Writer's Retreat

Others in my racket were heading to Vegas for the ALA to advance their careers and bask in the kid-lit glow. But serious wordsmith that I am, I planned a solo writer’s retreat instead. Just me, Wally-the-dog, and the lap-top I borrowed from my daughter.

Deb & Avi had offered me their new house on their 500 tree orange grove near the little town of Fillmore. Wally and I drove up through farm land and mountains to get the key ahead of time.                        

Upon our arrival, Wally lifted his leg and piddled on the brand new floor. He was promptly uninvited to join me on my retreat. Adjust image: Erase Wally from my side. Done.

A few days later I was off! The drive was lovely. I stopped at a picturesque fruit stand and loaded up enough strawberries and mangoes to last forever.

It was still morning when I arrived in paradise. There was a perfect breeze with birdsong and an occasional horse neigh to really put the smack of country on it. The view was  orange trees, windmills, distant mountains, and sky. 

I had never been so wonderfully alone.

I took off my bra, set up the computer and sat down to write. 

This has been a problematic novel from the start, but then, they all are. I was liking it on the re-read. Luckily, I have the same taste as myself and often find my writing compelling. It helps, too that I have a wonky memory so that after these cupla months away from it the goings-on of the plot were taking me by surprise. 

There was no wi-fi at the house and I was not ready to go cold turkey, so late afternoon I put the bra back on and went into town to find the Fillmore Library. They had one copy of The Girls, sparing us both a great deal of embarrassment. I signed it and checked my e-mail. 

On my way back down the main street, many stores called to me, including, “Little Shop of Hoarders.” But I snubbed them and returned to the house to write. 

It was around then that I realized I’d forgotten the bag with my meds: hormones and anti-depressents, without which I would either be unable to drag myself out of Deb & Avi’s loft bed, or I’d run amok in sweet little Fillmore with a machete.

Daughter to the rescue, (an hour drive each way) with all three dogs and a bag of fries. She called later to report that two of the three dogs barfed in the car on the way home. One barfed twice so it was as if all three had. 

Alone again. On the deck watching the bats shuck and jive. Then a pink, swirly sunset followed by stars galore. Ah!

Awakened early by what I thought was hammering. Discovered a crazed brown bird hurling himself head first at the window. The amount of bird turd on the deck told me that this was not his first morning at it.

A day of coffee, strawberries, weeding, watering, and a bit of writing, warming up, easing into it to really kick-ass tomorrow.  But first, back on the deck ready for the sunset / star show. 8:pm. Cue bats. 

Then a man appeared out of the orange trees below me! 

He said, “Mr. Avi?”

Me: “He’s not here.”

The man walked up the steps, so I leaned over the rail and calmly repeated, “MR. AVI IS NOT HERE!!”

But the guy opened the door and came right in! He mumbled something about installing a water heater and needing to turn the water off at 7:am tomorrow. He asked me if I was staying there over night.

He stood in the living room, near an odd blue machine-thing that I’d noticed but ignored. Maybe it was a water heater. Maybe it was a surface to air missile. In any case I was creeped out.

When he finally left, my whole aloneness had been punctured. So, I shoved my stuff in my bag and this little piggy ran wee wee wee all the way home. 

Is it too late to make it to Las Vegas? 

xo Amy

On Re-re-re-writing

Today I finished writing a book that I have finished writing at least three times before. Here’s how that works: I type, type, scroll up, scroll down, ponder, celebrate, pace, stew... And finally, when I'm sure I’ve got it right, I write THE END.

A few months later I take a look, expecting to be wildly impressed by myself, but.................  What time away from a manuscript does is erase all the things I thought I said and meant to say, leaving only what I actually said. The good intentions are gone, and only actual results remain. 

It’s not really like when the snow melts revealing thawing dog poop. It’s more like when the makeup, spanx and push-up bra are removed... No, that’s not it either. 

With fresh new eyes, or rested forgetful eyes, or perhaps older, weary eyes, the passage of time lets me -- or forces me to -- read my own manuscript and see only my manuscript!

After the cringy chagrin wears off, I attack the thing anew. 

Again, it gets better as the blinders of immersion re-form. 
Again, when  I’m sure I’ve said what I meant to say, and told no more or less than the story I meant to tell, I type THE END, really meaning it this time!

