I passed a woman today wearing a shirt that said "unreliable narrator." Must. Have. It. See previous post regarding the complete lack of cool mystery merch here. Let us geek out in all our mystery loving glory!
But back to the convention. Today began so very early at the "meet new authors" breakfast. By early, I mean 7. Yes, 7am. I went both because I hope to be part of one of these things someday and because I was pretty sure I could score another free book. (I did - free book count currently at 17)
There were many, many newly published authors of all ages, backgrounds, public speaking abilities, and accents. Yes, I love accents. I can't help it. Each of these newbies took a minute to talk about their book or themselves or otherwise peak our interest enough to get us to the bookroom to purchase a copy of the manifestation of their toils, tears, and/or tirades. It works. I bought a book called In Bitter Chill. I can't wait to read it.
After the pre-dawn intros, I snuck off for coffee and a little quiet time at The Morning Times where I could finish up The Kalahari Typing School for Men and get a healthier snack than the muffins from the hospitality area. I'll probably go back tomorrow, if not for breakfast, then for a sandwich for the long drive home.
I attended a panel on romantic suspense which gained me two more names for my "want to read" list, Cathy Wiley and Jamie Mason, but little help with writing romantic suspense. The question was posed to the panel about writing sex scenes (see previous blog post about writing sex and violence here) and all of them preferred to leave it off the page. Some, in order to "leave it to the reader's imagination" but others candidly admitted that they just aren't good at writing sex scenes that sounded natural. While I felt somewhat validated in my choice of MFA essay topic and seminar - sex and violence being difficult subject to write, I was of course a bit disappointed that no wisdom poured forth that would propel my stories to the next level. Still, the panelists were, for the most part, witty and gracious, and I stayed to chat briefly with a fellow writer from Baltimore.
Coincidentally, there was an afternoon panel on the mechanics of writing violence. I find it incredible how much less self-consciousness exists when talking about violence in fiction versus sex. Mystery writers spend a lot of time thinking about how to kill people or make them disappear. It is the basis for nearly all mystery stories. We go at it with gusto, enthusiasm for the twist that makes the crime unique enough to warrant a pithy title or a catchy tag line. But even so, we mystery writers have an out if we aren't comfortable describing the stabbing by barbecue fork or the writhing death throes of cyanide. It's called the "cozy." The body will be discovered after all the nasty stuff has occurred and the story becomes a puzzle, an intellectual exercise.
I love cozies, too. I do. But I don't want to write them because I have to. Because I can't writer good sex or violence. I want the option.
So I might be cranking out some racy short crime fiction for a bit, getting some practice time in and flexing those muscles until I feel more comfortable enhancing longer stories with realistic details that bring to life the sensuality and horror that lives in well-written crime fiction.
But first, I am off to the panel about characters that remain in a reader's psyche. Good stuff.
Saturday, October 10, 2015
Friday, October 9, 2015
Bouchercon 2015: Notes from Raleigh
The kernel of what would be come Murder in the Mix came to me while I was taking notes at the Baltimore Bouchercon. I was sitting in on a panel discussing collaboration and thinking about who (whom?) I might like to write with and why and there it was. Of course, that's not how things turned out, but nevertheless, my story idea came to me at a Bouchercon.
I've been to several Bouchercons now - Chicago, San Francisco, Baltimore, Cleveland, and presently - Raleigh, so I can compare experiences a bit. Firstly, some of the same people are here each year. I find that comforting, especially as a writer who hopes one day to be on the other side of the signing tables. Generally, they are very gracious people who are excited that others are reading and enjoying their books.
I always jot down a few new names to check out - not because of the plethora of promotional bookmarks or postcards, but because they were clever or funny or wise or otherwise compellingly interesting on a panel. I'll go find their work.
