A call to science

There was a time in American history--say, the 1940s & 50s--when Americans looked at science with love. We had the best engineering schools in the world. We took pride in our nuclear program and space race. And we consumed science fiction like a hungry man devours a bag of Cool Ranch Doritos.

Times have changed.

You practically can not teach science in our public schools (at least in some states) and the numbers of math, science and engineering students falls a little every year. Science went from cool to the stuff of horror movies to something beneath the cultural radar. Science fiction, while still a popular genre, was first swallowed by the horror craze of the 80s and is now playing second fiddle to fantasy. When was the last time you looked in the YA department of your favorite bookstore and saw teenage girls snapping up SF novels? (As an aside, I feel certain this has a lot to do with the unsexiness of space suits. We need scantier space apparel, NASA, and we need it ASAP.)

We, as genre writers, have got step things up. We aren't to blame for Creationists running amok over the curriculum of the nation's schools--but we have obviously been slacking. Guys like Robert Heinlein made outer space cool. Even the extremely old school Jules Verne showed kids that science was the shit. We can do just as well. We can say "no" to sparkly vampires and evil wizards and give a little back to the genre that nurtured our culture to a new cultural era. We can write incredibly amazing, sexy SF novels.

The good news is that we've got a little help finding inspiration in our friend the blogosphere. If you haven't checked out the new Science in My Fiction blog, you're missing out. It's a great resource for real science you can use, digested by real writers who rock. So click on over and geek out. It's the least you can do.

I mean, if you're not too busy designing sexy new togs for NASA.

Epic spring just keeps rocking

Wow. I've found the greatest group of writing buddies; I've sold my first book--and now my Sweetie-Pie of the last five years has finally popped the question. Have pigs started flying or are the stars just aligning in some new and bizarre constellations? I don't know.

I do know, however, that I respond to good news with pure confusion. And then I don't believe it for another 24-hours or so. And then I get goosebumps and think I'm going to throw up. Maybe it's a good thing that all my short fiction submissions are coming back rejections--I'd be non-stop queasy!

The only bad thing about all this new progress is the uncertainty of certain details. I am a planning freak. That probably deserves italics: I am a planning freak. Since I don't know exactly when Virtual Tales is planning to put out my book, I've got no plans. And since Sweetie-Pie just wants to "enjoy the magic" of being engaged for a little while, I've got no plans there. (Of course, after 4 years of cohabitation and serious commitment and the occasional matrimonial daydream, I've got a pretty great plan and just waiting until I feel like I've got the green light for implementation!) My planning skills are feeling a little neglected.

On the plus side, I've still got another book to distract me. So off I go, bringing my head down out of the clouds and into the realm of monsters and mayhem.

Putting my money where my heart is

Every year I sign up with some charity or other and give out $10 a month via automated billpay. It's not a huge chunk of money, but it lets me feel a tiny bit better about myself and the role I play in the world. Sometimes I dig deep for individual projects, but I always rest easier knowing that every month, without even thinking about it, I'm doing something good.

Well, no longer.

From May thru the end of 2010, I want to give my $10 a month consciously to the markets that nourish spec fiction writers. Half of them are legally nonprofits, and the other half ... well, they're not exactly making a profit. And these people are the advocates of my corner of the universe. They stir up the new ideas, they promote fresh thinking. They give writers like me a few extra bucks to pad the grocery budget.

I want to pay them back. And I'm taking suggestions. Clarkesworld & Crossed Genres have gotten a little dose of love--who's next? And why?

Ode to geekerie

I have never been friends with anyone cool.

That's not to say that I've never been friends with anyone awesome or that my friends are uncool. Obviously, I have amazing friends. They're just geeks.

Geeks are willing to be enthusiastic about things. They get excited about something and they bubble over with it. Geeks try to learn more about their passions and make everyone they know into mini-experts on the topic. Geeks are passionate people.

I like being friends with geeks because they are always teaching me new stuff. Also, they don't look at me funny when I start talking supernaturally fast. They just listen harder.

I love being a part of the spec fic community because everybody involved is a super-mega-geek. Even the most important editor at the biggest publishing company is incredibly geeky. Actually, once you know how publishing works, you realize that an editor's job is to be a professional geek. That's right--they get paid to be full-time book geek. They just have to remember to talk more slowly than I usually manage during a full-on geekgasm. It gives them the illusion of cool.