Then, when I am far enough from the process to no longer be reciting whole sections by memory instead of sleeping at night, I bring it up on the screen and.... EEK! WARTS!

The old warts haven’t returned, but new ones have sprouted! Or been revealed!

Ew! A little self-hate, a little humiliation in front of self. A little wine. A little pie. A little blaming the husband for some real or imagined transgression. Then, I’m back at it.

That said, I REALLY finished that book today. I mean seriously, for real this time! And it's absolutely perfect!

xo Amy

A Word to the Newbie

Welcome to the glorious and glamorous world of children’s books. We old-timers are speechless with joy at your arrival. By now you’ve probably noticed the astounding change in your life, most notably the flush of street-cred, peer-recognition and influx of cash. We are happy for you and wish you well, really.

We would just like to caution you about a few (6) things at this time, knowing full well that you will grasp them no better than we did when we stood in your shiny new shoes.

1. This is a hard one so you may have to read it twice: Others enjoy hearing the minute plot details of your new book precisely as much as you enjoy hearing theirs.
2. Similarly; Others relish being inundated with e-mail, tweets, & facebook messages about your book exactly as much as you do theirs.   
3. Those school visits you are so giddy and willing to do for free are how many seasoned authors pay their bills. Think SCAB. 
4. It takes time (unpaid) to read a novel and craft a blurb. And, if we think your book sucks, we will both be embarrassed.  Let your agent take care of requests off screen.
5. It is not a compliment to be called The Next Joan Doe when the original Joan Doe is still alive and writing.
6. Very few veterans in the biz enjoy hearing that you felt called to write for children because everything else published out there was crap.

That is all for now, but stay tuned for further helpful tips from the dinosaur. 

Wishing you all happiness and success,

xo 
Curmudgeon Koss 

P.S. One day, several books from now, you will think this post is funny. I promise. Meanwhile, here's a picture of my dogs.

Endings

Endings torment me.

There's not much we can do about reality, but for the record, I do not approve of real people dying mid-life leaving their story arc dangling unfinished. Nor do I approve preventable deaths that infuse grief with outrage. Or that mix grief with regret for the undone. Or worse, those that mix sorrow with guilt and shame over the un-doable. A clean sad is almost okay, but that's it, death-wise. 

To a lesser degree, I hate when relationships end with no tidy narration or honest reviewing of facts... When expectations fizzle, and events fall short of their promise... when love just wanders off... And yet, movie endings almost always enrage me for doing exactly what I hate real life for not doing: ending neatly.

Film/shmilm, I don't expect truth in movies. Much more important and infuriating to me is when the end of a NOVEL feel tacked on, unearned, bull-shitty, false. A stupid ending destroys the book backwards, as if the story is being sucked back in through its asshole to puke itself inside out.

But obviously, the book endings that torment me most often are the ones I need to write.

I have had more angry letters from readers for allowing evil to prevail in Poison Ivy than I’ve even had for using poopy language in Side Effects! (that's a lot) People want a happy ending. We want to believe in justice. 

Me too, I wanna! But we can't MAKE ourselves believe things just because we want to. And we can’t write what we don’t feel to be true.  

Isn't it dishonest to misrepresent human nature as we understand it? Isn't it a lie to tell our readers that everything happens for a reason, if we don't really think life works that way?  Or that bad people get their comeuppance? Or learn from their mistakes? Or even recognize mistakes as mistakes? Or that life is fair? Or that anyone profoundly changes? 

Writers who believe that, can write it, I suppose.

But I have not yet, in my 58 years of life seen anyone change in any deep way. Not really. I look at my two kids, both essentially the people they were from their first breaths. My life-long friends... fundamentally unchanged by all that life has heaved their way.  Sure, we all learn tricks of presentation, learn to serve ourselves with a garnish... but change the inside squishy stuff? Nah.

We in the story biz have certain responsibilities though, right? Responsibilities that often translate to Happily ever after or at least, Ah ha! I now see the error of my ways cliche’s. To avoid them is to cut into our own profits. More importantly: To avoid them may be to disappoint our readers who are counting on us to get our heroine safely to shore... To piss off the very kids we seek to entertain.

