Sexy memoirs and money

Maybe it isn’t such a good idea to take a writing holiday, or I should say a holiday from writing. I have begun to feel as if my novel is complete, that the work is done, and my characters are off on their not-so-merry ways living their own lives without my assistance. But even if they are doing just that, I am not done with them. Hopefully, they will have lived a few weeks without me meddling in their lives and come up with some stories of their own to share when I return to the keyboard. I will position my hands over the keys and they will tell me what to write. 

In the meantime, I am considering things such as grants. This notion of “second draft” or finished novel (!) has me a little intimidated. I have shared here that I once believed this part of the process to be a little clip here, an adjustment there, and we’re done, but that now I recognize the dedication and attention required to construct this puppy. As I weep and wail and tear my hair, crying, how will I manage such a thing with a teenager to wrangle, a business to run and a household to maintain? 

I gaze longingly at various author’s notes of gratitude to Canada Council, Ontario Arts Council and other foundations for assisting them. I wonder at Isabel Allende who retires from family duties for months at a time while she writes her books.  Some of the grants available to writers actually seem to be within my reach, if not my actual grasp. One step at a time, there Missy. The definition of a professional writer is someone who has received monetary compensation for their efforts. Hmm.  I have been paid for every piece I had published... in copies. Unfortunately, copies of quarterlies and anthologies have very little nutritional value, and landlords shake their heads sadly... So now, I am researching the market for publications that pay for short prose. It’s time to polish up some of my shorter pieces and write some new ones. It’s just hard to shake my head free from Simon and Beth and Katie, my Weather Vane characters.

However... I do have an idea for an ersatz memoir that has me excited. A fictional memoir of lovers with a modern twist. It won’t be dewy-eyed and tremulous, I can assure you, but I can’t divulge the “twist” just yet. 

I used to have a friend who was extravagantly talented, had dozens of brilliant ideas and truly remarkable creative gifts. But for years, she wandered through these ideas, dabbling and fretting, unable to focus on one thing long enough to land and see any project through to fruition. I don’t have the kind of talent that woman has, but I am grateful to have it clear in my mind what thrills me, and how I want to use the abilities I do have. The other day I noticed two stunning paintings hanging for sale in a local cafe. Painted by this woman. And I did my little internal happy dance for her, hoping that this means she has landed... and knowing that she did land, at least long enough to produce these two works. Whether you balk or leap doesn’t seem to matter if, at last, you put your hands to the task and get ‘er done. 

I may not have the luxury of days alone in which to research and write, but write, I do. And if I make the effort to send out what I’ve written and keep doing that, even as I fill a box with rejection slips (in my twenties I papered an entire wall of my apartment): sending and waiting and resending, I am certain that compensation will come, grants will come, an agent will come, publication will come... It always comes back to the writing, though. The end won’t arrive without the means. And the money means is useless without the written means.

the time in between

As I wait for my manuscript to come home from school, I have been holding up pieces of it to the window and to the mirror. I watch light sparking off its facets as it turns in my hand.

Some of the sparks have caught fire.

Here are some of the secondary characters getting ready for a Christmas party... this passage is unlikely to show up in the novel, but it was fun to play with their voices.

Rebecca

Everything was perfectly planned: prosciutto and figs, wine soaked goat cheese, smoked salmon and chevre. Champagne chilling, punch made, with a non-alcoholic one for the teenagers, the music was chosen – not too heavy on the Christmas theme. Some U2, Van Morrison, a little Hip, and then some Ray Charles. I loved my new Boise sound system with the iPod dock. It meant I didn’t have to think about the music all evening. Lots of candles in frosted holders and a light touch of festive red. I tried to get Dallas to help, tried to engage her, but she either lay on the couch watching MTV or went outside to smoke. I even asked what music she would like to include on our little playlist, but she just shrugged and said she didn’t care. It’s all good, is what she said. That’s terrible grammar. Sometimes I think I would go insane if I did have a child. If they turned out like her. She makes me so tired and sad. I’m trying to help out my sister by letting her stay, but it’s costing us to have her here. Especially now. When the second implant hasn’t taken. I don’t think I can do it again. Not when I look at her.