There are always a few who are completely about themselves and promoting their book(s) at the expense of the others on their panel or sometimes, even decent manners. I will not be seeking out those books, no matter how hard you sell it. (In the interest of full disclosure, it didn't help that one said author who went on and on about her book/success had a debut novel freakishly similar to my first book, except of course that hers - same main character name, same general setting - was published and launched her career while mine will never see the light of day. Make of that what you will.)
I recently attended Comicon with my boyfriend and his daughter. It was a completely different experience, but I learned a few things and I think Bouchercon could too. Firstly, this is a mystery convention and yet, there IS NO MYSTERY MERCHANDISE. None. Seriously, nothing. You can buy books here and have them signed and that's awesome, but I can do that anywhere. At the Bouchercon in Cleveland, I noticed a lady wearing a yellow crime scene scarf and I knew I needed to have one myself. No chance of getting one at the convention, so I threw it on my Amazon wish list. I get that people travel here, but there are so many opportunities lost. I mean, they are going to ship books home to themselves or take advantage of Southwest's second free suitcase anyway, GET SOME SWAG! At Comicon, I bought a tee shirt that just has Sherlock's wallpaper pattern and a spray-painted smiley face. (Benedict Cumberbatch's Sherlock - google it, so much awesome) In fact, Comicon had plenty of mystery themed merchandise tucked alongside the superheroes and television and movie stuff. And the comics, of course.
Long ago, I wanted to have my own mystery merchandise online business and every time I come to Bouchercon, I feel that urge again. Sadly, although I have tons of brilliant ideas, I have neither the capital nor the business background necessary to make that a go. I wish someone would take it up, though, so I could buy from them like the crazed fan that I am. There's a market opportunity.
Anyway, what Bouchercon does have is books. Lots of them. In addition to the sampling provided in the annual book bag ( a little light this year, compared to my previous 'cons, but I did score one already on my "to read" list!), there are often publisher events with free books that the authors will sign for attendees (got six last night in an absolute madhouse signing room including titles from both Laura Lippman and Alafair Burke), and the opportunistic "swap" or "free" tables. I will happily take the duplicate titles or unwanted copies others don't wish to haul back home. I always come home with plenty to read and that's before I start buying books on purpose.
This is a busy convention and if you don't hustle buns, as my Mom used to say, you might find yourself disappointed that there's no room to squeeze in a panel you wanted. It just happened to me - no sage advice regarding red herrings because I was too slow in trudging over to the Sheraton, but that did open a window for the local ice cream shop Treat. I recommend the Carolina Crunch - vanilla ice cream with bits of butterfinger and heath bar spread throughout. Yes please. Plus, on the way back from my dairy diversion, I came across another free book signing. As of this moment, I have fourteen free books, 7 of them signed. This is why I drove.
Raleigh is lovely. The weather is perfect, the sidewalks are clean, and the downtown area is walkable. I had breakfast this morning at Big Ed's instead of the hotel. It's been years since I'd had red eye gravy. The biscuits alone are worth the short walk. In the park, there is a large acorn sculpture.
I have no idea why.
This Bouchercon is called "Murder Under the Oaks" however, so there's a clue.
So, back to the panels this afternoon. I'll post an update tomorrow. For those of you who love to read and/or writer mystery or crime fiction, definitely consider a future Bouchercon. Next year it will be in New Orleans, so that's a must. In three years, it will be in St. Petersburg, FL. Yup.
http://www.bouchercon2016.com/
http://bouchercon2017.com/
http://bouchercon2018.com/
I've been to several Bouchercons now - Chicago, San Francisco, Baltimore, Cleveland, and presently - Raleigh, so I can compare experiences a bit. Firstly, some of the same people are here each year. I find that comforting, especially as a writer who hopes one day to be on the other side of the signing tables. Generally, they are very gracious people who are excited that others are reading and enjoying their books.
I always jot down a few new names to check out - not because of the plethora of promotional bookmarks or postcards, but because they were clever or funny or wise or otherwise compellingly interesting on a panel. I'll go find their work.
