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A Work in Process

11 Friday Mar 2016

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What is my writing process?  Apparently, all writers have them and all are unique.  Do you write standing up?  Write Drunk and Edit Sober or vice versa? Devote an hour a day?  Don’t stop until at least three pages are finished?  Don’t even think about your book until you’ve accomplished a half hour of free-writing?  I enjoy reading about other writers’ processes and there is a sense of community as I find writers share many of the same struggles, but though I’ve been working on my book for years, I still don’t have a process.  It’s constantly changing and has yet to be nailed down.

I try.  “I’m going to write an hour a day. Period.”  I begin with that goal but then I’ll have a day where I’m so tired I can’t string words together verbally much less type something other than gibberish.  Then there days when my arm will hurt and I can’t type or write by hand and, before I know it, days have passed with no progress on the manuscript.  That doesn’t mean I’m not writing if by ‘writing’ I mean thinking about my book and characters, plotting what happens next, or reading a bit by way of research.  In many ways, my process is to work on my book every waking moment-and some sleeping moments-even though words don’t always make it onto paper.

I hear advice like; don’t edit yourself-get it down on paper and then edit.  That makes sense but that doesn’t work for me.  I’ll be writing away and then I realize that both plot and characters feel dry and that a change needs to be made; often four or five chapters ago.  If I don’t go back and make the change, I CANNOT continue writing.  It’s like all creativity dries up.  So, I edit myself I great deal while working.

One piece of advice I have taken to heart is don’t throw anything away.  I have a dump file and, whenever I hit a situation mentioned in the above paragraph, I take the scene that isn’t working and stick it in the dump file.  This has been crucial for me.  There have been so many times I plopped something that wasn’t working in the file and forgot about it until I found I needed it; often years after first setting it down.  I recently copied in work I’d done in my earliest draft-almost ten years old now-into my current draft and was thrilled not to have to re-write the scene.

“Taking a long time” is definitely part of my process but my story arcs over seven books and I don’t want to make the mistake of introducing something in Book One that is utterly contradicted in Book Seven.  I hate it when authors do that.  I’ve had authors I like reference an instance from an earlier book that I remember happening differently and, sure enough, I scrounge up the appropriate book and find I’m correct.  Why does that happen?  Is it easier to tweak the facts for the current book?  I don’t know but it’s annoying.  I also have a hard time continuing to read an author that changes a character’s name in a later book.  Is the name unimportant because the character is a minor one?  No.  If you’re going to bring the character back in later books, make sure you use the same name!  I don’t know if that’s an author or an editor mistake but, again, it’s annoying.

I respect authors that go that extra mile in research and attention to detail.  The Denver Museum of Nature and Science recently had a Sherlock Holmes exhibit.  Sherlock Holmes is one of my favorite characters and I enjoyed immersing myself in that world.  The exhibit had plenty of hands on activities and there was a mystery to be solved as I moved through the different displays.  Great fun but I enjoyed reading the letters written by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.  One such letter was to his publisher and Mr. Conan Doyle was requesting a copy of an early manuscript as he couldn’t remember all the details he’d set down and no longer had a copy of his own.  My writer spirit felt camaraderie with that: a writer respecting both his characters and his readers enough to research his early work.  Such an eye for detail and a respect for research-as well as great writing-keeps Sir Arthur Conan Doyle on my shelves.