Sigh. Endings torment me. Living them, watching them, reading them, writing them. Perhaps all my novels and life experiences should end mid-sentence with: And then a Giant Monster appeared on the horizon! Oh no! A giant HUNGRY Mons--! 

xo Amy  

Fiction Happens

Whether it writes itself, or has to be scraped out of the inside of your skull with a serrated grapefruit spoon, whether squeezed from the very bottom of your tube, or lured with bribes and threats... stories do come out of people and fiction happens. 

The alchemy of 26 letters + time + effort + other mysterious, unidentifiable ingredients... eventually equals a story where nothing previously existed. 

Libraries, magazines, on-line journals, newspapers, bed side tables, drugstores, bookstores and bathrooms are so full of these stories that we don’t take their existence as surprising or improbable.  In fact, we’re so blaze’ that we’re not even tempted to burn their creators as witches for having called these fictions up from the nothingness.

As readers we either like or do not like these stories, similar to the casual way that dogs either eat or do not eat the dead. We’re perfectly comfortable praising and castigating, scorning, dissecting, recommending and reviling other people’s creations. 

But when you have finished writing a story, or even a draft of a story, and it looks up at you, arms outstretched to be lifted from its crib, you can’t help but feel amazed at the perfectly impossible and miraculous thing that has so mysteriously occurred.  

xo

Amy

Why Write?

OK so I sent the first draft of my newest book off to my agent last night, partly to make sure she thinks its worth perusing, but mostly because I was overpowered by the urge to SHOW it to someone. The little kid on the slide yelling, “Look Mommy!”  That’s me, only Mommy has morphed into agent, then editor, then reviewers and, best for last: readers.

Anyway, after however long it was of obsessively manic writing, it would have felt way too weird not to return to this awful backache chair and this blinding screen with my morning coffee. This is, after all what I do. I sit here.

So while it is fresh in my mind, perhaps now is the time to write about writing. Writers writing about writing is probably the number one non real writing writing project we writers participate in, plus, sometimes people ask. So: Here goes.

We’ll take my new born draft as example. Dates might be handy here, but I don’t have any. Suffice it to say: One day while on a trip, I was seized by an idea that I loved. I wrote furiously, cracking myself up, until someone told me there was a book newly out that was based on the same premise more or less.

I put my book aside and sulked for seven years, during which time I got seized by other ideas of no relevance to this story. Fast forward to finding those first twenty or so pages in hard copy. Read it, loved it, remembered the fun I'd had writing it.Thanks to a faulty memory, I could no longer remember the gist of the other author's book. So I started copying my found pages into this newer compute... it was fun and I was OFF! 

It is that OFF that I’m here to discuss. It’s the WHY I WRITE. God knows it’s not for the glory or pay, both of which are negligable. And it’s not, as it seems to be for some, the thrill of seeing my books all bound up and pretty, and it’s not for the fan mail, although all those elements are nice. It is for the fabulous buzz of writing. 

When it is going well, writing is the single most absorbing joy ride I've experienced. I am an obsessive kind of gal, so I do not have a schedule, or do word count, or page count or other things that I’ve heard other writers use. I sit down here at the computer, and write until either life intrudes, (must eat, shit, teach, sleep, keep a dinner date, talk to children or parents or husband.) Or until I'm done. I do not want, at times like that, to eat, shit, teach, etc., but it takes a while to finish a book, so many of those other intrusions are unavoidable.

What do I mean by going well? I mean the story is gushing out of my fingertips, and I am scrambling breathlessly to keep up. I only type with four fingers, and still, after all these decades, can’t write without looking at the key board, and yet, except for the neck pain, I have no memory of looking at the keyboard at all. Are my eyes turned inward? Am I in a trance? Channeling? Conjuring? Who knows. It is some kind of mental / emotional altered state, surly, and one like no other.     

When the writing is going, but not going well, I am equally undistractable, and obsessed, but it isn’t one bit pleasant. Those are the plot days, when the character has reached a wall, and I must slam blindly against the stone, again and again, looking for the door. Those are the times I stalk around the house,drag the dog out for a stomp, look down and see that my hands are in fists. Get a head ache from clenching the jaw. Stare uncomprehendingly at the husband as he speaks. Lie awake twitching.