There are always a few who are completely about themselves and promoting their book(s) at the expense of the others on their panel or sometimes, even decent manners. I will not be seeking out those books, no matter how hard you sell it. (In the interest of full disclosure, it didn't help that one said author who went on and on about her book/success had a debut novel freakishly similar to my first book, except of course that hers - same main character name, same general setting - was published and launched her career while mine will never see the light of day. Make of that what you will.)
I recently attended Comicon with my boyfriend and his daughter. It was a completely different experience, but I learned a few things and I think Bouchercon could too. Firstly, this is a mystery convention and yet, there IS NO MYSTERY MERCHANDISE. None. Seriously, nothing. You can buy books here and have them signed and that's awesome, but I can do that anywhere. At the Bouchercon in Cleveland, I noticed a lady wearing a yellow crime scene scarf and I knew I needed to have one myself. No chance of getting one at the convention, so I threw it on my Amazon wish list. I get that people travel here, but there are so many opportunities lost. I mean, they are going to ship books home to themselves or take advantage of Southwest's second free suitcase anyway, GET SOME SWAG! At Comicon, I bought a tee shirt that just has Sherlock's wallpaper pattern and a spray-painted smiley face. (Benedict Cumberbatch's Sherlock - google it, so much awesome) In fact, Comicon had plenty of mystery themed merchandise tucked alongside the superheroes and television and movie stuff. And the comics, of course.
Long ago, I wanted to have my own mystery merchandise online business and every time I come to Bouchercon, I feel that urge again. Sadly, although I have tons of brilliant ideas, I have neither the capital nor the business background necessary to make that a go. I wish someone would take it up, though, so I could buy from them like the crazed fan that I am. There's a market opportunity.
Anyway, what Bouchercon does have is books. Lots of them. In addition to the sampling provided in the annual book bag ( a little light this year, compared to my previous 'cons, but I did score one already on my "to read" list!), there are often publisher events with free books that the authors will sign for attendees (got six last night in an absolute madhouse signing room including titles from both Laura Lippman and Alafair Burke), and the opportunistic "swap" or "free" tables. I will happily take the duplicate titles or unwanted copies others don't wish to haul back home. I always come home with plenty to read and that's before I start buying books on purpose.
This is a busy convention and if you don't hustle buns, as my Mom used to say, you might find yourself disappointed that there's no room to squeeze in a panel you wanted. It just happened to me - no sage advice regarding red herrings because I was too slow in trudging over to the Sheraton, but that did open a window for the local ice cream shop Treat. I recommend the Carolina Crunch - vanilla ice cream with bits of butterfinger and heath bar spread throughout. Yes please. Plus, on the way back from my dairy diversion, I came across another free book signing. As of this moment, I have fourteen free books, 7 of them signed. This is why I drove.
Raleigh is lovely. The weather is perfect, the sidewalks are clean, and the downtown area is walkable. I had breakfast this morning at Big Ed's instead of the hotel. It's been years since I'd had red eye gravy. The biscuits alone are worth the short walk. In the park, there is a large acorn sculpture.
This Bouchercon is called "Murder Under the Oaks" however, so there's a clue.
So, back to the panels this afternoon. I'll post an update tomorrow. For those of you who love to read and/or writer mystery or crime fiction, definitely consider a future Bouchercon. Next year it will be in New Orleans, so that's a must. In three years, it will be in St. Petersburg, FL. Yup.
http://www.bouchercon2016.com/
http://bouchercon2017.com/
http://bouchercon2018.com/
Tuesday, September 22, 2015
Revisions
This year I completed my MFA and my novel Murder in the Mix. As part of the final residency for my program, each of the graduating students read a short selection from their thesis. Short, because we were limited to ten minutes. Ten minutes or the director would come and remove us from the stage.
