Lost It

First of all, I have to say thank you to everyone who has been reading lately and leaving comments on this blog, sending emails, and posting Facebook messages. It means a lot to me to have this online community of friends. You guys are amazing!

And now I have to admit to something stupid I did. Really stupid.

My husband needed to use *my* laptop last night to stream a movie from Netflix. I'm not really into movies or TV. I'll watch something occasionally, but last night he was going to watch Stuart Little 3 with the kids. Since that didn't appeal to me, I emailed myself my WIP and planned to work on the desktop in the office.

I clicked open my WIP (everything going well), worked long and hard on it (got three great scenes written -- totally excited!), pressed Save, and closed.

Oops.

I had done this once before with a friend's book I was critiquing, so I almost immediately realized my mistake. I'd forgotten to Download the file when I opened it, so when I saved it, it didn't actually save. (Which I think is weird that Word doesn't have a pop-up to warn you about that when you think you're saving it, but oh well.)

My husband spent 20 minutes searching for my updated-version WIP in temp folders and other places on the computer that only he knows about (because he's tech savvy and I'm not). But, in the end I had to come to terms with my three great scenes being gone.

I went to bed, beating myself up that I'd wasted so much time and lost so much work.

As I lay there, half-asleep and percolating, I realized something. The first two scenes were good, but the third -- the third and probably the longest scene -- was not where I needed the story to go. A new scene popped into my mind instead, something better. Something amazing. I'm so excited to write it down today.

So, here's the moral to the story: Sometimes bad things happen. We make mistakes. But in this life, which seems to be a mixture of failure and grace, even the crappy parts can work out for good. I'm inexpressibly thankful for that.

A Painful, but Changing, Reality

I follow Helen Ginger's blog Straight from Hel, and today she invited a guest poster, author Matilda Butler, to her site to share some insights on publishing. Click here to read what she has to say.

If you have always *dreamed* (like me) of having a book published, read this first. Ms. Butler discusses the changing shape of the publishing industry and what it looks like right now. (And just a warning: it's a little scary.)

There's also a part two, which you can find here.

Forge on, ye faithful writers! And if you're feeling a little down after that link (especially the statistic that there are 200,000 books published each year), here's the view from the deck of my new house. This is what I see when I'm washing dishes in the morning and getting the kids' breakfast ready. Take a deep breath and enjoy. I know I do.

The Tired Baby Analogy

So, since my moment in the sun yesterday on Kristin Nelson's blog, (it's about the most exciting thing to happen around here in a long time! ... maybe I need to do something about that) I've been ruminating on showing vs. telling, especially in first pages.

And tonight at dinner, it was as if an analogy dropped from the sky, right into my lap, in the form of a screaming, kicking one-year-old.

She was flailing all available appendages, arching her back, screaming her tonsils out. I was trying to stuff noodles in my mouth with one hand and hold onto her with the other.

"Sophie!" I cried out in exasperation. "What do you want? What do you need? Do you want to get down?" I put her down. (Nope. She threw herself down and bonked her head on the slate.) "Okay, do you want to sit in my lap?" Picked her up again. (Nope. More back-arching. More screaming.) "Are you hungry?" I fed her a noodle. (Nope. Noodle spit on the floor.) "Are you thirsty?" Handed her the sippy cup. (Sippy cup went flying UFO-style across the kitchen.)

Okay. I was out of ideas.

"Can't you just say one word to tell me what you want?"

Sophie can say words, single words that indicate certain things. She can. But, in this case, she wouldn't.

She was doing all she could to show me she was unhappy, and that's not bad when you're a sixteen-month-old. A lot of times, showing is the only way to get a busy mom's attention. But in this case, I needed just a little telling. Just one word would have sufficed. Because I was out of ideas.

And there it was, the epiphany. Sophie needed to do what I need to do more of in my writing. There are many times when just a word will do. Or a sentence. Or a paragraph. I don't think it takes much to bring the reader up to speed. I'd taken previous advice ("Show! Don't tell!") to an extreme. I was all show, no tell whatsoever. But that was at the risk of confusing the reader -- leaving them in a new world without any bearings.

I'm going to try to blend the two a bit more now. I'll try it out in my next short story, work on it in my WIP and try to improve. And I'll always have the visual of Sophie trying to poke my eye out with a chopstick to remind me that it's okay to tell every once in awhile.

