Reading, wRiting and REVIEWS

In the three writerly Rs, the third is Reviews. Relieved that it’s not ‘aRithmetic?’ Relief may not last long.

I’m thinking less about the anxiety of being reviewed than my struggle with reviewing others’ work.

The great blogger/author/former agent Nathan Bradford asked in one of his posts if authors lose the right to review. This brought a barrage of comments, (writers have few rights already) and started writers’ chat boards buzzing. I should add that the Great Nate used the word ‘casually,’ as in casually trashing for the sport of it. I’m not a casual enough person, so it didn’t apply to me. But it got me reflecting on my own policy for self when it comes to reviews.

I should add that I adopted these self-rules before I became an author, and a beneficiary or possible target. I have no illusions that my few reviews amount to a mound of beans, but what I put out there matters to me.

The first self-rule was that I will use my real name. Anonymity is too tempting a place to release the snakes. No hiding behind Medusa from Maine or New York Nymph, (don’t I wish) – not for me.

The second was that I have no need to post publicly so-so reviews. It’s of no significance that this book was all right but well just not that great, and the main character could have… You get it. To me only clear endorsements or clear warnings of a deceptive dangerous product warrant attaching my name to them. Since one star reviews could draw attention to an otherwise seriously flawed book, I have yet to post one of those. I’d probably have to be pulled by a nose-ring to do it. (This may be one reason I don’t have a nose-ring.)

The third rule was to write few reviews, because it can become a full-time job to read and review. I still have other things to do. (One look at my house will confirm this.) To this end- my reviews are short, more like back-cover blurbs. No-retelling the whole story and never ever giving away the ending. I may wax eternal in private conversations about books I’ve read, but public utterances are in the no-spoilers-zone.

These are my own guidelines from which I am sure to stray, because I’m not a good rule-follower.

And to any out there who find any suggestion of constraint placed on their speech/reviews ludicrous, feel free to review this right here. I feel strongly that public discourse should be civil and considerate, so I set my comments to be ‘subject to approval.’ Censorship? Yup. But know that I censor myself first.

Phooey to Formulas

If I try to be like him, who will be like me?

That’s an old Yiddish proverb. {For someone who doesn’t speak Yiddish, I’m full of Yiddishisms. If there was ever a culture that looked at it itself with gentle irony and managed to balance humor and pathos, it’s Yiddish.}

I don’t have this subtle balance, and my utterings sound judgmental. So back to the ‘who will be like me’ point- how do you convey a dislike for formulaic thinking, formulaic writing, and, well, FORMULAS?

When I began writing I didn’t know all the you’re-supposed-to-thises and you’re-supposed-to-thats. I wrote, and wrote some of my most original stories. Not formulaic, and also not publishable. Eager to get more than form rejections, I learned to ‘be like him,’ to know what is expected. To study the rules and by-pass them only for a compelling reason. I still get a lot of rejections, but many are requests to re-submit and encouragement for my writing.

In the back of my mind that Yiddish voice, reminding me to ‘be like me,’ beckons me. Somehow I find myself searching for this balance- to be like him, and be like me.

{Now I wish I knew Yiddish, because if any language can embrace dichotomies and contradictions, this is it. You know about two Jews and three opinions, right?}

When editors say they are looking for something ‘different,’ writers on chat-boards have surmised they mean ‘something that is the same, but with a difference.’ Rare is the editor who is really looking for something that has no trace of formula in it. Something different.

Well, this is my struggle and my *sigh* today. Come sigh like me…

Marketing and the Shy Person

How does a shy person tackle this thing called self-promotion?

We don’t.

An old joke tells of how to distinguish a truly shy person from a run-of-the-mill introvert: the introvert may look at your shoes when talking to you, while a truly shy person looks at his own shoes. That’s about how high they dare to fix their gaze.

Writers who wish to publish must sell themselves at every stage. First, the why you (the publisher) should take my story. Then- the why the market (virtual or brick and mortar) should pay any attention. Finally- the why you (the reader) should read it. There is no hiding behind a well-oiled marketing department. Even the largest publishers expect all but their A-listers to self-promote. With smaller publishers this is even more so. And if writers go the self-publishing route, they must become promotion machines. Highly *not* recommended for shy people.

Some shy-types have found that the social sites allow them to have friends or followers in the thousands, and they never have to look at anyone’s shoes. {If you are one of mine, know that I appreciate each and every one.} But let’s be honest about this: these are not friendships. Real friends give their time and attention and real friendships require no less from us. The most socially gregarious person I have ever met has less than a hundred real friends. I’m in awe of this level of connectedness, and can attest to said person being very busy maintaining those close connections.

Chat boards allow a shy person to put the word out. But generally this is where the word stops, and there is stays.

The other day I had what to me felt like an epiphany. I put forth what I believe is a mighty good offering. Initially it’s called a manuscript, and when published it’s called a book. That’s what I owe the world, and the world, in return, owes me nothing.

The pressure keg of how to make my offering be noticed by someone, anybody out there, suddenly dissipated. I’ll continue to offer my best, and come what may- I’ve done it right.

Oh, and will you please check out my book? I think you’ll like it. {Blush.}

I just noticed my shoes need some polishing.

The Quiet life of a Writer Mom

There’s a Yiddish saying- You can’t ride two horses with one behind.

But (homophone intended) isn’t that what we moderns do all the time?

I look at my own life. By definition as a stay-at-home mom it’s a calm life. Oh sure, there’s driving the kids. Yes, some house work and residential dinner chef services included. Oh, and that other thing, that little hobby of writing, which I insist on calling a profession and try to get paid for.