I knew Sir Arthur Conan Doyle wrote other books: I’ve seen The Lost World even though I haven’t yet acquired a copy of the book.  I did find a collection of stories I’d never known Conan Doyle wrote and I was especially interested in the Preface to The White Company written by Conan Doyle’s wife.  It begins:

My husband was intensely thorough in all his literary work.  He took enormous pains to have everything right.  For instance, before writing The White Company, he soaked his brain with a knowledge of the period he intended to portray.  He read over sixty books dealing with heraldry-armour-falconry-the medieval habits of the peasants of that time-the social customs of the higher fold of the land, etc.  Only when he knew those days as though he had lived in them-when he had got the very atmosphere steeped into his brain-did he put pen to paper and let loose the creations of his mind.  (Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, The Historical Novels: Volume One; Preface to The White Company)

This, also, I deeply respect.  I do write a bit differently than this; I soak my brain in the period I’m writing in but there are things I don’t realize I should be researching until I’m already in the writing process.  For instance, merely having a character attend a public bath isn’t enough.  I need to know what the baths in both Ancient Rome and Ancient Arabia were like.  How did they differ from one another? Were there different rules for men and women?  Were there castes of society not allowed to attend at all?  What did one do with his or her clothes when bathing?  Fortunately for me, there are historians with these same interests and I can scare up a book or a documentary that will tell me what I need to know.

Maybe my writing should be more disciplined.  Maybe I take too much time.  Maybe I shouldn’t be getting wrapped up in these little details until a second or even a third draft.  Maybe, but it doesn’t seem to be part of my process.

The Anniversary of My Life

19 Monday Oct 2015

Posted by in Challenges, RW Out and About

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October 4th was the 17 year anniversary of my car accident. In two more years, I’ll have lived exactly half my life “normal” and half as a disabled person; a fact that feels meaningful to my pattern-loving brain. Perhaps it it, perhaps it isn’t.

I don’t actually celebrate my new life anniversary. There are times I intend to: it’s a good excuse to eat cake (as if I needed one!), but the 4th of October usually passes by and it’s only a few days later that I go; Hey! Another year of life! This year, I spent the 4th at Arches National Park in Utah. I didn’t wake up that morning planning to celebrate an anniversary. I’m not even sure I remembered what day it was. But, since I had my Hey! moment ON the 4th, I’m going to tell all of you about it.

My family and I planned to spend a week touring as many state and national parks as possible. My focus was to get as much hiking in as my body could withstand. I used to be quite the hiker: 9 miles round trip with a night spent sleeping on the ground was nothing to my younger self. Now, half that distance seems insurmountable. I physically can’t do it and my brain injury comes with some oxygen processing/breathing problems. Still, I do what I can and I’m lucky to have family that is willing to wait for me as I start up a trail. Bless my mother: I know she has visions of my passing out and my carcass sliding into a ravine but she never says a word beyond “be careful” and so, I start off.

There are several trails at Arches and I could have spent a week in that park alone, still not seeing all of it. I hiked around the North and South Turrets and considered hiking the Primitive Trail but, as I hadn’t established that plan with my family, I had visions of emerging miles down the road with no way of telling them where I was. I passed on that trail and, instead, hiked to Delicate Arch. I’d misread the distance and thought the distance was a mile round trip. How bad could it be?

The answer? Bad. Delicate Arch is a difficult hike up a rock face with no trail to speak of. The way to the arch is marked out by little cairns and, believe me, those little pile of stones became my best friends. And, the round trip distance is 3 miles. Note to self: make sure to thoroughly read the description before setting foot on a trail. At least I had plenty of water.

Trail? What Trail?

Trail? What Trail?

The first time I considered turning back was when the clearly outlined trail disappeared and I stood staring up at people scaling a rock face. “Don’t do it”, a voice warned.  I turned and stared down at the parking lot. My family wouldn’t care if I turned back. Sure, they wanted a picture of Delicate Arch but no one had any expectation of me pushing my body beyond its limits. Really, the only one with that expectation was me. I knew that if I gave up, I would regret it. I would feel like I failed. I wanted to see Delicate Arch. I wasn’t giving up. I’d take my time, stop and breathe when I needed to, take some sips of water. I didn’t need to compete with anyone. I didn’t have to feel embarrassed at needing to stop and breathe. I started up.

Suck it up, Kate!

Suck it up, Kate!