I Feel Famous (Sort of)

I'm excited.

I asked agent Kristin Nelson (who blogs at Pub Rants) a question about showing vs. telling in first pages, and she gave me a great answer.* Click here to read it.

In this series Ms. Nelson has been giving examples of first pages that caught her attention and led to her offering representation. It's a great series, so if you're an aspiring writer not already following it, I'd take a look.


*And I won't even hold it against her that she spelled my last name wrong. *wink* The name my husband gave me is long and complex and throws even the most seasoned telemarketer into seizures of terror.

WIP Wednesday: What's Cookin'

I can feel myself getting sick. You know, the scratchy throat, the heavy eyelids, the general ennui (I've always wanted to use that word!). So, this is going to be short today. A nice, short, sweet Work-In-Progress Wednesday to make up for the long (probably terrible) story I posted yesterday.

*Ding, ding, ding!* I'm past the half-way mark in my WIP Back. I've really been flying through it lately. I think it's coming so easily because I have lots of percolation time in between writing binges. You know, while folding laundry I can think, think, think about my characters, about what they'd do and how they'd act. I'm having a ball.

This last Monday I went to my first Writer's Workshop at our local library. I met five other ladies in our community who either have started to write a book or are interested in writing one. It's fun to sit down with other wanna-be authors face-to-face. When we lived in China, all I could manage for critique groups (with the exception of one brief moment of sunshine when my friend Cheryl Ward and I met to read each other's first chapters) were online ones. Now, I can sit in a room with real live people. We did a writing prompts exercise. Mine turned out weird. As usual. For some reason writing prompts always make me write strange things.

And finally, I am so happy about this new challenge I've made for myself, writing a short story a week for a year. I'm still going to be working on my novel, but this should keep the creative soup bubbling. And my novels will hopefully be better because of it. Plus, I think after writing the story I posted yesterday, I'm realizing one of my shortcomings is that I'm too impulsive. I wander away from what I have planned much, much too easily. This challenge might teach me how to focus, because I'll have lots of opportunities to write beginnings, middles, and ends. Lots of opportunities. I'll be posting stories every Tuesday, not because I'm necessarily looking for critique and/or feedback, but just to keep myself accountable.

Thanks to the two brave souls who have agreed to do the challenge with me: B. Michael Swanson and Nicole Moscou. You guys rock!

Now, on to cooking dinner so I can look domestic when the husband walks through the door. Ciao!

A Story A Week: So Different

This post marks my first A Story A Week short story. I couldn't wait to get started, so I began it today. And now I'm posting it, because I'm kind of crazy like that.

For this particular story, I decided to use the first sentence I entered in a first lines contest on The New Literary Agents blog, just because I thought it was a fun sentence because it could go in so many directions. This story sprang in one of those directions. And I think over the next few weeks -- just for fun -- I'm going to start every one of my stories with the same sentence, just to see how many different directions it can take before I get bored.

So here is my first (probably terrible) story. Read it if you want. Comment on it if you want. I'm writing and posting it only for my own edification and to keep myself accountable for the challenge. (And if you're wondering what the challenge is, click the link to find out.)

SO DIFFERENT

She sucked the air in through her nostrils, lifted her sternum the way she'd learned to in ballet, decided to clear her mind of the particular things she was thinking about, and stepped out. He was the first thing she saw, sitting on a rainbow-colored beach towel waving a white napkin in the air to get her attention. The white looked like the sail of a ship against the bright blue water and sky. It was whiter than the sand under her feet.

Funny that he would wave his napkin that way. Like a lover in black-and-white movie. He was different, so different from anyone she had ever met.

He had the picnic laid out already, she saw as she approached. Lifting her knees to the rhythm of “Ouch! Ouch! Ouch!” because the sand scorched the soles of her feet. The brightness of the sun and sea burned into the sand, making it hot as fire.

She landed on the towel and she looked down at the fried chicken and coleslaw he had unpacked.

“Edward, you outdid yourself,” she said.

“Margaret, for you—” He paused. “Anything.”

She smiled. He was so different, so different from anyone she had ever met.

“Did you make all this yourself?” She draped across her lap the napkin he handed her. It helped to cover certain parts of her body she was worried about. For instance, the tummy that bulged just slightly over the lip of her swimming skirt.