Dallas

Auntie keeps putting on that fake little smile and goes all teachery on me. All like happy and cheerful and then she goes all spazzy and starts crying and runs off to her room. Like how am I supposed to say, oh yeah, like let me help you with those little stupid pieces of whatever that stuff is, when any minute she’s going to throw a hissy fit and tell me how much she loves me and I don’t even appreciate her. I don’t give a shit about her stupid little party for her stupid friends. They all think I am like all hot for these old guys. I just like to watch them get all stupid and scared of me.

Danny

I don’t know why Dallas is always watching me. It feels a bit like one of those creepy movies where some innocent guy gets set up by a supposedly innocent girl. That maybe Becky is going to find a pair of her blood stained panties in my drawer, like in that movie with Rebecca deMornay. Dallas taunts me when I sit in a chair across the room, or on the far side of the kitchen table. I’m pretty sure she left the bathroom door open on purpose. I don’t want to see her like that. When I try to talk to Becky about sending her home, she cries and says I’m not supporting her. I hate how much this treatment is changing her, changing us. I hate how much she is suffering. But you’d think I had just slapped her when I suggested we consider adoption. We’re too old, she screamed. I don’t think we’re too old. She is only thirty-eight. I can’t think of her as being too old for anything. She has done so much planning for this party. All she’d let me do is pick up the flowers. That’s how it is. Clearly marked territory in our home. Sometimes it helps. Then the borders suddenly change and it’s a minefield. I think I’m supposed to stay out of the way, and I find out I was supposed to take out the garbage. But we never go to bed angry. Never. She will always come into my arms once we are in bed. She puts her head on my chest, her soft fine hair trailing down into my armpit, and she speaks. Sort of away from us, but real. I don’t talk much, but I really like that she does. She puts it all together in a way that makes sense. And then, when she cries I don’t feel so helpless. Because I get to hold her.

Wide or Deep? -

I have several options now. Or at least I thought I did. With fire singeing my ass, I consider immediately beginning the next novel, alternating my time with re-writing this first beloved work. I want to go on every retreat for a five hundred mile radius, the New York writers’ conference in January, Hockley Valley with Barbara Turner in March, Banff in the spring, and the Humber School in the summer. I look in the mirror and shake my head. I look at my bank account and cry. 

On my back in Srvasana in yoga, I sink into stillness, my spine in intimate relationship with the floor. I breathe. And then I return to my work. 

On Tuesdays, I give massage treatments in Toronto, with a two-hour drive home in rush hour traffic at the end of the day. My dear friend, Lucinda, accompanies me for most of these treks home, ever since I invested in a hands-free headset. She is a writer, free-lance editor and a kick-ass friend. She is my Zen stick. In the beginning, when she gave me solicited feedback, I wished I could un-solicit it. It was tough, and I would fight her, defend myself, spiral into paralysis, suspect her of any number of nasty intentions, and then work through whatever scene or issue she had brought to my attention, and see that she was correct; was in fact, pointing me in a direction where the flora was bountiful and the fauna had meaning. I was tender and new and took everything personally. 

Now, these conversations are thrilling. Lucinda has an eye and an ear that look and hear into deep soul truths. A cigar is never just a cigar, I’m afraid. She suggests that I want to do all these things all at once because I am afraid. Now, I don’t try to pretend that I am not afraid. But naming it caused a shift. Relief. Yes, I’m afraid that it will be too difficult, afraid of exposure, of success, of failure, and so on. And the more I work at this, the more afraid I become. Such an intense responsibility. To complete it, to promote it, to answer for it, to explain it. Me. Myself. And I. On trial. This is literary fiction after all – it means something.

And so... in our conversation, when I spoke of working on the next novel at the same time as rewriting this one, dear Lucinda grew silent. How will you do that? she asked at last.  The rewrite will require more attention, focus and work than the first draft. My turn to grow silent. What? She urged me to consider that every scene needs to be perfectly crafted and deeply understood by me. What good would there be in having a second novel come out on the heels of a so-so first novel? Time to get my priorities straight. Oh yes. After the initial internal moan, I recognized that once again, that girl has the perspective I lack. Or haven’t yet developed. My optimistic temperament tends to colour everything in pretty shades, and this was no different: I imagined that the second draft was going to be a walk in the park, followed by a picnic. Hard work? Not my favourite kind of work. However, writing IS my favourite kind of work, so I’m rolling up my sleeves in order to give this, my first beloved novel, everything I have to make it exquisite. To make it sing. To make it resonate. To make it... well, you get the picture.