I don’t have words to express how difficult this hike was. I feel a little ridiculous: there were people who breezed passed me like it was nothing. But then, I passed people who were also dragging themselves up to the arch, red-faced and wheezing. Solidarity, my hiking peeps. I did stop, frequently, and there were many times when I considered turning back. Those considerations flooded my mind more and more as the pain in my back, neck, and shoulder set in and it became more and more difficult to stand upright. Still, I persevered. Like an idiot, I’m sure.

It's wider than it looks...

It’s wider than it looks…

The hike to the arch ends with a series of stone steps and then a ledge that wraps around a cliff wall. I recommend hugging the wall as much as possible. On the day of my hike, the wind was rather strong and the drop off from the ledge is significant. But, it’s worth it. I rounded the cliff wall and the rocks dropped from my sight. There was Delicate Arch. It stands alone in this vista of rocks and sky and was worth every ounce of energy it took to see it.

Delicate Arch

Delicate Arch

There were several intrepid souls who hiked down to the arch and took pictures with, under, and through it but I could not. I still had to hike back the way I came so I found a seat, caught my breath, drank more water, and enjoyed the view. I tried to take a selfie with the arch but my selfie skills are non-existent. My thanks to the stranger who offered to take my photo.

Proof I make it!

Proof I make it!

Down was, of course, easier but I admit I dragged myself into the parking lot. I laughed and told my family I was probably done with hiking for a day or two but I really wanted to burst into tears and stick my body in a hot bath. I had a picture of the arch and, in my seat in the van, I asked myself if all the pain and exhaustion I felt was, indeed, worth it. It was then I had my Hey! moment: today was my life anniversary day and I was out hiking!

17 years. I must, after all this time, accept I’ve made all the progress I’m going to make. I’m not going to get any better. I’ll never hike another 9 miles with two days of supplies, a tent, and a sleeping bag strapped to my back. I’ll never work a full time job. That person did-for lack of a better word-die in that car. Now, I must learn to live as this person. I must accept that every day is going to be a fight to push the boundaries of my limitations as far as I can. It’s going to be hard. I’m going to want to give up. But, if I press on, there will be moments of breath-taking beauty waiting for me at the end of difficult trails.

It is worth it.

Artist to Artist

17 Sunday May 2015

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A couple of weeks ago, I got to tour the home studio of one of Colorado’s local artists.  Her name is Jan Myers and she first came to my notice because three of her paintings had been donated as silent auction items to the non-profit I work for.  The three paintings were landscapes and I thought they were beautiful.  I looked up Ms. Myers and found her website.  Perusal of said site brought me to the painting “Duck Cove Pond with Folly”.  I fell in love, my crafty brain generated an idea, and I called Ms. Myers.

Let me digress a bit to say no one is ever going to accuse me of being an art expert.  I don’t have an eye for it.  Modern art confuses me and the prices for what amounts to little more than colored swoops on a canvas horrify me.  I like pretty things.  My favorite painter is Claude Monet.  I love the misty look to his landscapes, the soft colors: I feel soothed when I look at it.  I liked Ms. Myer’s paintings for the same reason.  The colors were vivid, yet blended in her landscapes so that I had that same anticipation looking at them; like, if I were to go that magical place, anything would be possible.  And, because I like pretty pictures of flowers, trees, and ocean-scapes; I love my mother’s paintings.

A treat for my mother was the cunning plan generated by my brain.  I first called Ms. Myers before my mother’s birthday and asked if she gave studio tours, thinking what an awesome birthday present that would be.  Ms. Myers works in pastels which is a medium my mother doesn’t have any experience in.  My mother started in water colors and has only recently moved to acrylics.  I thought seeing another artist’s work, where and how another artist worked, and being able to talk to another artist would be good for Mom.  I tell her I like her paintings, mention the colors in one, the details in another, but I thought she needed contact with another painter.  Ms Myers was gracious and said ‘come’.  We set up a time.