He had a leg in his mouth, the breaded leg of a chicken. “Mmm,” he said, nodding.

“Where did you learn to cook?”

He chewed. After awhile: “I went to culinary school.”

“Did you?” She shouldn’t have been surprised. He was so different, so different from anyone she had ever met. “Where?”

“Paris,” he replied.

“And in Paris,” she laughed, “you learned to make fried chicken?”

Edward wagged his head, laughing along. “No, no. My mother taught me that.”

She sat up straighter. The napkin covered her tummy, but she was still aware of the bulging. She should have worn her other bathing suit. The one-piece.

The waves rolled in and out behind him, slipping up onto the beach, sliding back, clean as silk. They broke far out. She could hear their crashing.

“So, go ahead, dig in,” he said, motioning at the food.

She obediently took a paper plate and looked around for a fork.

“I forgot the forks,” he said.

“Then how should I—” She thought of the coleslaw, of scooping it up with her fingers and shoving it in her mouth. She thought of hands covered in slimy mayonnaise. “No, I – I couldn’t.”

“Margaret,” he said. Her name was a rebuke. “Live a little.”

She stiffened. “Perhaps I’ll just eat a bit of chicken.”

“If that makes you feel more comfortable.”

“Yes. It does.” She sucked in her tummy. More crunches with her personal trainer tomorrow. She would insist upon it.

She picked up a piece of chicken. A thigh. It was golden and crumbly and when she brought it to her lips it tasted like … Kentucky Fried Chicken.

She chewed. “Mmm,” she said, trying to keep the grease from squirting out the sides of her mouth. The bite had been too big.

“Good?” he asked.

“Mmm,” she repeated. Neither a yes nor a no, but hopefully he’d take it as a yes. It was greasy. She wasn’t entirely fond of grease.

“Mama’s recipe. She brought it with her when she moved up from down south.”

Margaret swallowed. “How interesting.” She dabbed the corners of her mouth with the napkin, then quickly draped it over her stomach again. “And your mother – is she still living?”

“Oh yes.” He waved away a fly that landed on the coleslaw. “She and my step-father live in Florida in a retirement community. I visit them once a year.”

“Lovely,” she said.

“No,” he said. “Not really. Boring is what it is. Lots of sitting around playing bingo because neither of them can walk. And both are going a little senile and all they do is fight.”

“Oh.”

“But, you know. She’s my mother.”

“Yes, of course.”

“So, you know. Duty.”

“Duty,” she said. “I understand.”

“Are your parents still living?”

“Oh no,” she said. “Long dead, long dead.”

“I’m sorry.” He did look very sorry, his face creased into a frown. Or was he squinting in the sunshine? No, it was definitely a frown. He reached out and patted her knee to console her. Thank God she had shaved her legs.

“Oh no, I barely remember them. My aunt, she’s like a parent to me. She raised me almost completely. Wonderful lady. Absolutely remarkable.”

“And is she still living?”

“Yes. As a matter of fact, she is.” She took another small bite of fried chicken. Just to be polite. She finished chewing and swallowed it before she said, “She lives quite near you actually. In Arbor Vida. In that large house on the hill.”

“The purple one,” he said, trance-like. He really was so different, so different from anyone she had met before.

“You know it!” she cried.

“Well, I should.” His eyes snapped back onto her face. “She broke three of my windows last year with those darn golf balls she lobs from her back yard.”

“Oh. I’m sorry.”

“Well, it’s not your fault.” He had been reclining, but now he sat up and pulled his knees up to his chest. She noticed how thin his legs were, sticking out of his swim trunks. He looked like a little boy.

“She likes golf,” she tried to explain. “It’s just that she can’t make it to the greens anymore, now that she’s older.”

“I guess not,” he said, his eyebrows a dark ridge across his crumpled forehead.

“I’m sure if she realized she was breaking your windows, she would pay for them.”

“Hmph.”

She was alarmed. He looked so angry. “Perhaps, perhaps I should take you to visit and you can explain – gently, of course, because she is very old – the damage she’s doing and she could … stop.”

He glared at her. “She won’t stop.”

“She – won’t – stop?”

“No.”

“Well, how do you know?”