Nothing makes me happier than giving in to my geekiest instincts and falling in love with a new subject. Nothing makes me happier than meeting another geek and riffing off their geek loves.

Nothing makes me happier than meeting kids that are growing up geeks. (And I'm thinking of my young friends Amberly and Kayla when I say that. Thank goodness for girls like you, who already rock so hard! We WILL hang out at Orycon. Just wait.)

Geeks rock. I love them. And I am so proud to be one that I'm even typing freakishly fast!

Critters are a blessing

There comes a point in the creation process where it can be difficult to look at your own piece and see it with any kind of perspective. I can look at all the words and layers and promise and feel certain there's something I need to fix--and have no clue what it is. And that's where I've gotten insanely lucky lately. I have stumbled into a group of talented readers who are devoted problem solvers with strong analytical skills.

What? Problem solvers? Strong analytical skills? Don't those come second to an amazing way with words and a degree in grammar or literature?

Nope.

My posse is at a point where we've accepted that words are our tools and that each of us has our own unique set of them. Once in a while, someone wouldn't mind a nudge suggesting that a tool didn't work quite the way we wanted it to (a little like a house painter might realize that the mini-paint roller wasn't the perfect tool for finishing a doorframe), but we wouldn't appreciate anyone trying to get in the way our own particular voice or methodology.

What we want is someone to look at the way problems are set up in the piece and how they are resolved. Someone who can eyeball the structure of a story and see if its plumb. If the characters ring true. And more than anything else, we need somebody else to see if there is actual tension stretching through the piece.

You see, the difference between an okay story and a good one is the sensation of a thread of tension pulling the protagonist through the story. In a good story, there's conflict. In a great story, there is conflict that the protagonist MUST live through--that for some internal reason, he must pass through the god-awful conflicts to release an inner sense of tightness.

And we, the readers, have to feel that tension, even if we don't understand it. We must be pulled through the story as if we have been hooked on a fishing line, and as we are wriggling on the hook, we're swallowed up by a giant fish. We feel every rib squeezing pump of the monster's peristaltic movements. We feel the burning sting of the stomach acid. And we constantly feel the yank of the fish hook in our mouths, dragging us toward shore so hard that we're jerked through the last few feet of guts and fecal matter to shoot up out of the water. Sore. Bloodied. Anguished. But exhilarated.

Remember, we can't see the fisherman on the shore, dragging us along. We only see the fish guts. That's how it is in a great story: there's something invisible moving the story along, and all that is clearly depicted is the dangerous inner world of conflict. Only at the ending can we really see what's been happening.

As a writer, it's damn hard to tell if you've gotten the hook set right. If while the hero is fighting some big fight (maybe it's with his mother-in-law, maybe it's with a zombie, it doesn't matter), there's no sense that there's something pulling his character through that moment for some reason, then the story is failing. It's letting down the reader. And only a reader can tell you if you've succeeded in that moment.

After all the work I put into the piece I'm able to plug in an imaginary sense of tension because I know what's supposed to happen. There's been a time or two when I've been able to go back to a piece and read it like a fresh-eyed reader. But those times are very rare. The rest of the time, I depend on my critters. Basically every story I've written and liked, I owe it to them. Thanks, guys. You're the best.

Pitch Perfect

I can't vouch for anyone else, but there's nothing like taking a minute to create a one-paragraph pitch or half-page synopsis to help me muddle through the middle of a project. Here I am in that middle portion of my novel--you know, that crazy, action-packed "throw rocks at the hero" part of the story--and it's getting incredibly messy. There's blood and sex and tiny monsters, and it's a little hard to make out why this is all so important in a story about a desperate housewife.

Time to pull over to consult our map.

Yes, I have a great outline on this project (although I never project quite enough scenes when I'm first visualizing a book--I thought I had this one nailed, but probably only detailed about 25,000 words worth of scenes), and it's pulling me along in an orderly fashion. But when you're down in the trenches, a scribbled set of directions is only so useful. Sometimes you need perspective.