Life intervened and it was closer to Mother’s Day before we made it out to Ms. Myer’s home.  It was worth the wait: the visit was everything I hoped for my mother.  Ms. Myers would describe a little of her process and I would see my mother come alive because she’d thought and felt the same way.  I was left alone in the living room with a collection of John Steinbeck’s short stories while my mother and Ms. Myers retreated to the back room where I could hear them muttering and exclaiming together.

After a time, Ms. Myers joined me, leaving my mother to have her first experiment with pastels.  And then, something happened I did not expect.  Ms. Myers and I began to discuss our processes and, though we were painter and writer, she and I shared similar struggles, similar processes, and were able to connect one to the other.

It was a strange mind shift for me; thinking of myself as an artist.  Most of my writing time is spent in my office in the basement, staring into the gaping maw of my computer monitor, trying to focus on the story in my mind instead of seeking out reasons to distract myself.  I’m not out staring at a mountain, seeking to capture colors, light, and texture or traveling to places that inspire me with a hope of sharing a little of what I see.  I’m not an artist.  Or am I?

I seek out isolated wilderness spots, journal in hand, attempting to put what I see in words.  How would I describe the sound of the wind in the trees?  How would I write the green and the blue I see without using ‘green’ or ‘blue’?  As I spoke with Ms. Myers, I saw that we were more alike than not despite her painting on canvas while I painted in print.  I was most excited to learn Ms. Myers was taking classes despite painting for over 40 years.  Even though she has decades of experience under her belt, she seeks out different techniques, tests out new styles, and her work moves in different directions.  It’s the same with me.  I’m constantly learning, tweaking, honing my voice in print.  I’ll have to accept that I’ll never be satisfied with my manuscript and send it out: there will always be room for growth and change.  I will, I promise (myself), but that day hasn’t yet come.  There are details missing, holes I need to fill.  Ms Myers said she has to put her paintings away for a time; then haul them out, set them up, and see what details she’s missed.  I laughed (in relief) when she said that.  I do the same thing: look at my manuscript with fresh eyes to see what keeps it from being whole.

It was a bit of an uncomfortable conversation for me albeit a nice, stretching of the consciousness sort.  I was relieved when our conversation moved from processes to discussing books; one of my favorite subjects and one we had not exhausted when my mother finished her pastel experiment and it was time for us to call it a day.  I wanted more than anything to purchase my “Duck Cove Pond with Folly” painting but finances don’t currently allow.  Instead, I found a card Ms. Myers had made with a photo of the painting.  I’ll look at that until I can afford the painting itself.  The place draws me.  I think it’s the sort of place a writer-an artist-would feel inspired.

Here are some of my favorite paintings by Jan Myers:

This is beautiful. I look at it and want to go there.

This is beautiful. I look at it and want to go there.

This is my second favorite painting. The colors in this especially that red, are beautiful.

This is my second favorite painting. The colors in this, especially that red, are captivating.

This is a new work: an example of the direction in which Ms. Myers is moving.

This is a new work: an example of the direction in which Ms. Myers is moving.

And some examples of my mother’s work:

One of Mom's watercolors. I love the feeling of peace in this.

One of Mom’s watercolors. I love the feeling of peace in this.

One of Mom's works in acrylic. She says she likes moving color around with the watercolors but has fun focusing on detail with acrylics.

One of Mom’s works in acrylic. She says she likes moving color around with the watercolors but has fun focusing on detail with acrylics.

One of my favorites: it's acrylic and I love all the color.

One of my favorites: it’s acrylic and I love all the color.

Interested in checking out more of Jan Myers’ work?  Here’s her website:

http://www.janmyers-artist.com/

Still trying to convince Mom to post her work…

Books, How I Love Thee…

20 Friday Feb 2015

Posted by in Personal Essays, Writing

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And I do.