“Because … Because….” He was agitated, his leg of chicken quite forgotten on the napkin next to his left foot. “Because she’s the nuttiest old woman I’ve ever met! Don’t you think I haven’t tried to go over there and ask her to stop at least a dozen times?”

“Well, I’m sorry, but—”

“And all she does is scream at me. Scream at me! Tells me I’m a fraud and a liar and a swindler and that she’s never broken windows in her life!”

“She is a bit – forgetful,” she said.

“Forgetful, my foot!” he cried. “She’s a cheat! She’s a window-breaker!”

“Well….” He really did look quite attractive when he was angry. Those red splashes of color in his cheeks. Those intense brown eyes. She felt herself swooning, but caught herself. Tummy tucked and back straight, she clawed around inside herself for words. He was so different, so different from anyone she had ever met. “Well, if I pay for your windows, would that help you to—?”

“No, no!” He scowled, but at least he remembered his chicken and picked it up again. “I won’t take money from you. It’s not your fault.” He ripped a big chunk of it off with his teeth.

“But I hate to see you upset, Edward.” Not really, though. He was so powerful when he was upset. So different from the napkin-waving man he’d been only minutes before. A man with so many dimensions.

He looked at his watch and muttered something about the time. “Sorry to cut our outing short.”

“But we were having such a lovely time!” she cried, but he was already packing the basket, throwing the chicken into the Tupperware container any which way. She scrambled to her feet. The napkin fell onto the rainbow-colored towel. “But we were going to swim!”

“I know,” he said. “But I just remembered I have a meeting at four o’clock. With a client.”

She followed him to his Lexus, sternum lifted just as she’d learned in ballet. Still in her bathing suit, she wondered how her thighs would appear when gravity worked to accentuate the flabbiness of them against the leather seats of his car.

“May I borrow your towel?” she asked as he unlocked the door. The towel was draped over his shoulder like part of a toga costume.

“Of course,” he said, and tossed it to her.

He walked around to the passenger side and opened the door. “After you, Margaret.”

She dipped her head to thank him, but he was not smiling, nor was he looking at her. Lifting her chin, she sat down and pulled the towel very quickly over her legs before he could see.

Edward slammed the door and came around to the driver’s side. He turned the key in the ignition and cranked up the radio volume. Nineteen-eighties butt rock. Electric guitar solos. She could almost envision the mullets, the tight jeans. It reminded her of her twenties when she was young and all the men flocked to be near her….

She calmly surrendered herself to loving him. After all, he was so different, so different from anyone she had ever met.

GET BETTER: A Story A Week

Today I checked out a book from my local library called Let's Get Creative: Writing Fiction that Sells by William F. Nolan . In his book, Mr. Nolan talks about how he travelled the road from amateur writer to professional:

In 1952, when I first began writing seriously, Bradbury advised me to turn out a new short story every week. "Then, at the end of the year," Ray told me, "you'll have fifty-two bad stories. You'll have purged your system of all the awful stuff. Until you get rid of the bad ones, you won't be able to reach the good ones. And when you make that breakthrough into quality work, you'll know the difference immediately."

Nolan's account inspired me. Therefore, I would like to propose that we writers -- all of us who are online, who have set out on the journey, who write blogs, who diligently pump out their novels and send out their query letters, anybody who wants to become a better writer -- band together to get better. Let's commit to writing a short story a week for a year.

Here are the rules. They're pretty simple:

1. If you'd like to participate, email me at a2sonnichsen@gmail.com. Write A Story A Week in the subject line. In the body of the email include a link to your website or blog. I'll put up a blog roll on my blog of everyone who wants to be involved.
2. Write a short story every week. (How long is a short story? Well, for our purposes we'll make it anything between 1,000 and 7,500 words. Update: I realize now that this word count may be too long for blog-posted stories. Make the story as long or as short as you like! Mine have tended to be 500-1,000 words.)
3. Every week, post your short story on your own blog or website. Should we pick a common day to post? Nah, I'll leave that up to you.

It will be fun to watch our stories get better. So, I'm in, obviously. Anyone want to join me? There's only one point to this. Not to add another something to your plate. Not to give you a guilt trip if you miss a week. Just to become better writers by doing the only thing that will truly make us better writers. Writing.

Let's get those bad stories out of the way and get to the good stuff!