Renovation Archaeology

I'm at it again. Early in the spring, I tore out my kitchen. Actually, I tore out my kitchen,  the pantry, a powder room, and a closet, opening the space into an adjoining useless room. Basically, I leveled a third of the first floor. I had to. The old kitchen was so cramped, I couldn't walk into it with groceries in both hands. I couldn't have the fridge door and the oven door open at the same time. It was walled off from the rest of the house and too small for more than one person. Thanksgiving dinner preparation should have been a Food Network reality show. I'd never be able to sell or rent my house to a sane person without upgrading.

I've been stalling. Most of the rest of the house has been renovated. After this, I'll just have one more considerably smaller project. The other rooms had been altered many times by owners before and I was mostly tearing out office-style drop ceilings and bad wall coverings, and installing mouldings to match what must have been there before. No one had really touched the kitchen though. The powder room and the closet were add-ons by some do-it-yourselfer of yesteryear. There were several layers of flooring and wallpaper, but previous efforts had been cosmetic.

 

 There is nothing "surface" about what I've already done.

 

People called me crazy. Many told me that they could never do what I've done. Everyone believes that I've taken on more than I can handle. Even me.

I'd like to tell you that demo feels good. And I suppose that it does at times, but mostly this has been a cycle of fear, feeling overwhelmed, perseverance, getting reassurance, and digging in again. I am in no way qualified to tackle this project! But I can't afford to have it all done for me, nor can I go it alone. So I got help - professional help. (at long last!) A very competent contractor, plumber, electrician, carpenters, drywall hangers, and a tile expert. The tasks that terrify or baffle me are commonplace for them. We are a team. And we will get this done. Together.

Sometimes, there are little surprises along the way. Little things that keep us engaged - committed to completing the work ahead. This week, we found a card behind a baseboard. From a laundry - in 1927. Our own tiny archaeological treasure.

 

 As it happens, I've finally started the process of putting stuff back in the kitchen. Last week, it was the floor. I can no longer stand in the kitchen and see into the basement through old pipe holes. I can walk in there with bare feet, at least until work starts up again. It's a start and I'll take it.

I like to think that I got my "fuck it, let's do this" attitude from my mother.  I've seen her take a circular saw to a wall to make a pass-through from the kitchen. She and my stepdad sailed around the Caribbean, vising new places, gaining experience and new friends along the way. They built their own shelter on an island in Panama. She certainly has a few large endeavors under her belt. She's currently assisting her husband through cancer treatments, having managed their relocation back to the U.S. practically overnight. No doubt she often feels overwhelmed, afraid, unqualified, and yet she perseveres because she has to. What is the other choice?

She's not the only one, I'm afraid. So many others face seemingly insurmountable obstacles - tasks so large as to seem impossible. An unexpected diagnosis, a reduction in force, an accident, a crime, a disaster. Just this morning, many neighbors in Ellicott City woke to devastation from flash flooding last night. The photos are mind boggling. It would be easy to quit in despair, after all, these situations are clearly too much for one person to handle. But none of us - no one - is alone. We are among professional help everyday. They are our family, our friends, our colleagues, our friends. Sometimes they are our doctors, our nurses, our counselors, our confidantes. Each of us carries our own unique experiences, our own expertise. Be sure to share it when the need arises. Be generous if you can. So many are plugging away at a task too large for them, one baseboard at a time.

Professor, Teach Thyself!

I dig teaching creative writing. I wish I could do it full time instead of tagging it on to the end of my workdays like a reward for making it to five o'clock. But this is my reality right now. To keep myself from feeling like the cliche - Those who can't, teach -  I find ways to make myself write stories along the way. The last one was as an example for my students, so they could see a draft, then see me tear it apart and put it back together, considerably shorter and more coherent. And then I used it to show how workshop would play out if I had been assigned this story to markup and return to its author.  Does this sound like an excuse to write? It was. With two jobs already, a house continually under construction (this summer, it's a kitchen remodel), and no one else who will agree to mow my lawn or do my laundry, it's not easy to justify shutting out the world and scrawling lines like I could when it was homework.

But I recognize that I must make the time, so writing contests are currently providing me the sense of urgency/anxiety/fear of failure that I need to crank out pages. I have little desire to revisit old stories. Part of this is the fear that, having sat alone in the dark for some time, they will have transformed into terrible stories that no one should have to read, like the story equivalent of those leftovers in the back corner of the bottom shelf in the fridge. I have no idea what's in there, but I'm sure I don't want it.

I'm worried that my novel will start to get fuzzy around the edges, too. I'm afraid to reread it. That hasn't stopped me from considering a title change for it, though. If I get around to the next batch of agent queries, I may test out the new one and see if it makes a difference.

Not long ago, I met with a literary agent at CityLit - a literary festival in Baltimore organized by a fellow UT alum. As instructed in advance, I prepared my pitch, with printed copies for both of us, and worked out my 15 minute spiel. The woman had no intention of hearing a pitch however, and instead, marked up my printed copy and gave me advice for structuring a query letter. Hardly helpful as I teach my own students how to craft query letters. To say that I was disappointed would be ignoring the frustration and anger that I managed to hold back like Hodor lest she suddenly blurt out, "This is the most interesting novel pitch I've ever heard! Sign with me right this second!"   (Apologies if that last Hodor bit is a spoiler, but seriously people - get up to speed on your Game of Thrones!)