I’ve been reading for as long as I remember. My mother tells me I started when I was two which I’ll have to take her word for as my memory is vague when I attempt to push it that far back. I do know there has hardly been a time in my life when I haven’t had a book of some sort with me and one of the joys of adult life is being able to build my personal library. Only the ones I know I’ll read again earn a permanent spot on my shelves and I have books that have been my favorites for decades along side new favorites. I find it interesting to see how my taste in reading has changed throughout the years but then I look at my shelves and wonder if it has, really.

One of my favorite stories is The Black Arrow by Robert Louis Stevenson. I can’t remember how young I was when I first read it but the adventure and romance captured my imagination then and continues to do so now. I think I understand more of it as an adult than I did as a child. All I saw was adventure and romance then, I see politics and racism now-but still adventure and romance.

A Wrinkle in Time is one of my favorites. Over twenty years have passed since I first read it and I can still pick it up and become immersed in what is marketed as a children’s book. Island of the Blue Dolphins is the same. I was ten or eleven when I first read it and was amazed at Karana. I wondered if I would be able to survive the way she had and was fairly certain I would not. There are still times I pick up this book and spend an hour marveling at Karana’s strength and mourning her loss. Mary O’Hara’s books have stayed on my shelves for decades as well.

My shelves also have books I would never have considered reading when I was younger. I liked fiction. The worlds I read about were real to me so why did I need non-fiction. Thank God that, as an adult, I have found joy in non-fiction. Think of all I would have missed, like the history books written by Philip Matyszak. His books make me laugh until my face hurts. Oddly, Herodotus’ Histories also make me laugh, something I did not expect. I swear I can hear the tone of his writing change when he begins making stuff up. He fascinates me because I read that he was an oddity for choosing to travel so far from his home. I like oddities, being one myself, and I’d like to know more about Herodotus. Unfortunately-or fortunately, depending on your view-Herodotus disappears inside his Histories and I found very little of his character revealed in his writing.

I read Thucydides because I read somewhere he scorned Herodotus’ Histories and wanted to write a pure history of the Peloponnesian War. Just the facts, ma’am. Thucydides sits on my shelf between Tacitus and Xenophon: my shelves are sorted both by genre and then alphabetical. One of my joys is to reconsider my current sorting method and decide whether or not there’s a better one. Should my classic literature be separate from my modern literature? Does Mark Twain qualify as literature or should he be moved to my Children’s books section? I may need to get out more.

Anywho…when I’ve had my fill of history I turn to a Georgette Heyer romance or a Jacqueline Girdner mystery. Or Jack London. Or Mark Twain. Or Robert Louis Stevenson. Or Helen MacInnes.  Or Wilkie Collins. Or Jane Austen. You’ll find all of them on my shelves along with so many others.

As my collection has expanded, it has caused me to indulge in some deep introspection. All of these books must be dusted, cared for, and read. Which means, what do I really want to keep hold of? Am I keeping books because they make me look smart when I have no interest in reading them ever again? That answer was yes.

I’d read Gone With the Wind in the third grade sure I was going to be exposed to a great romance. Perhaps I was but I remember I liked Walter Farley and Anna Sewell much better. I read it again as an adult and still preferred Walter Farley and Anna Sewell. Gone With the Wind was traded for something I’ll treasure.

I had to admit I don’t care for Dickens. I felt like I could tell he was paid by the word. Not that I dislike his writing: I enjoyed his foray into banking in A Tale of Two Cities and could picture a young man being kept in a basement until he was old. My problem? I’d almost forgotten the plot by the time Dickens wended his way back to it. I much prefer Wilkie Collins. I dragged The Moonstone everywhere with me until I’d finished it. It took me a full two days and I don’t think I was of much use to anyone until I closed the covers for the last time but it was worth it. The Woman in White and No Name quickly found space on my shelves.

I’ve tried twice to read Anna Karenina and never finished it. I had a co-worker urge me to try again and it’s on my list: perhaps the third time will be a charm. However, I devoured Ivan Turgenev’s Fathers and Sons in one sitting. I haven’t purchased it as I don’t know I’d read it again but I remember how the words flowed so smoothly the rhythm of my read was never interrupted. Not a happy story but not sad either. It intrigued me.