But it is important to note, that as utterly frustrating and aggravating and infuriating as those bad times are, they are not boring. In fact, none of the process is boring. And that is exactly why I do it.

xo

Amy

Show Biz?

Dearest Dears, I am thrilled to report that I am in the honeymoon phase of writing a new novel. That is NOT a complaint, but it means I cannot tear myself out of its arms long enough to write a blog. So for your reading pleasure and edification, (or to help you kill time while on hold with tech support) I have pulled another column from the vault -- this one ran in the LA Times 2 years ago today. I hope you enjoy it! xo Amy

------------------------------


     The other day a man called me (on my unlisted number) and said he worked for a women's morning talk show on the Lifetime channel called "The Balancing Act." He thought my newest novel might be a good fit for a "summer reading" segment. 

     "Wow!" I thought, "Finally some serious publicity. I wonder how he heard about my book? I wonder how he got my number? Do I have time to lose 30 pounds before the taping?

     He asked me if I was familiar with the show.

     "No."

     He said I could watch that day's episode on the website, and he told me about the two hosts, one lively, one smart. He explained that the show is optimistic and solution-based. It airs from 7 to 8 a.m. daily. Viewership was blah blah number of women between the ages of blah and blah. They would need to shoot the segment fairly soon. How did the end of April, beginning of May look for me to be flown out for the taping?

     
     I glanced at my coffee-stained calendar. The rest of April, along with a good deal of May, June and July, were blank.

     Mind you, the TV man wasn't sure they'd decide to have me on. He explained that his job was just to tell me about the show and answer any questions I might have. Then some Bigger Billy Goat Gruff would call back to make the arrangements.

     While the TV guy talked, I fretted about my chins and how when women my age wear stage makeup, we look like we're in drag. I thought about the YouTube video a friend (Dan Santat) had recently shot of me, in which my ear poked through my stringy hair the whole time.

     The TV guy said there would be lots of cross-media support; the show's website, network promos and print ads that would have my book cover plastered all over them. For my part, he needed me to overnight him two copies of my book.

     Then he said they were investing something like $100,000 worth of publicity per episode, and all they needed from me was $4,900 as insurance that I was really interested, and ...

     That's when I squawked, "What? You want me to pay to be on your talk show?"

     He didn't know what I was objecting to.

     I hung up quickly, feeling utterly creeped out.

     But righteous indignation quickly gave way to self-doubt. Had I just blown a great opportunity?

     There are hundreds of TV channels with airtime to fill, and not enough advertisers to go around. Maybe in this sickly economy, this is how the game is now played. The old "you have to spend money to make money" thing?

     With the publishing business, bookstores and libraries all spiraling toward the new dark ages, publicity money for us mid-list, noncelebrity authors is nonexistent. We know we have to do our own promotion, but few of us have the stomach for it. So the idea that some entity would discover and promote our books … well, I for one would have been the perfect mark — if I weren't both broke and cheap.

     I belong to a list-serve of authors who write for teenagers, and so I posted my experience: "I think I've been slimed!" 

     The list is made up of people like me who constantly recheck their e-mail in search of distractions from their work, so replies came quickly, and I was soon looking at a whole website of concerns and complaints identical to mine. People who now felt tricked and befuddled, embarrassed by their own hope.

     For a few days, I talked about the TV man to anyone who would listen, while gradually returning to obsessing about my agent and reviews. 

     But about an hour ago I got an e-mail from a writer on the list-serve, reporting that my TV man, or one just like him, had just struck elsewhere in the kid-lit-o-sphere. I went to the fresh victim's blog and read his account. He too was clearly flattered by being sought out, and thrilled by the possible publicity, but wondering if it wasn't maybe a tiny bit sketchy that the TV guy asked for money.

     How many more of us are out there? Self-employed types working alone in obscurity; artists, writers, craftsmen being preyed upon by bottom-feeding, low-life crooks? 

     Or are they low-lifes? They're offering a service for a fee: exposure, visibility, recognition. The show really exists, and people are on it being enthusiastically interviewed. So especially in this, the Golden Age of Greed, rife with truly breathtaking scams and schemes and swindles destroying people's lives, I suppose my TV guy is small potatoes.

     I got my nerve up and called the show back to ask whether it's simply a big infomercial. The nice woman I talked to objected to that characterization.