That's when I bust out the one-paragraph pitch. A one-sentence hook is too easy, too Hollywood. But the one-paragraph pitch, where you try to lay out Donald Maass's 6 critical points, can really help restore your vision in the piece. Here they are, as presented in an interview in Making the Perfect Pitch (by Katharine Sands, who is interviewing Maass in this section):

• Title
• Category/genre
• Setting
• Name of protagonist
• Problem
• One colorful detail that makes this project unique

It really is okay to push aside the manuscript for five minutes to work it out--even if you've done it before for your project. As you're muddling, you get new notions about the problems and details of the story, giving you a reason to create a new paragraph. And when you're done, you'll sit there blinking to yourself. For one, the story will sound freaking awesome. There's nothing like seeing your brilliant basis for a novel laid out in streamlined glory to get you excited about the project all over again. And second of all, you'll see the bones of the piece, the things that need to protected and projected throughout the story.

I did this over my afternoon coffee, and it refreshed a lot of my ideas about my project. I remembered just why this poor woman was heading into a dragon's cave armed only with her fists and a rocks, and why it was crucial to the development of her character. And then I got really excited about it.

In fact, I think I'm going to dash off and deal with that dragon!

A new style

A new style of waiting, that is! I know I'm pretty new at the submissions game, but so far I've handled them like this: send out submission. Check email every twenty seconds. Panic. Feel depressed when the anticipated rejection arrives. Repeat. But I'm doing things differently now!

That's right. Now, I send out my submission. And then I dread checking my email and put it off as long as I dare (which, since it's my primary mode of communication, is not as long as I'd like). Because NO news is GOOD news. The longer there's nothing in my inbox, the longer that story has stayed out in the world, and the longer I get to wait before reading the dreaded four words: "Thank you, Ms. Wagner."

Yep. Hate those four words. They're always followed by something along the lines of "but we can not use your story at this time." And then despair.

Well, unfortunately, it's time to check my email. Keep your fingers crossed that it's empty!

Tipping on my tightrope

Creating a work-life balance is never easy, and when you're also trying to work in a creative life, it's like adding a flaming sword to the juggling mix. The last two weeks were all about career/creating. I went to the con; I sent out submissions; I worked on my blog & Horror-web. I was behind and I had to work hard to get caught up.

Then, picking my way across this tightrope of life/work/art, I tipped too far the other way. This week, all the guilt that piled up about leaving my family for a week sent me spiraling into a no-art-making mode, exacerbated by a grumpy kid and over-worked partner. I've struggled to make new words and sat at the computer in a sad, empty huddle. In the middle of it all, it's all excitement or misery, but looking back on the last three weeks, I can see myself like a newly trained acrobat, wobbling along the tightrope, overbalancing here and there, thrown off by events that just don't fit in my routine.

Today, I feel good. I've had a pretty normal day. It reminds me that I am a creature of habit, working most effectively when I'm working within the bounds of a pretty set schedule. I don't know what that implies for my future, but it does make me glad that I've limited my convention attendance to one big con and Orycon every year (at least for now). It's tempting to throw myself into outings and classes to try to become a better writer, but when it comes down to actually making words, the best thing seems to be a quiet kitchen table at the same time every day.

Now, if you're struggling in your own balance, here's a little tune to pick you up. It's from a new artist I'm finding as exciting as Lady Gaga (gosh, my dream show would be the two of them together!), and is a smart young lady tapping in to some awesome SF inspiration! Without further ado, here's Janelle Monae, rocking out "Tightrope":

Back in the saddle again!

Super quick note, all!

Today's been a great day, even if I do feel a bit guilty about skipping my usual volunteering session at The Midget's school. Sometimes, you just have to get some work done. And now I'm finally making headway on the novel!

Taking such a long break from the book made it hard to get back to work. In fact, it was a little bit scary. I really like my project and I'm still really drawn to the characters and ideological framework, which really raises the nerve-wrack level. Every time I write something that doesn't work, I'm a little panicky. I know it's dumb. I know the book will get revised. That doesn't mean I'm not scared of ruining it now. And the most space I give myself, the more I get freaked out.

So last week, I was tired and too dang stupid to write anything. Sitting here staring at the computer, working on other projects, I had every little nasty thought about how badly this book was going to crumble. It was like I was trying to convince myself to give up. But now that I've sat down and kicked out a few more scenes, I feel much better. It might not be great literature, but it's a first draft, and that's all that matters.

Remember: she might be an ugly nag at first, but once you tame her down and shine her hooves, your WIP might turn out to be perfectly good racehorse!

