annual 3-Day Novel Contest over Labor Day Weekend this year and found myself going through an almost ritual getting everything nice and “set” before the start time. What I’m curious about is readers’ “inspiration.” When you pick up a new book and prepare to crack open the front cover, do you need a special setting or a special mindset or some special music softly in the background to inspire you to drop easily into another world?

Thank you for checking in today and for participating in the conversation! “Some days, I just want the dragon to win.”

Good question, Sandy! And posters will be entered into a drawing for a hard cover copy of Sandy's book! So speak up: how do you prepare to enter a world of fantasy we create for you? And writers, what do you need to step into a world of your own creation?

Choices Meant for Kings.

Chariss is in danger. Her geasa is hampered by the effects of a friend’s marriage. The dashing Nigel Taiman hides something from her, yet demands she stay at his family’s estate where he and her wizard guardian intend to keep her safe. But the sorcerer Lord Drake and Julette The Betrayer know she’s there, and their monstrous army marches that way.

When prophecies stack up to threaten an arrogant deity, Chariss must choose between the dragon that courts her and the ostracized kings of the Southlands for help. Evil stalks her at every turn and madness creeps over the goddess who guides her. Can an orphan-turned-Protector resist the dark side of her heritage? Or will she sacrifice all to keep her god-charge safe?

A Tense Little Excerpt From Choices Meant for Kings

By Fantasy Author Sandy Lender

http://www.authorsandylender.com

You won’t find this excerpt anywhere except Sandy’s current online book tour…

As the soldier stepped toward him, Nigel reached out his arm and caught him by the neck. He slammed the captain against the far wall. He pinned him there with his body, leaning against the man as if he could crush the wind from him with his presence.

He brought his face close to the soldier’s ear and spoke lowly, fiercely, so that no one could have overheard him. The menace and intent behind the words was as surprising to the captain as the words themselves.

“I asked you to accompany [Chariss] on this journey tomorrow because I have faith in your sword, and until this moment I trusted you to keep your distance from her. Now, I find her down here at your side with a look upon your face that suggests more than you realize. So help me, Naegling, the only thing that stays my hand is how displeased she would be if she learned that I sliced you open.”

“The look you see is merely my concern for her honor. Nothing more.”

“I’m not a fool. And I’ll use every last piece of Arcana’s treasury to pay the prophets to justify my reasons for marrying that woman, so you can unconcern yourself with her honor.”

Hrazon stepped off the staircase then and saw Nigel pressed against his guard.

“I still believe you’re one of the best soldiers Arcana’s ever seen,” Nigel continued, “and I want you at her side for this journey, but, so help me, Naegling, she comes back alive and well and not confused in the least about her affections for me, or I will string you up from a tree in the orchard and attach your intestines to your horse’s saddle before I send it—”

Hrazon cleared his throat. “Excuse me. Is there an issue here I should address?”

Guest Blogger this Wednesday

Sandy Lender is coming back next week for another post... and another book! Choices Meant For Kings is the second volume of her epic fantasy Choices trilogy.

Remember to come back and to comment for a chance to win a copy of her book!

Upheaval

No, the sky did not fall on our heads.

No, there was no earthquake, no hurricane, not even a big storm. No flash flood, no worsening of the drought, so water rationing, none of that.

And yet, it feels as if something has crashed and landed right on our house.

It's nothing big in and of itself.

Well, maybe it is. My oldest went to college and moved into a dorm. Still, she didn't move out of state, she's still forty minutes away and I can bring her whatever she's forgotten almost at the drop of a hat.

But she's moved out.

And the youngest has started high school.

No, I don't feel old. I feel proud. I know, I'm kinda weird, but you knew that.

If that's all it was, I'd be sitting here working on my edits and grumbling at all the interruptions.

But of course, in this family, nothing is that simple. For one thing, transitions happen with high drama. Even so, by now, I'd be sitting here working, etc.

But the minivan, the mom-mobile sometimes appropriated by our oldest, has had a meltdown. Literally. The fan went out and melted some wires and some hoses. And they're having trouble finding replacement parts.

Any other week, we'd shrug and handle it.

But the first week of classes? And of course this would be the week when I have appointments and errands I can't postpone.

The strangest thing of all is that not one member of our family has had a real meltdown over this yet. I really expected someone to start pacing and moaning and grumbling, or whining and crying and complaining, or something. Something. I mean, the timing is really awful.

But no. Somehow, we all went into a we'll handle it mode.

What's wrong with us?

Movie Night

It's a rare occasion in this book-heavy family, therefore it is a noteworthy event. Even more so when it's a couples movie night, loudly hailed and encouraged by the kids, who merely expressed their desire to see the same film, but no envy that we went and they didn't.

Miracles do happen. And the kids' enthusiasm at seeing us go somewhere together, for our own selfish pleasure, definitely multiplied our enjoyment.

And enjoyment it was.

We went to see District 9. It was a bit of an odd choice, because usually my husband and I have very, very different tastes in movies. You'd think we'd have very, very similar preferences in reading -- after all, we went to graduate school together and shared more than one course -- but you'd be wrong.

And sci-fi? He's so not into sci-fi, and I'm so not into reality.

But it was good. I'm not going to give any spoilers, but I'm going to say that I thoroughly enjoyed the characters. The special effects were just enough to fit both the story and the filming style, and make it believable, and they were well done (of course, they were thorough and tight, but then it's a Peter Jackson movie, and he's raised the bar on attention to detail).

Good plot, good character development, and the very pleasant sense that the audience is an insider and knows more than the clueless public "out there" in the story world of the movie.

It's a tale told exactly as I want them to be. Exactly as I want to write them.

Guess what. I'm going to get the director's cut when it comes out in DVD. With all the commentaries, of course.