I can’t quit my day job just yet, but I do need to curb my appetite for all things literary. A critiquing group: check, Ontario Writers’ Conference: check, monthly Sanctuary Sundays: check, writing with friends once every two weeks: check, long solitary hours perfecting my work: check. Everything else: unchecked. Thanks, Lucinda.

Now what? - after the second first is complete

My manuscript is printed and hole-punched and nestled into three brand new binders, and waiting for next Wednesday. That's when I will hand it over to be read and critiqued by my lovely mentor, Sue Reynolds.
I'm feeling much more confident now, that I have a solid first draft, than I was the first time I had a first draft. My characters are more vibrant. I've sorted out quite a few technical issues, time lines, and added some metaphorical images.
A doorway seems to have opened, with the completion of this draft, to new images and ideas. It was as if I was behind a wall, groping for a crack to get my nails into, in order to imagine how I could present certain developments. I had all but given up, surrendering to the notion that it was as good as it gets, and I sat down on the step with my chin in my hands. I heard a creak behind me, and turned to find the way not only clear, but wide open to a whole field of idea flowers.
So I will hand this thing over, as I continue to give ink to these blossoms, and look forward to the creation of a third first draft. Or perhaps I will grow very bold, and call it my first rewrite!
Here's a sample:

“Let’s walk up the hill on Waverley,” Simon said, pointing. “Then we can cut over and catch the bus further north.”

 Katie let go of his hand to search through a bin of discount clothing outside a shop on the corner. Simon looked up. “We’ve got us some Nimbostratus company. Let’s go.”

Katie followed his gaze and reached for his hand. They began to walk briskly up the residential street when a shreeing sound was followed by a loud thud and the crisp tinkling of splintered glass shattering on the pavement.

They turned to see a rusted Ford Tempo bent into a row of newspaper boxes, their colourful tin sides hugging the right front corner of the car. Simon heard a child’s shrill cry coming from inside the car.

As they peered into the car, Simon could see a baby strapped into a seat in the back of the car, and in the front sat a longhaired man in his mid-twenties. There was a cut on his forehead over eyes that were glazed open. As Katie flung open the front door to speak to the man, Simon opened the back door and examined the baby boy. By the smell it was obvious that the child needed changing. After unbuckling the screaming baby, Simon lifted him out. The child was soaked through to the skin, dressed only in a sleeper.

As he undid his jacket to tuck the baby inside, Simon turned to find Katie bent into the front seat. “I’m going to get an ambulance for you, but is there someone we can call?” She paused. “Do you know where you are?” Another pause. “We’ll just say you had your seatbelt on. Are you hurting anywhere besides your head?”

Backing on to the sidewalk, Katie dug in her jacket pocket and pulled out a phone. She said to Simon, “I’m calling 911.”

He was bouncing the baby as he peered into the car in search of diapers. “What’s with the guy?”

With the phone pressed to her cheek, Katie answered, “I think he’s in shock. He’s just staring... yes, ambulance, please.”

While Katie described the situation, Simon reached across the baby seat to a pile of clothing, but found no diapers. A crowd was beginning to gather. “Has anyone got a diaper for this baby?” he called into the crowd.

People shuffled aside as a woman pushing a stroller came forward. “It’s a size five,” she said, handing him the diaper.

“Doesn’t matter,” he murmured, walking to the crumpled side of the car to lay the baby on the back seat. The baby had stopped crying and when Simon took him out from under his jacket, he saw that he was falling asleep. “Sorry, little guy. We’ve got to get you cleaned up here.” Picking out a clean-looking baby blanket from the pile, Simon undressed the boy and wiped away the dried feces as best he could, before putting on the bulky diaper and wrapping him in a sweater from the pile. The sound of sirens getting louder made him put the baby back in the envelop between his body and his jacket.

“Is he drunk?” someone was asking.

“No,” said Katie. “I can’t smell anything.”

Stage Fright

Into my inbox a week or so ago, there arrived a notice of an upcoming literary evening in an Oshawa coffee house, with an invitation for writers to read their work. What I wanted to read was my new piece, but I had just entered it in a contest and it was quite possible that first and/or second tier judges for that contest would be present. Ten minutes reading time was allotted for each writer. My short stories are long and I couldn't see a suitable chunk that would stand alone. I scrolled through the Weather Vane manuscript and chose a scene. By the time I took the plunge and offered to read, all twelve spots had been filled, but I was given a standby position.