Atheist in paradise

A major highlight of my trip was my visit to the Natural History Museum of London. I hadn't intended to visit this museum--I thought I would go to the Victoria & Albert--but when I passed this amazing building, where each bit of architectural detail celebrated animal life, I had to go in.

A close-up of detailing between two windows:

I'm very glad I did. Every inch of this museum celebrates evolution and its first champion, and every inch was designed to astonish visitors with the grandeur and majesty of the natural world. Here's a view of the main lobby, shot from above:

And a close-up of the beautiful statue of Charles Darwin:

I did not feel simply as if I was inside a place of learning, but a place of celebration, of devotion, of inspiration. (I got pretty teary-eyed.) And on top of it all, the place was filled with remarkable specimens. The jaw-bone of the first t-rex ever discovered! Fossils discovered by the remarkable Mary Anning herself! Taxidermied passenger pigeons and dodos! I just sort of stumbled around, babbling to myself.

When I got done with my tour (cut short because of the need to meet some great people), I felt uplifted and full of joy. I have to imagine it's how religious folks will feel tomorrow, when they celebrate the biggest day of their calendar. I'm just glad I can get that feeling from the beauty and wonder of science, and the minds and creatures that fill the world around me. And I thank places like the Natural History Museum for helping me tap into that wonderful emotion.

Brighton: convention, town, dream

There was so much to do and see in Brighton, England, this past weekend. There were the usual temptations of a popular seaside city--restaurants, pubs, museums, dance clubs. There was the allure of the tiny streets, crammed with charming shops and an ambiance of antiquity. And there was the World Horror Convention, packed with programming and respected members of the dark literary world. Just walking close to the convention hotel made me float on a cloud of geekery.

With so much to choose from, I stretched myself pretty thin. I made it to the Brighton Art Museum and the Royal Pavilion, walked on the beach, and enjoyed a silly ghost walk through the littlest and oldest of streets. I made it to a few readings. I sat through some amazing panels. I did a reading. I danced with some really nice people. I bought books. I drank lots and lots of free booze. It was a pretty normal kind of convention.

But at the same time, there was nothing normal about it. I have never been anywhere that was so resoundingly, astonishingly home-feeling as Brighton. I can't help but feel like this quirky town and I are tuned to the same frequency, a pitch both friendly and dark, creepy and cheery, sweet and spooky. Between feeling so magically at home and fining a crew of truly amazing friends, I had one of the most outstanding weekends of my life.

Every day I missed my family and my regular writing routine--but I am so happy I went. And as silly as it sounds, when I took my farewell look at the Brighton shore, I cried to leave it.

WORLD HORROR CONVENTION 2010!

Just a super-quick note from an Internet Cafe. I can't believe what a great convention the folks have put together for us! From bags of free books to special WHC candies, a lot of care has obviously been lavished on the production of this amazing get-together. And the town of Brighton is unbelievable! It's like a cosmopolitan Astoria, or a small San Francisco.

I am feeling very inspired after a fun ghost walking tour of town and listening to Ramsey Campbell share stories about his haunted house. Maybe I'll have some ghost stories to write when I get home!

Okay, time for some dinner. Tomorrow afternoon is my big reading!

Ladybugs who surf

Yesterday we visited Ecola State Park, and it was as magical a trip to the coast as any I've ever taken. The road down to the beach showed moss between the tire ruts, and the green-cloaked spruce dripped the last exhalations of the morning's rainshowers. The sky showed that wonderful chiaroscuro Prussian blue that fills my heart with content.

Oddly enough, after a lovely half hour walk along the water and some good stone skipping, we discovered a swarm of ladybugs along the line of waves. Many were dead already, their little bodies flattened by the pounding surf, but as we looked more closely, we noticed that several were still crawling desperately for dry land. We immediately set about helping them.

It's not easy to scoop a ladybug out of wet sand. Tools help. A flat bit of driftwood or a chunk of clam shell works best. You can get several sand-&-bug clumps that way, saving a whole group of little beetles. If you pick them up with your gloved hand, you'd be amazed how firmly they can grip on to the fabric. A ladybug could get hurt being brushed off when it's really clinging tightly.

You'd be amazed, too, how much of a beating those little creatures can take. We spent about half an hour scooping up ladybugs, watching wave after wave fall down on their little heads. Big waves, small waves, waves loaded with clinging foam--the ladybugs just took the beating and then kept pushing their way on to safety. My heart swelled to watch them struggle against odds so unimaginably steep.