This threat became necessary after the previous term's graduating class had a few students go long, one so much so that not even the faculty frantically clapping from the audience or wildly gesticulating at watches would get him to shut the fuck up and take his seat. And so, to prevent this assault on a weary group of faculty and student body, a strict ten minute rule was laid down as absolute. Not ten minutes and 30 seconds. Ten or less or expect to be humiliated before your peers and mentors.
Naturally, this added some anxiety to already nerve wracking requirement to perform our work in public. And it is a performance. A delivery of lines which must represent our work, whether that is poetry, nonfiction, or fiction. So in addition to the basics,
First of all, it's terrible to try and hook an audience with a tiny snippet from a novel out of 241 pages. The opening didn't quite work as I have a prologue and not enough time to get anywhere in chapter one. So I selected a later chapter that I hoped would tease with humor, snappy dialogue, intrigue, a little danger, and some good old-fashioned sexual tension. They would beg me to continue!
But my essentials, my whittled down chapter, was too long by more than half. No matter how quickly I raced through it (breaking all the basic rules above) I could not deliver in less than ten minutes.
Choices had to be made. Hard ones.
At first, it was just about how much of the selection was critical for the comprehension of the audience. Cowardly. And not sufficient.
So, an entire scene was cut. Brutally. I had great sentences in there, vital clues, powerful imagery, and none of that mattered if I was yanked off the stage while still setting my scene. And then I started cutting phrases and words from sentences. Every time I read my words aloud, I found another superfluous word or sentence until I'd cut my thirteen pages to five.
I was scheduled to read on the first day of student readings after everyone else in my group. They were good. I didn't want to suck. When it was my turn, I took a deep breath and went for it, all the while terrified that I would run over. The director had interns in the back of the auditorium with time signs, but none of us could look away from our words long enough to find them. We just powered through and hoped for the best. I stopped at what hoped was a dramatic moment, waited a beat and thanked the audience. I was rewarded with gasps before the obligatory clapping. It felt fantastic.
After the crushing weight of the reading, all else - including the seminar I gave - was cake. Once I had a chance to relax, I started to think about the revisions I'd made to my reading selection. Should I go back and cut from my manuscript? How do I choose what to keep and what is cluttering up my story?
I probably made about fifty percent of the changes to that chapter of my full manuscript. I did it recently, though - not right away. I'd promised my boyfriend that I'd let him read my novel in spite of my sensitivity to his hatred of commas. I wanted him to judge me based on my best work, though, so before I hit print, I went back and made changes to the section I'd read until it sang.
He hasn't read it yet.
In any case, I found myself needing to apply similar revisions to the clutter clogging up my house. For the past few weeks, I've had to decide what to keep and what to let go. And then I'd go back and cut a little more and a little more. The determining factor has been Would I pay to store this? In most cases the answer has been no. So Craigslist or Goodwill or ecycle or whatever means that it's not burdening me anymore. I'm not missing it yet. And I can breathe.
So let your work breathe - in fact, let it sing! Decide if you would pay to store all the extra description, the backstory, the witty bon mots. If not, ship it to Goodwill and move forward with a clear conscience. You'll earn that gasp, too, and it will feel terrific.
This threat became necessary after the previous term's graduating class had a few students go long, one so much so that not even the faculty frantically clapping from the audience or wildly gesticulating at watches would get him to shut the fuck up and take his seat. And so, to prevent this assault on a weary group of faculty and student body, a strict ten minute rule was laid down as absolute. Not ten minutes and 30 seconds. Ten or less or expect to be humiliated before your peers and mentors.
Naturally, this added some anxiety to already nerve wracking requirement to perform our work in public. And it is a performance. A delivery of lines which must represent our work, whether that is poetry, nonfiction, or fiction. So in addition to the basics,
- Speak clearly
- Speak loudly enough to be heard
- Speak slowly enough to be understood
- Don't speak too slowly, because you will get cut off mid-sentence or before the end and no one will have any idea what you were rambling about and they'll suspect that you've somehow skirted around all good writing advice your mentors must have provided and that you will die a loser, unread, unpublished, in obscurity, all your tuition wasted, your life a complete sham.