A couple of the readers didn't show up, so I did have the opportunity to read. I imagined that I wasn't nervous.

Simon has filed for custody. The daughter, Sophia, is four years old. After receiving the proposal from Simon's lawyer, Beth invites Simon to talk about the arrangements and seduces him. They have a night of very hot sex. This scene takes place as he goes out into the early morning:

Sun was a thin silver wire along the rooftops as Simon stepped into the street. The world was greyscale: dirty snow, strips of pavement exposed from the heat of tires, a lone car’s engine muffled in the heavy air. Ice as fine as tissue paper lay over the sidewalk. Across Walmer Road, a crouched shape ran, its head elongated and out of proportion to its feline body. At the sidewalk it stopped, the end of its oddly shaped head touching the ground. Simon approached with caution, a rabid fox, perhaps, although it seemed too small. As the dawn light sharpened the edges of objects and buildings, it cast its light on the creature that Simon now could see was a cat; calico and white with the long slender body of a Siamese. A cat whose head was firmly stuck inside a jar. 

As he squatted, extending his hand to soothe the cat, Simon spoke, “How did you manage that?” But as soon as the cat registered his touch, it erupted into a frenzy of claws, limbs lashing in all directions. Simon had managed to grasp the jar for an instant, and when the cat leapt away from him and crouched again at the entrance to an alley, he saw that one long ear had been released. The jar was still covering all the rest of the animal’s face. Simon stepped closer, clicking his tongue and murmuring. Just as he reached out to the cat, it jumped high and shot down the alley. Simon straightened, pursed his lips, and pressed the heel of his hand against his temple. He stood peering into the dark passageway, but couldn’t see the cat. Fatigue swept through him like sudden wind. His legs felt like mud, and the smell drifting up from under his clothes reminded him of fish corpses with their empty eye-sockets decaying on the beach. He turned back toward the street, toward blue and green cars carrying people to work, toward home. He sighed, and followed the cat deeper into the alley. “Here puss puss. Come here, I just want to help you,” he called. 

Tucked into a doorway, the cat crouched, its head facing out. Simon’s hand snapped out and closed around the jar. The cat’s body jumped and twisted. “That’s it, you pull,” Simon said, as he held fast the jar. There was a soft pop, and the cat’s head yanked free. For a second it was still, its huge eyes reflecting the first rays of orange sun, long dirty ears flared, and then it sprang away, its graceful body a streak of white and gold along the alley’s winter brick.

He watched it go, shaking his head. “What was that all about?” he said aloud. All the way home, he turned over the image of that animal in his mind.

He turned on to Crawford Street, the sun staining the clouds pink and purple. No time for sleep; just a shave and a shower and several cups of strong coffee, and no thinking. No more thinking. Not about Sophia, and please god not about Beth, and not about that cat muzzled and suffocating just for trying to get a little taste of something good.

Character Flaws and Transgressions

This Monday, I ripped apart my manuscript. I had been hoping that in this rewrite, I would be able to draft a few new opening scenes, rewrite a couple of important ones in the middle and patch it all together. It's not going to work. It's just not. I wouldn't categorize myself as a lazy person, but at times like this any lazy bones I have are screaming, "It's too much work!" This story has gone through so many shifts and changes, agonies and ecstasies, it will be a wonder if the finished product even remotely resembles the original vision.

The writing of this novel has been an intensive therapeutic process. About that: when I brought my first few chapters to my friend, Sandra, who is a wonderfully insightful, kick-ass therapist, she reported that she didn't like Simon. That's okay, I replied brightly, did you find him at least interesting? No, she said. Shit, I said. He's socially inept, a drunk, rude, spineless, and I don't blame his wife for dumping him. Oh, I said. I think you may be working out your men issues with this novel, she suggested. You think?

Simon needed some constructive therapy if he was going to remain my protagonist, since something other than what I had intended to portray had evidently seeped through. So I had him throw a great stag for his friend, be tender to his daughter, have deep thoughts, revealed his traumatic family history, and various other things to try to pump him up a bit. This spring I gave him a cello to play. What do you think of him now?