I don't know why the ladybugs went down to the water yesterday. I don't know if we really helped them by moving them up above the tideline, and if we did help them, I don't know how many we really rescued. At least fifty, I think.

But I do know that watching a barely motile creature sit in the sunshine, stretch her wings and begin crawling about made me happy. And I do know that of all the people (there weren't a ton of people, but a good twenty or so) on that beach, we were the only ones who noticed the mysterious ladybird beetles. I feel as if the hand of mystery reached out to us and we shook like old friends.

Hystrionics of history!

I really can't remember a time when I didn't yearn to go to England. I know that by the time my sister went to study abroad in Wales and London--I was ten--I was already desperate to visit the historical isle. Unfortunately, I didn't fit inside her carry-on. But now I finally get to go. And I'm totally overwhelmed.

I almost lack words to explain how excited I am. 95% of it blossoms from my inner history geek. Honestly, thank heavens the convention is in Brighton and not Hastings. I would probably go into a history-induced coma and miss the whole thing. I've lived my whole life in Oregon. History started in the mid-1800s out here. (Yes, the Native Americans of our region have a rich and fascinating history, but unfortunately, my predecessors went out of their way to destroy the evidence.) Can you imagine standing on the site of a historical incidence from almost 1000 years ago? For me, it's mind-boggling.

Needless to say, I'm a little wound up about this trip. On top of my natural nervousness about leaving my family--and I've never spent more than one night away from The Midget, so it's a pretty serious nervousness--I have to worry that I'll bump into some historical plaque and become so overwrought with the vapors of the past that I pass out.

People reading this are probably smugly certain that I'm exaggerating. I'm not. You're reading the rantings of a woman who looked at a fossil of archaeopteryx and began bawling hysterically. A woman who became so shaky and weepy at the Art Institute of Chicago that she had to go back to the hotel and take a bath. A woman who raved for two days after entering the rare book room at the library.

I. AM. A. DORK.

A really, really excited dork.

Hooray!

Inside every great writer is a vicious sado-masochist

It has not been easy focusing on my novel the last few days--making travelling plans, getting sick, and discombobulating my hand have all sort of distracted me. But at least I have some stories in the pipeline that need editing. Sometimes, the word-weaving part of my brain gets bogged down by the minutiae of life; the analytical part is always ready to lock'n'load.

I think this has something to do with my training in science and philosophy. There is nothing like pounding through Kant at 3 in the morning to get your brain worked into shape. It's like a reflex action--make sense or ship out, soldier! Actually, when I think about it, I'm not sure why they don't just change the course title from "Critical Thinking and Introduction to Logic" to the much more honest "Brain Boot Camp." They'd probably get a lot more recruits ... er, majors.

Sometimes it's dangerous to have a brain ready to leap to attention, fully prepared to dig a foxhole and rake your ideas across the muddy trenches. It's a sure way to slow down production on a first draft of anything. But I like to spew out first drafts and let them lurk on my hard drive for a while. Have a bad day at work? Bam! I just take out my frustrations on some unworthy adverbs. Feel a little brain dead? I'll feel like a genius after I've chewed out the stupid idiot who changed her main character's name from "Aline" to "Alina" halfway through a story. (Yeah, that happened last week. Doh.)

I do get a little concerned with my mental health when I find myself enjoying the sheer nastiness of my internal editor (I'm also worried by just how much pleasure I take in tormenting my characters). I'm not sure if it's healthy to exult in the shredding and berating of the word-producing segment of my brain--or if that part of my psyche should be so happy to see its work carved up and beaten. But when I get done with a good editing session, I just feel upbeat and energetic, like I've had a good workout. It's usually the right thing to get me back on track and ready to produce some new words.

They'll be sloppy words, of course. Overweight and ready for a trip to the Editing Bitch--and that kind of puts a smile on my face.