So, it definitely feels like the deck is stacked, and not in my favor.

Over the holiday weekend, I abandoned Dave to his meat-for-grilling procurement at the local frou frou grocery to visit the Starbucks several doors down in the same shopping center. It was, after all, double star rewards day Monday and I function better after a good iced latte. A young man sat on a bench just outside the door, looking somewhat despondent. On my way out, coffee in hand, I saw that he was still there. He looked to be on the verge of tears. I had to stop.

I asked if he was okay and he said no, very quietly, almost a breath. I asked how I could help and he said no one could. I sat down. Dave would figure out where I was. I thought about how many people had passed this kid (he was probably 19 or so, but the older I get, the harder it is for me to guess ages) without speaking to him or "seeing" him.

He looked like he needed someone to see him. He was dressed in pressed khakis, a button down shirt, and "job interview" shoes. A black backpack was next to him on the bench. He was clasping and unclasping his hands and looking at the sidewalk. This boy was in despair. I spent a few minutes talking to him, learned his name, told him mine, and let him talk. He was looking for a job, and his success or failure in this effort might determine if he would be able to continue living at home. He'd had an argument with his mother. Heated words had been exchanged and he'd said she wouldn't care if he killed himself.

This boy felt like even his mother wouldn't care if he was gone.

I thought again about how many people must have passed him coming and going for their morning coffee and I took his hand and reassured him. People did care. They did. But we all get in this lane we create for ourselves to stay focused on what we need to do and sometimes it's hard to see beyond the edges. As it was a holiday, I doubted that he would get anywhere with his job search, so I recommended that he give himself the day off and start fresh in the morning. I hugged him and told him that I believed in him and that he should believe in himself. I wish I'd gotten contact information so I could follow up, because after I climbed into Dave's car, tears in my eyes, and told him about this young man and what he'd shared, I continued to have this pit of fear in my stomach for him.

This week is the final one in my current creative writing course and as I encourage reflection, share resources, and pass along encouragement to my students, I think about this boy. Sometimes, we all need to be heard. Sometimes, we all need to stop for a few moments and listen. Sometimes we need to tell others that they can push through, that they have it in them to go where they want, do what they want, be what they want even if it feels like the deck is stacked against them. I believe it when I tell my students. The least I can do is to try to believe it when I tell myself.

Ch-ch-ch-changes: Post-MFA Life

So I had this idea that once my program was done and, of course, my novel too, that I would be on my way to publishing greatness after a few well-worded emails and query letters. At the very least, I believed that I would replace all my writing-for-school time with writing-for-me time.

How cute.

Most of my writing these days consists of transforming a bulleted list of dry statistics or some last-minute drastic organizational changes into an exciting feel-good memo to the masses. Creativity indeed, but not exactly what I had in mind as I slogged through grad school. And certainly not an avenue for my sarcasm gene if I want to keep my job.

I haven't sent a query letter in ages, so that's on me. I have been hoping for miraculous news from Ellery Queen or Alfred Hitchcock Magazine and stalling with the "moving on" part. Sound familiar? It's definitely time to revisit the list and send out another batch. Also, I've been (unconsciously, I promise!) ignoring my friends who have wonderful publications and might consider one of my stories. Time to get back out there!

I know that sounds like dating advice - it's not that different, really, though I only know one or two who managed their dating life via spreadsheet or other tracking tool. You know who you are. For the record, this level of organization is inspiring in its raw drive for results! I'll endeavor to channel some of that energy into my quest for publication. Soon. I promise.

I was lucky enough to get the opportunity to teach since last summer, so a good chunk of time was dedicated to fitting in my online classroom training around my day job which was then followed by ACTUAL teaching via said online classroom.While I love that I can check into my classroom in the morning before I get ready for my day and periodically afterwards, I find myself in there way too much - like early days of Facebook too much. And there are no real days off. Romantic weekend away with my boyfriend in Virginia wine country? Totally in my classroom grading discussion posts while he's in the shower or getting coffee or waiting for me patiently. Same for every weekend, holiday, and evening. He's a good sport.

It's great to see my students engage with the material and grow. A few have surprised me with their perception and skill. The rock stars definitely make the effort easier. When I feel like the material isn't enough to convey what they need to feel empowered to complete their assignments well, I make a short video. I'd love to teach in person, but the thought of trying to squeeze in classroom time right now is just not possible. My boyfriend would leave me, my dog would never forgive me, and all my hair would fall out from stress and sleep deprivation. Not good.

So, as I encourage my students - mostly working adults - to dig deep, I guess I have to as well. I turned my light back on for one of those middle-of-the-night story epiphanies last night. I'll keep that pad and pen handy and hope those bursts of maybe-brilliance continue. I'll review my submission list and send out some more work. I'll write some new stories.  I'm making no promises to go back to the gym or cut out ice cream, but I think I can commit to some greater focus on my writing life. It's as close to a resolution as I'm inclined to get and hopefully the beginning of a new kind of professional life. One that I write for myself.

Bouchercon: Notes from Raleigh Part Two

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.

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/

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,

• Speak clearly
• Speak loudly enough to be heard
• Speak slowly enough to be understood

we added,

• 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.

So we practiced. We read to each other in small groups around the pool during lunch breaks desperately rushing to get through our selected passages with a minute or two to spare. I was doomed, coming in around thirteen minutes, having already whittled my chosen chapter down to the essentials. Or so I thought.

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.

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.