I knew he needed flaws to be compelling, but I never intended to convey him as an utter loser. Was he a sympathetic character? Apparently not. I needed both some distance from the character and to get right inside him.

This spring I put the manuscript aside. I felt as if I had written the wrong book. The first draft was done, but it didn't ring true. In April I wrote several chapters told from Katie's perspective. She is Simon's love interest and a catalyst for his transformation. My teacher, Sue, read these sixty-odd pages and observed that the writing was "on fire", but what did I have in mind for Katie? Did her story further the overarchingdramaticquestion? In a word, no. And so, I had to slay my darling Katie. Or at least send her on holiday.

This summer I took a  four-day "Freefall" writing workshop with Barbara Turner-Vesselago, and "fell" into my own voice in a way I had never experienced. We had four hours each day in which to write WHATEVER arose, focusing on sensuous detail and moving where the energy took us, not letting our hands stop moving. I wrote about Simon, I wrote about my own experiences in India from a third person perspective, and I wrote about shit that had happened to me. Each day, Barbara put her finger on what I wrote in first person and said, This is the voice I trust. Oh, I thought, great. All I have to do is crack open my ribs and peel the skin off my heart, and voila! there's the authentic voice. Yikes.

She advised me to not worry about the fiction for a while and to try to get my legs under me writing like this - without edit or censure. That lit a fire under my ass that produced fifteen thousand words in a month. It wrote itself. From that practice I began to understand how one actually writes about a life - from past experiences, future hopes, sidetracks, disappointments... that everything feeds into the moment that one writes about, the non-linear-ness of it all. I am aware that this may seem a little first-grade-ish, but at least I feel more competent now to graduate to second grade. All the pieces that I "invented" along the way to illustrate different aspects of character and character response are now in place. I know the story, just as I know my own story: what precipitated change, what rocked his world and why, what he's like inside and out, the different masks he wears and when he puts each on... that's what the first wobbly draft gave me - the life. Now I begin the task of writing it down with past present future informing each moment. And that's exciting. I don't feel half as lazy now.

All About Retreats

It is Friday and I am getting ready to see my last client of the day before heading off the the exquisite Sir William Mackenzie Inn in Kirkfield, Ontario, for a Turning Leaves writing retreat. Wind is blowing sharp wet snow in all directions on the street today, so I am leaning into the wind and imagining fireside writings and readings. In workshops, classes, writing circles and retreats I write like mad. During one Sunday sanctuary with Sue Reynolds' group I wrote 4000 words. And they didn't even stink. After reading Natalie Goldberg's, Writing Down the Bones and Long Quiet Highway, I have given myself permission to write crap. The miracle is, that giving such permission seems to open the gates to metaphor, imagery and insight I didn't have a clue were there.

Alone, I manage. Barely. Honestly, those emails, Facebook updates, and dirty dishes always have the siren's call. So whenever I have the opportunity to write with others, I'm so there. Give me a prompt and I'm flying. When I look over the scenes in my novel, I can identify most of them by where I wrote them, who else was present, and often the prompt that set the scene in motion. It's odd, because the act of writing IS solitary.

This weekend, I have a stack of scenes I want to write. A miscarriage, a Jungian dream workshop, a different meeting for my protagonist's love interest for starters. And I want to play with shifting from first person to third person limited for the same character. That's novel, isn't it?

One of the things I cherish about working with the writers currently in my life, is that we generally use feedback rather than critiquing as a response to the writing. In these stages of tremendous vulnerability (someone said to me recently that it is that very vulnerability that allows us to write with sensitivity, depth and honesty) it feels safe to read when you know that no one is going to tell you what's wrong with the piece. With work that is hot off the heart, the responses are always about what is strong for the listener, what stays, etc. Reading aloud gives a new dimension, especially to dialogue, and being able to feel how the listeners respond is so helpful in seeing my work from different perspectives.

So here I go, to write my heart and then expose it.

Flaw-full first attempt

The first scenes of what is today, Weather Vane, were flaw-full. My word. I read somewhere recently that most authors guard the secret hope that their first draft will be publication-ready, with perhaps a few changes, such as a comma or the capitalization of a place name. I confess. But I wanted to make sure. I was humble. I was brave. Let me have it.