First of all, it's terrible to try and hook an audience with a tiny snippet from a novel out of 241 pages. The opening didn't quite work as I have a prologue and not enough time to get anywhere in chapter one. So I selected a later chapter that I hoped would tease with humor, snappy dialogue, intrigue, a little danger, and some good old-fashioned sexual tension. They would beg me to continue!
But my essentials, my whittled down chapter, was too long by more than half. No matter how quickly I raced through it (breaking all the basic rules above) I could not deliver in less than ten minutes.
Choices had to be made. Hard ones.
At first, it was just about how much of the selection was critical for the comprehension of the audience. Cowardly. And not sufficient.
So, an entire scene was cut. Brutally. I had great sentences in there, vital clues, powerful imagery, and none of that mattered if I was yanked off the stage while still setting my scene. And then I started cutting phrases and words from sentences. Every time I read my words aloud, I found another superfluous word or sentence until I'd cut my thirteen pages to five.
I was scheduled to read on the first day of student readings after everyone else in my group. They were good. I didn't want to suck. When it was my turn, I took a deep breath and went for it, all the while terrified that I would run over. The director had interns in the back of the auditorium with time signs, but none of us could look away from our words long enough to find them. We just powered through and hoped for the best. I stopped at what hoped was a dramatic moment, waited a beat and thanked the audience. I was rewarded with gasps before the obligatory clapping. It felt fantastic.
After the crushing weight of the reading, all else - including the seminar I gave - was cake. Once I had a chance to relax, I started to think about the revisions I'd made to my reading selection. Should I go back and cut from my manuscript? How do I choose what to keep and what is cluttering up my story?
I probably made about fifty percent of the changes to that chapter of my full manuscript. I did it recently, though - not right away. I'd promised my boyfriend that I'd let him read my novel in spite of my sensitivity to his hatred of commas. I wanted him to judge me based on my best work, though, so before I hit print, I went back and made changes to the section I'd read until it sang.
He hasn't read it yet.
In any case, I found myself needing to apply similar revisions to the clutter clogging up my house. For the past few weeks, I've had to decide what to keep and what to let go. And then I'd go back and cut a little more and a little more. The determining factor has been Would I pay to store this? In most cases the answer has been no. So Craigslist or Goodwill or ecycle or whatever means that it's not burdening me anymore. I'm not missing it yet. And I can breathe.
So let your work breathe - in fact, let it sing! Decide if you would pay to store all the extra description, the backstory, the witty bon mots. If not, ship it to Goodwill and move forward with a clear conscience. You'll earn that gasp, too, and it will feel terrific.
Monday, March 2, 2015
The Poison of Self-Doubt
Those moments when we get buried in the drama of work, our personal lives, the demands of our creative projects, and our interactions with those in our lives, personal and professional, can wreak havoc on equilibrium. On our sense of stability. On our understanding of our place in the world and where we are going.
The unfortunate realities of corporate life mean that teammates and friends will come and go through our office spaces and that at any time, that meeting that pops up without an agenda could mean it's time to pack our own boxes. I feel I've aged at twice normal speed the last two years. It's soul-eroding. Especially when we are marginalized for doing our jobs, for trying to support our teams. Anxiety has become a standard part of my life.
Writing has always been how I make sense of my world, both in how I feel (which is often complex and contradictory), and how I articulate my plan of action. It is my rudder and my outlet. I may never make a dime with it but I need it to ground me.
Sometimes, no matter how grounded we think we are, the earth shifts below our feet and all our fears rush to the surface as if we were thirteen again, standing in front of a hostile and disinterested class, completely unprepared. What if we really aren't good enough? Talented enough? Smart enough? What if we are wasting our time, our lover's time, our boss's time, our mentor's time? Might they be humoring us in person while secretly wishing we were better or more than we are?