So why the introspection now? I recently reached a point where I could not purchase another book unless I started stacking them on the floor or acquired another bookshelf. I had to take another hard look at what I was keeping and ask myself, are you really going to read these again? I found a few where that answer was no. I find I prefer reading Plutarch, Julius Caesar, Cicero, and Marcus Aurelius rather than fiction about Rome (unless it’s an incredible story) so a few of those could go. Akhenaten fascinates me and I found myself annoyed with a fictional account of his and Nefertiti’s building of Amarna so that went in the trade box. A ruthless and honest look at my taste in books made me pull The Works of H.G. Wells. This consisted of his lesser known writings: excellent writing but the stories are a tad depressing. Into the box it went.

I’m well known at a few of the used bookstores in town and all I need to do now is clear some time when I can do some trading. The problem with used bookstores is I recognize my old books on the shelf and feel a tug towards them. Did I really want to weed that from the shelf? Won’t I read that again? Should I consider buying it back? I’ve yet to actually buy one of my trades back but who knows…I’ve cleared some space on my shelves…

These will never be traded. My Argonautica is simultaneously English and Greek. I might learn Greek one day and read it in the original...

These will never be traded. My Argonautica is simultaneously English and Greek. I might learn Greek one day and read it in the original…

So What Do You Want Me To Do About It?

31 Wednesday Dec 2014

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DSCF0016

I admit it.  I’m an activist.  I never thought I’d become one as the very word always elicited rather negative mental pictures.  But then I made some lifestyle changes and, the more I educated myself, the more of an activist I became.  I can’t label myself ‘activist’ for one particular cause: there are so many things I’m passionate about it would take more space than WordPress allots me to list them all.

One thing I am not passionate about are articles and documentaries that show me an injustice, get me riled up about it, and then neglect to offer me any action I can take to try and improve the situation.  I hold a deep belief that stirring up anger in someone without showing that person a constructive way of expressing/handling that anger is irresponsible.  If I read an article that gets me angry and leaves me that way, what do I do with that anger?  Stomp around my house?  Track down the people mentioned in the article and leave mean things on their Facebook pages?  Spend my afternoon with an anger that steadily morphs into depression and despair because there’s just nothing I can do about any of it so what’s the point in trying at all?

Ephesians 4:26 tells me to “Be angry yet sin not”.  To me, this tells me anger is a good thing.  I should be angry that fellow human beings are starving in refugee camps.  The systematic poisoning of our air and water should make me angry.  But, that anger should not become destructive.  Rather, the heat of it should make me get up off my duff, give money-or time since I’m short on money-and do something to change the situation. At the very least, I ought to take it to God in prayer.  (I’m joking!  Prayer should always be my first resort!)  Easiest of all, anger should make me look at my life and see how my choices affect this world I’m a tiny part of.

And I do mean tiny.  It’s difficult to believe anything I do or choice I make can have any sort of impact in the world.  The problems of the world are so vast: what can one limited (not disabled!) woman do, especially when I’m up against corporations who have billions of dollars and all the power that money buys at their backs?  To quote one of my favorite authors; A single drop can’t make even a puddle, but together, all our little drops and God’s planning can make not only a mighty ocean but a mighty difference.  (And It Was Good Madeleine L’Engle, 1983)

Quotes like this help me.  Maybe I am a tiny drop but there are others striving to make a difference.  They may not look like me, talk like me, or believe the same things I do but they are striving to better their part of the world the same way I seek to better mine.  My drop joins to theirs and, as more and more of us join together, we become a force at work in the world.  I find joy as well as hope in that thought.

So, thank you to all who write articles intended to make me angry but who add two or three actions I can implement in my life.  Thank you for your bravery in addressing issues that aren’t popular.  I have read your articles.  They have touched my life and my life is changing.