[If you enjoyed the over-stretched metaphors in this blog entry, thank you. You're a kindred spirit. If you did not, well, you probably have good taste--and I should invite you to be one of my critical readers. ;) ]

Prolific Blogger award + housekeeping

Sunday the terrific Helen Ginger gave me the Prolific Blogger Award, which was an awesome and exciting thing to receive! For one, I've been posting to this blog for almost 6 years now, and only recently gotten a regular blogging schedule under my belt--becoming a "prolific blogger" has been a real goal for me in last year or so. I feel like I'm really working toward my goal now! Part of the award is passing it on to other special bloggers who are doing their part to fill up the blogging sphere. Here are some people who inspire me or whom I'd like to encourage:

• Miriam, from Dancing With Dragons is Hard on Your Shoes. Miriam and Helen have both been incredibly inspiring bloggers. They are very busy with their writing careers, but have made blogging a priority. Miriam's discussion of her own blogging schedule motivated me to create a blogging schedule for myself! Also, Miriam is super-funny and adorable.
• Erin, from Snarke. This is the woman who taught me to blog! Erin's been blogging since blogs were invented, and her regularity is astonishing. And she's really, really funny.
• Kristina, from Ten Minute Missive. Kristina has recently been making a real effort to blog on a more regular basis--and thank goodness! This lady makes parenting hysterical! Not only is she a great blogger, but she's also a stand-up comic, owner of 8 pets and mother of 3. Oh, and my sister, which just goes to show that we have dorkdom in our genes.
• Sandra, from Sandra Wickham's Blog. Sandra's just created a regular blogging routine, and I'd really like to get the word out about her site. It's fun; it's funny, and it will motivate you to put down the pie and run off to the gym.
• Wendy, from Where Ladybugs Roar. Wendy is extra-special, and not just because she is another writing Wendy and Washingtonian (my dark secret: I was born in eastern Washington. Don't tell the rest of Portland, 'k?). Wendy is a posting machine--you should see her smoke Twitter--while managing work and two amazing kids. I stand in awe of this woman.

So click over and spend some time with these fantastic women of blogging!

Another great thing about getting this award is that reminded me that I hadn't updated the quote of the month or fixed the random layout error that gave me the unintentional pseudonym "Wendy Stumptown." And while I love my city, I don't plan on marrying it. ;)

That's about it on updates. I don't have much new to share, except that I've been introduced to book's editor, and that in one week and one day, I will be on my way to Brighton, England for the World Horror Convention!!! I'll be reading my story from Severed Press's 2012 AD anthology and attending a workshop with Jo Fletcher. It should be terrific!

Ordeal by Bra

Ordinarily, Saturday would be a day devoted to food talk, but today I have something much more pressing on my mind: bras. Or more precisely, trying on bras.

First, I have to confess that if I had my druthers, I would just go to Nordstrom and get professional assistance, because when it comes to brassieres, you are really much better off with an expert at the helm. There are many, many issues that affect the way a bra fits, and unless you have a lot of time on your hands (and possibly a degree in engineering), you're going to get frustrated.

But the last time I went to Nordies, I spent a lot of money, and while those were very worthwhile purchases, I am currently gripping every dollar bill quite tightly (this trip to England is going to be really expensive!). So it was Target and a lot of time in the fitting room this time around.

When I was younger, buying a bra was easy. I had the same criteria for foundation garments as I did a mate: stable and really good-looking. I would pick out something that looked cute, jump around the fitting room, and if everything had stayed inside, buy the darn thing. But now my boobs have quirks and special needs--like me, they come with baggage (and by baggage, I mean a kid who nursed for two years. Cause I'm a recovering hippie.).

For one thing, the boob parts of my boob (the soft, jiggly parts) hang down to about my navel, leaving the normal breast all skeletal and ribby. And for another, they can no longer be squished together in that sexy romance-novel-cover cleavage-y manner. There is no cleavage. There is a canyon. And attempts to push together the two sides of the canyon does not create attractive cleavage--age has given these melons willpower that simply sends them shooting out over the tops of the restraining material.

I do not look my best with boobs coming out my armpits.

Needless to say, when I shop for a bra, my first order of business is to search for something with a diesel engine and a crane attachment. I haven't found anything yet, but with all the options (padding! push-ups! gel inserts! wires! microfiber!), I feel it's just a matter of time before Caterpillar designs something for me. If anybody can work a forklift into shapewear, it's them.

Lord knows they've got Playtex beat. I worry that company has a new CEO: the Marquis de Sade. I'm a big believer in underwires, but these bras used their metal parts to break new ground in pain. Instead of "lifts and molds," the tag should have read "crushes and mangles." Said garment did, however, take the armpit boob to new heights--I could barely lower my arms to get the darn thing off.