I wouldn't have thought so, but it just take a little nudge to let doubt creep in. Once there, it grows unchecked and every movie plot, every mysterious meeting, every strange glance reinforces inadequacies whether they are imagined or not. Generally, I've been more self-assured than this, but there is a cumulative weight to consistent wear until even stone loses its definition.
Last week, an article came out about MFA programs from a former teacher attached to one. In it, the author argued a number of points which, if true, mean I'm doomed as a writer. As much as I'd like to think that my self confidence couldn't be shaken by some stranger's rambling, I can't help but remember the countless times where I've felt like a fraud, like a mistake had been made when I'd been selected, accepted, lauded, and so on. I think creative people are always secretly expecting the other shoe to drop, as if having our darkest fears realized is an inevitability. We may be more fragile than we appear. A link to to the article and a fiery response is below.
http://terribleminds.com/ramble/2015/03/01/an-open-letter-to-that-ex-mfa-creative-writing-teacher-dude/
Coincidentally, I had a conversation with a friend last week about there being two kinds of people - those who need others to do fail a bit in order to feel as they are successful, and those for whom the success of those around them is part of their own happiness and success. I have both types in my life as we all probably do. Fortunately, my MFA mentor could not be more supportive. I understand that it's his job to keep me motivated and producing pages, but his feedback always me feel worthy. It's a kindness that I don't take for granted.
So, at the risk of turning into one of those delusional movie characters who go to the closet to fetch their (figurative) pageant tiara and sash when they feel low, I try to remember the affirmations that I receive at least as much as I think about the criticisms. And I try not to underestimate the power of effort, of starting even when I might fall short, of risking my self when I am unsure, because inaction is the fastest way to fail.
And I have to trust those who love me. I have to trust myself enough to try. If you are struggling too, know that even if we haven't met, I'm pulling for you in spirit. Get out there. I promise to be out there too.
The unfortunate realities of corporate life mean that teammates and friends will come and go through our office spaces and that at any time, that meeting that pops up without an agenda could mean it's time to pack our own boxes. I feel I've aged at twice normal speed the last two years. It's soul-eroding. Especially when we are marginalized for doing our jobs, for trying to support our teams. Anxiety has become a standard part of my life.
Writing has always been how I make sense of my world, both in how I feel (which is often complex and contradictory), and how I articulate my plan of action. It is my rudder and my outlet. I may never make a dime with it but I need it to ground me.
Sometimes, no matter how grounded we think we are, the earth shifts below our feet and all our fears rush to the surface as if we were thirteen again, standing in front of a hostile and disinterested class, completely unprepared. What if we really aren't good enough? Talented enough? Smart enough? What if we are wasting our time, our lover's time, our boss's time, our mentor's time? Might they be humoring us in person while secretly wishing we were better or more than we are?
I wouldn't have thought so, but it just take a little nudge to let doubt creep in. Once there, it grows unchecked and every movie plot, every mysterious meeting, every strange glance reinforces inadequacies whether they are imagined or not. Generally, I've been more self-assured than this, but there is a cumulative weight to consistent wear until even stone loses its definition.
Last week, an article came out about MFA programs from a former teacher attached to one. In it, the author argued a number of points which, if true, mean I'm doomed as a writer. As much as I'd like to think that my self confidence couldn't be shaken by some stranger's rambling, I can't help but remember the countless times where I've felt like a fraud, like a mistake had been made when I'd been selected, accepted, lauded, and so on. I think creative people are always secretly expecting the other shoe to drop, as if having our darkest fears realized is an inevitability. We may be more fragile than we appear. A link to to the article and a fiery response is below.
http://terribleminds.com/ramble/2015/03/01/an-open-letter-to-that-ex-mfa-creative-writing-teacher-dude/
Coincidentally, I had a conversation with a friend last week about there being two kinds of people - those who need others to do fail a bit in order to feel as they are successful, and those for whom the success of those around them is part of their own happiness and success. I have both types in my life as we all probably do. Fortunately, my MFA mentor could not be more supportive. I understand that it's his job to keep me motivated and producing pages, but his feedback always me feel worthy. It's a kindness that I don't take for granted.