     "No, it's not an infomercial at all," she said in a broad New York accent. "It's ‘branded entertainment.' "

     She then explained that spending a fortune on a television ad doesn't guarantee people will see it, because they're likely to "just TiVo it out." But "branded entertainment gives" an author the "opportunity to get integrated into a regular show."

     By that reasoning, maybe she should be paying $4,900 to be integrated into this article.

     But instead, I'll just die a broke, crabby old fart insisting that it was better in the old days when shows were shows and ads were ads and everyone could tell the difference.
     xo
     Amy


P.S. Here's the show's website. http://www.mylifetime.com/shows/balancing-act

New Years!

As I pack I tell myself, “At home I may pull on the same soggy jeans week after month, and shlump around in my ratty sneaks, but the woman I will be on vacation probably wears outfits and srappy sandals. This floral smock lurking  in the depths of my closet will be perfect!”

Actually, I‘ve slipped this particular dress into many backpacks and suitcases over the millennium, so why are the tags still on it?

That's because ever since some ancient shopping bout of delusion, it has been lying in state awaiting either my radical personality change, or its own Resurrection to the thrift store. Well traveled, never worn. 

Why? Because when ever I get where I’m going, I invariably find my lazy, comfort loving, ratty sneaks wearing self there waiting for me. 

And yet, there's something so sweet about the packing self. The self awash with unrealistic fantasies, flush with faith in the possibility of change, willing to suspend disbelief and imagine myself as someone who holds her stomach in.

The same part of my mind that allows me to re-pack that silly dress, allows me to make New Years Resolutions, although I know I’ll unpack them next December with the tags intact.  

As a fiction writer I certainly believe we are all entitled to the full range of human emotion and delusion. So -- Come the New Year I will write EVERY DAY! Fingers on the keys, mind on the plot, eyes on the screen. Perhaps cutting off one finger or toe any day I don't write -- allowing me 20 (very bloody) days off.


I will also diet and exercise like a woman who believes she is mortal -- or die trying.


And I'll either wear that damn dress -- or fly it as a symbol of fashion liberation.

And here’s The Who performing I WON’T GET FOOLED AGAIN!

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zydAs5bRW1U

Happy New Year!

xo

Amy

The Unpaid Gig

We know that society has decreed that we writers are our most authentically deep when kept poor and garroted. And that love of our craft, plus the joy of working loose hours in the ratty bathrobe are a fair trade for our poverty and lack of dental benefits.  

But guess what? Not unlike other humans the writer does like to be treated well from time to time. And, more specifically, for the purposes of this rant, we like to be treated well by the people or organizations for whom we are doing a favor.

As a fellow chump mentioned the other day, 2011 has been the year of the free gig. The economy is trash, our business in particular is circling the drain, and we feel extra sorry in a panicky way for schools and libraries and anyone else out there with an historic sympathy for the written word. So, when they call and say “Please,” we cave and say, “Sure.” 


And for that we are often (although not always) punished. 

I am not talking about the gigs that put their money in play to have authors hold forth from a podium, or lead their fellows in writing workshops, or hand out awards and eat the book club / school /  library lunch and gab amiably with banquet-esqe cheer. But the ones who ask the author to don hard shoes and show up for free. 

We're often willing to show for charities & good causes, believing that this is how community is built, or karma is balanced, or otherwise un-reached kids are reached, or in hopes that unpaid gigs lead to paid gigs, and perhaps circuitously, to increased book sales. 

Some freebie events go nicely, but a horrifying number of them do not. 

Nicely equals your arrival is anticipated and prepared for, appreciated and even sometimes celebrated. 

The not nice are the ones where you are not greeted or introduced and must gamely ignore the toilet paper stuck to your shoe, show your Happy-Harmless-Kid’s-Book Smile and introduce yourself -- feeling like you’re burping Tupperware to the leery or opening your grimy trench coat to reveal your collection of stolen watches going cheap.

Sometimes the guests did not know you were coming or why you are there... and they see your presence in their midst as an affront -- the pushy book peddler, fingers in the greasy til.

And you endure until allowed to scuddle away, feeling raw and sheepish at the end wondering how much lower you could possibly sink without going subterranean.  