Ouch. You mean this thing I love requires work? I sat listening to what Anna had to say, and as soon as she would make an observation or a comment, I would SEE it and understand. If I am writing in first person limited point-of-view and waxing all poetic about the sand and the sea and the driving wind one moment, I can't suddenly say that he thought it wise to keep his "bony butt" glued to the chair. And it wasn't likely that any literary editor, agent or publisher would go for the protagonist carrying his feisty wife out of the storm because her sarong blew off in the wind, and then make nice love to her in the bedroom of a Jamaican villa, and be ever so grateful. Hmmm. A little too romance novel-ly, perhaps? Anna carried on, stopping to sip a little wine and check in with me to see if I was all right, from time to time. "Oh I'm fine," I assured her. She was right, after all. I thanked her, sure that I would just go home and fix everything up in a jiffy.


When I pulled up the file the next day, and perused Anna's notes, my shoulders fell. I stared at the screen, looked out the window, stood up and decided it was time to sweep the floor. And do a few loads of laundry. And make a sandwich. You get the picture. I didn't have a clue how to fix these things. A long walk might help. Two months later, I hadn't changed a word.


I was continuing to write, however. My short stories were making the rounds of various contests. Anna suggested I connect with someone who was a writer by trade. She pointed me toward Sue Lynn Reynolds. And Ruth Walker. Great suggestions. I took a short workshop with Ruth and then a longer day-long retreat workshop with Sue, called Sanctuary Sunday. This was a day of prompts and open writing, with an opportunity to read at the end of the day. 


At six o'clock, I got in my car and burst into tears. I thought, "I can do this," with a joyous but oddly painful certainty. Waiting for me in my inbox when I returned home was a very warm and encouraging message from Sue. So warm and encouraging that I could barely read it through my grateful tears.


A few weeks later, I attended a weekend retreat with Ruth Walker and Gywnn Sheltma, called Turning Leaves. And this was, indeed, a turning in the road on which I was now a dedicated traveler.  I read my rewritten wild sex scene on the Saturday evening, and it didn't seem so flaw-full now. The participants laughed, sat forward on their chairs, and when I finished, one woman yelled a warning to my protagonist to "Run away, Simon!" My characters were taking on flesh.

I am a Writer

I wrote furiously for a couple of weeks - a sentimental scene of this father first holding his tiny infant, and a hot (both figuratively and literally) sex scene in Jamaica during a hurricane where the child is conceived. Then I imagined the protagonist having an intimate relationship with weather. So I wrote a monologue in which he waxes poetic about the flight of birds in a windstorm, the velocity of the wind in Wichita the day he was born, and the futility of weather prediction. But the story began in present time. I wanted to show how much he missed his daughter, so I had him talk to a video camera. Maybe he needed a friend. So I gave him a friend he could talk to. I wondered if this was the best way to go about writing an entire book.

I took a writing workshop series facilitated by Anna Mackay Smith, a wonderfully vivacious and talented director, actor and creative life coach. The fire was lit. I was writing. I hired her to be my life coach, because, like many people who WANT to do something creative, there were always a million reasons why I couldn’t. One of the first things she asked me is, "What do you want?" Simple question. I gave her what I thought was a simple clear answer, one we could set about moving toward. “I want to one day be able to say, I am a writer.” “Done!” she said. “You are a writer.” And she instructed me to make signs that read, “I am a Writer” and put them up all over my house. I did.

That was weird. Everywhere I looked, these goofy coloured marker scraps of paper asserting that the person who lived here thought they were a writer. Even putting up something that had the whiff of "affirmation" made me cringe a little, like that fellow on Saturday Night Live, who constantly affirmed in his wee voice, "I"m good enough. I'm smart enough, and by golly, people like me" or something to that effect. However, the sentiment was sincere and I allowed those little messages in.

I wrote a story about my mother and showed it to Anna. She suggested that I had a poet crying to get out, and that poet sprung out of the narrative and then retreated. She suggested I write the piece as if it was fiction. When I did that I discovered a tremendous freedom, and began to find my voice. A clear poetic voice that didn't depend on fact. 

So then I showed Anna what I had written for my novel-to-be. I was certain she would tell me that it was publication ready, or at least that it took her breath away. We opened the file on her computer and I took a sip of wine. She turned to me and studied me for a moment. "Are you ready for this? she asked.

"Oh yes!" I replied, sliding forward on the chair, gripping my wine glass.