On the plus side, all the twisting, dancing and shaking to get 15 models of brassiere on and off gave me a good workout. After spending forty minutes in a fitting room, looking at my shirtless body, I know I need one.

The Headless Cupid

Yesterday I was a bit naughty and took a break from all my should-read materials. I started The Headless Cupid by Zilpha Keatley Snyder, whose Green Sky trilogy is one of my all-time favorites. And you know what? It was a terrific read! In fact, it might rival Below the Root as my favorite Zilpha work.

The Headless Cupid is about David Stanley and his younger siblings, whose father just recently remarried, and whose stepmother has a twelve-year-old daughter fascinated by the supernatural. David, Janie, Blair and Esther are all younger than Amanda, the new stepsister, and very interested in her occult pastimes. But as mysterious ghostly happenings begin to upset the family's routine, David begins to suspect there's more to his new stepsister's magical powers than she'd like them to believe.

The story is a great book about families and has wonderful fantasy elements. Definitely recommend!

Setting: not just the pretty flowers, but the sneeze

One of the reasons I've gotten so bogged down in my WIP is that there is a major change of setting. For some weird reason, that setting change threw me for a loop.

Why? I couldn't wrap my head around this strange experience. I'm the kind of writer who loves writing about bizarre universes and made-up realms, and here my characters finally leave the regular world, ready to explore a new magical environment, and my creative energy blows out? This is not my kind of problem. I should be relishing the moment when all hell is about to break loose, not yearning to send my heroine back to the comfort of her kitchen.

But upon reflection, it all makes sense. After all, setting isn't just the icing on the cake--it's not just the pretty flowers around the edges of the action. It's also the main character's allergic response to all those gorgeous daisies. Setting is what sub-stands (holds up) and sustains the action. It affects the logical relationships within scenes, limiting what actions make sense. It also colors more than what happens in the story, shaping the characters' emotional responses to the action and giving those responses extra resonance.

In this weird new world, my heroine isn't going to function at her normal level; I have to dig down into her character and try to figure out how she'll respond to new challenges and strange experiences. Not only do I have to envision the new environment, but because the story is from her point of view, I need to describe it in a way that helps my reader experience the new world the way my heroine experiences it. The descriptions also need to provoke a tension within my reader, tossing out little whispered hints about what might happen in the storyline and underlining the thematic elements of the piece.

On top of all that, my characters experience a new power dynamic in this place. This is going to affect the way they respond to their environment, too. So I need to re-evaluate the direction their relationship is moving and try to evoke that through word painting. Some of this is going to be 2nd draft stuff, but with any luck I will capture a little of it the first time through.

Really, the heroine's kitchen is looking better and better!

Do they make mental ear plugs?

I am and am not excited about the new developments in my writing career. I have a reading coming up a few days. I just signed a book contract! I have the crippling desire to take my laptop and hide under my bed.

The terrible thing about writing is that the better you do, the more you want to do it and the more you have to do. There just become more and more opportunities and more and more fun. I'm getting pretty heavily involved in an online writing group, whose fine work is encouraging me to do my best and put my best words out there. They're lighting the fire under my butt to reach high and work hard. That's good. And fun! And I'm going to conventions and really getting to know other writers and workers in my field, which is good and fun and inspiring. I love it!

But once upon a time, it was just me and my computer and that wonderful feeling of writing a first draft: pure words and the romance of creation. For me, that moment is the ultimate high, the most enjoyable part of my day. Eating donuts or drinking good wine or falling in love are similar but not equivalent sensations. And unfortunately, all the other business can take away from that.

You can't become a great writer just sitting there blissing out. You have to pull away, have to put on your analytical hat. You have to look around and study new techniques; if you lock yourself away, you will become stale and pointless. (Eyes Wide Shut, anyone? Sure it was pretty, but Kubrick's sexy idea felt outdated by a good 20 years.) You have to marry the two worlds, the inner and outer, to make a beautiful life of promising work.

Balancing the two isn't easy. Right now, I'm on the too-worldly side of affairs, wishing I could slip away into a secret world where I could just hammer out word after word. And I can't, because the business-side of my brain is yammering too loudly for me to hear a single syllable.

The only thing to do is read and try to relax and hope that tomorrow will be a better day to type and type and type.