So, at the risk of turning into one of those delusional movie characters who go to the closet to fetch their (figurative) pageant tiara and sash when they feel low, I try to remember the affirmations that I receive at least as much as I think about the criticisms. And I try not to underestimate the power of effort, of starting even when I might fall short, of risking my self when I am unsure, because inaction is the fastest way to fail.
And I have to trust those who love me. I have to trust myself enough to try. If you are struggling too, know that even if we haven't met, I'm pulling for you in spirit. Get out there. I promise to be out there too.
Monday, January 19, 2015
Back to the Beginning
Beginnings are crazy - stressful, exciting, full of promise, terror, teases, but they are necessary whether trying to get a reader to Chapter 2 or starting a new year in a completely new place than the year before.
In the last few whirlwind months, I managed to get to the end of my novel-in-progress in the sketchiest, this-is-a-draft kind of way. The end. It happened.
And I met someone.
In the time between my penultimate and final semester of my MFA, both my writing life and personal life blossomed in unexpected ways. As it happens with my program, the end of a term is a prompt for the following residency, so before my month away from academic life could start, I crafted a new beginning for the novel. I took some risks. I changed points of view. Got graphic, but not so far that my reader has to turn away. If I've done this well, my character will creep into the story, creating a bond that maybe didn't exist before. The stakes are high. Her story is personal, emotional, resonant.
I work-shopped it earlier this month and there was no question about whether that was the right move. Of course, I have edits to make, slight course corrections, areas to sharpen. I am learning my way through. But it seems that my risks of late are paying off. I have my work cut out for me this term - revising the entire novel beginning to end by May - but I face it with my own sense of optimism, mixed with a little anticipatory fear, the secret sauce for good work. It means that I am committed. That I will work hard because it's important to me.
The challenge will be to allow myself time to process as I go along. I'll be using some unfamiliar structures, new voices, and I need to let them tell me where the road is when I wander off my original path. But I feel sure that my instincts are sound, that I am where I am supposed to be.
This will be a year of changes, of deadlines, possible missteps, of celebrations, but also of faith - even confidence - that my story will play out as it should. I hope yours does as well. Embrace your new beginnings.
When it works, you know.
In the last few whirlwind months, I managed to get to the end of my novel-in-progress in the sketchiest, this-is-a-draft kind of way. The end. It happened.
And I met someone.
In the time between my penultimate and final semester of my MFA, both my writing life and personal life blossomed in unexpected ways. As it happens with my program, the end of a term is a prompt for the following residency, so before my month away from academic life could start, I crafted a new beginning for the novel. I took some risks. I changed points of view. Got graphic, but not so far that my reader has to turn away. If I've done this well, my character will creep into the story, creating a bond that maybe didn't exist before. The stakes are high. Her story is personal, emotional, resonant.
I work-shopped it earlier this month and there was no question about whether that was the right move. Of course, I have edits to make, slight course corrections, areas to sharpen. I am learning my way through. But it seems that my risks of late are paying off. I have my work cut out for me this term - revising the entire novel beginning to end by May - but I face it with my own sense of optimism, mixed with a little anticipatory fear, the secret sauce for good work. It means that I am committed. That I will work hard because it's important to me.
The challenge will be to allow myself time to process as I go along. I'll be using some unfamiliar structures, new voices, and I need to let them tell me where the road is when I wander off my original path. But I feel sure that my instincts are sound, that I am where I am supposed to be.
This will be a year of changes, of deadlines, possible missteps, of celebrations, but also of faith - even confidence - that my story will play out as it should. I hope yours does as well. Embrace your new beginnings.
When it works, you know.
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