And so, I learn again (and again and again) that too often, we are valued by how much we cost. Sadly, the moral of the story seems to be -- If you give it away for free, it must be worthless. 

Please remind me next time. 

XO

Amy

Write What You Know: CANCER

When my daughter was 14 she was diagnosed with a blood cancer called Hodgkin's Lymphoma. Needless to say it was an unspeakably ghastly time, but beside a little lingering PTSD we all got through it. She’s 21 now, in college, worrying about other things. 

But when we were still in the thick of it, my friend went looking for cancer books for my daughter and her friends. What she discovered was that when kids in books, movies and TV shows get cancer, they die. 

I can’t blame writers or readers for loving a good tear-jerker, but if it’s your kid, your self, or your big sister who’s sick... well, you see my point.

And those story book sick / dying kids were invariably portrayed as saintly and angelic, more concerned with other people’s happiness than their own.  Peaceful, fearless, accepting of their fate.

This was not my impression. Mine was that snotty 14 year olds are snotty 14 year olds, sick, well, or on a Ferris wheel. The patients at Children’s Hospital Los Angeles were as bizarre and motley as any other huge group of kids. 

And another thing I learned and re-learned and re-re-relearned going through the whole cancer nightmare, was that people inadvertently say and do incredibly insensitive and cruel things. 

True no one knows what to do, and there is no one right thing to say besides, “OOPS! It’s all been a mistake! Your daughter is perfectly fine!”

So, once my daughter was in the clear, I set about writing a funny, teen, cancer survivor book based on her medical experience... Keeping these three things in mind,

1. Not all sick kids die. 2. Sick kids are no different than any other kids. In fact they ARE any other kids except they got sick. And 3. Sick kids, like the rest of us, are surrounded by idiots. 

The truly horrific reality (finding out you’re sick, getting chemo and the side effects of chemo, hospital stays, trying to return to normal, school, well meaning friends and strangers...) makes for a scary enough story without having to kill anyone. 

And I got to get back at all the stupid things people did by including them in the story! Pure spite and delicious revenge! 

When the manuscript was done, I showed it to my daughter. She gave it her resounding approval and off it went. 

  

SIDE EFFECTS was published in 2006, and the paperback followed a year or two later. The reviews were great and it still sells well... Although there have been complaints about the character's "language."  

But the best part BY FAR are the fan letters.

I like all my fan letters. Even the e-mails saying they have an author report due on me in the morning and need answers quick. 

But none compare to the letters I get from young people with cancer who thank me for writing a book that tells their story. 

So that’s why I agree, at least this once, with the old saw about Writing what you know.

xo

Amy 

Of Dogs and Books

Am staring down this novel, while vacuuming up the copious schmutz with which our new puppy covers all surfaces. 

His non-allergenic poodle fur doesn’t shed, so there is less fur to sweep.

BUT his curls act like Velcro for the crispy bits of twig, bark, leaves, and parched, withered death that this drought and I have created in the name of zero-scaping. 

His extremely effective dirt-delivery system, teamed with his enthusiastic interest in pinecones, shoes and paper products has effectively replaced the dirty dishes, wet towels, sticky wrappers, and smelly laundry with which my children filled the nest until quite recently. 

So, time-wise, I’m still cleaning.  

And writing? 

By way of encouragement, I tell my writing students that there is something learned by the completion of each book that makes it easier to write the fifteenth novel than the fifth... 

BUT I’m not entirely sure I believe that.  

In fact, if there is anything I am sure of, it is that each novel writes itself differently. 

You may learn the basics on the first one: How to carry it so you don’t bash its soft spot on every door jam. 

How to diaper it.

How to attach a car seat...  

BUT beyond that you must discover / re-invent on a per project (book / baby) basis.  

For example -- You could get Kid #1 to shut up by strapping it into that automatic swing, AKA the electric chair, and setting the timer for next Thursday.

BUT Kid #2 arches the back, goes ridged, and will have none of it. 

Novel #6 filled itself with jokes, whereas Novel #11 took itself very seriously.

And so I struggle against the encroaching squalidifying of my home, as much now with this filth-hound as I once battled the onslaught of Barbie shoes and lego.

And I wrestle the new novel as if I’d never attempted such a battle before.

Odd, ain’t it?

xo

Amy