Then please explain to me why I am always busy and never catch up? No Dahling, it’s not the swank parties I attend. I’m a shy person who doesn’t attend parties, and my few dear friends are not swanky. No, I don’t sit in front of the television eating bonbons. What are bonbons exactly? The last time I saw one I was probably eight years old, and I don’t remember that far. I also don’t play tennis at the club (no budget for a club) and I don’t spend mornings kicking sand at the beach. When it comes to the beach I can glance at it from afar, with little time to actually go there.

What I do is ride two, nay- several, horses with one behind. By that old Yiddish saying, my life is an impossibility.

Don’t get me wrong; I LOVE MY BLESSED LIFE; or should I say- my lives? How many horses is this fellow riding?

And I did notice he is not using his one behind at all. You do what you have to do. Ride on!

Laughing My Pants Off

When was the last time you laughed your pants off?

Speaking for myself, I never laugh my pants off. My pants stay put. But I do laugh until every cell in my body dances a ticklish dance.

You get my meaning. What was a strong visual, now overused, has become a cliché. Cross that one out and think anew.

My excellent editor for The Voice of Thunder crossed out a few of these worn visuals, and rather than come up with replacements, she wrote ‘CLICHÉ’ in the margins. Of all the revision tasks I discovered that replacing a cliché with a fresh custom-thought was my favorite.

One such was the sentence- “You could cut the tension with a knife.” A strong image that has long lost its edge, (pun intended, and another cliché) and in the case of the voice of thunder, it was a pivotal sentence.

What did I change it to? You’ll have to read the book. Or maybe I should say- Please (PLEASE) read the book.

And whether you read the book or not, re-thinking worn-out expressions is the best gift I’ll leave you with today.

Because replacing these is too much fun to miss. While re-working clichés, I laughed so hard my earrings fell off.

The Voices a Writer hears

Oscar Levant had said that Schizophrenia is better than eating alone.

If you have close-ones who are mentally ill you might not find this funny, but I find it funny and poignant.

Writing is lonely, and characters we invent become companions. We ask them questions. Sometimes they talk back.

When I began writing The Voice of Thunder, the setting was somewhat biographical. From the very first page the characters let me know they were themselves, not people from my past. They not only talked back to me, they had things to say I never knew.

I grew to like them very much, and they kept me company.

This is part of the writing process I still don’t understand. The day scientists chart the imagination and show us what it looks like on a scan, I may come back to revisit and revise my notions.

Until then I will continue to think of this process as coming from ‘other,’ and find Oscar Levant’s comment to be applicable every writing day. And I’m a sober person, no mental disorders here. Not officially-certifiably, anyhow.

For a Few Days Only- Come and Get It!

May-18-21 2012:
My publisher is having a special offer for THE VOICE OF THUNDER, my novel for middle grades. If you have a Kindle or a device that is compatible (IPad & IPhone) you can download it for FREE, which is a very good price IMO…

http://www.amazon.com/The-Voice-of-Thunder-ebook/dp/B0081FUGBY/ref=tmm_kin_title_0?ie=UTF8&m=AG56TWVU5XWC2

This is a promotional offer in advance of the print release, September 4 2012. Don’t forget (if you like it) to consider posting a review on Amazon and/or Goodreads.

{Thank You!}

Greener Grass

Mother’s Day got me thinking about the mother I had, as opposed to the mother I wished I had. It got me thinking about both my parents, and a childhood I often wished I could re-write or revise like a story.

From my childhood in Jerusalem I remember Sabbath/Saturday mornings at my secular parents’ home as the day they slept late. When my mother got up she made “French toast,” back then a real oddity in Israel. Then my parents would put an opera on the turn-table, sit with the libretto, and with only a small break for lunch, get through all four or five LPs.

 I sometimes followed the story and music with them. My father would act it out and make it more vivid. Other times I would stare out the window, and see other families going to and returning from synagogue.

 Since I didn’t go to synagogue until I was much older, (and snuck by myself) those early images of families going to and returning from were a source of longing for the “normal” family I didn’t have. What happened in synagogue was shrouded in mystery for me.

Years later my best friend, whose parents did go to synagogue, told me that she envied me my intellectual and unconventional parents.

 I think the longing “for something” is universal, and so it manifests as wishing for what you don’t have.

The grass may be another color, not just greener. Any color but your own.

This Mothers' day I awoke to a new resolve to appreciate, if only for moments a day, the grass just as it grows where I am.

Reviving Retired Stories

For reasons known only to the Great Muse, I found myself reading my own old writing. This is something I never do.

Stories that I had long retired from the revise/re-write/submit mill still sit in My Documents. I retire a story when I lose interest in it, or lose faith in its being publishable. I have written stories I will never retire, and stories that got retired quickly. I suspect that had I deleted them, I would have little recollection of these old stories. But while I don’t re-read, I also don’t delete.

It’s a strange experience to read retired stories. I wrote them, but I barely recognize this writer. This is because I don’t write like *that* anymore. Evidence of the evolution of my writing style (at least I hope that’s what it is) are glaring.

It must be like looking in the mirror and seeing a face you don’t know. Something familiar, but no, I don’t know her.

But the Great Muse made sure I didn’t leave without a present. A couple of the stories knocked my socks off. I don’t remember thinking this well of them the first time around. Why did I ever retire these? Could have been a comment from a beta-reader, or from an editor. Comments now forgotten, but the stories are still there, and they amaze me.

They’re back from retirement now, and I make a resolution: what I never do, read my old writing, I will do again.

Cover Reveal: THE VOICE OF THUNDER

Fingers turned to Jell-O. I have to face it. Better do it now. But…but now I’m still feeling fine. What if after… what if it ruins my day. What if, like that other writer on the kid-lit chat board, I have to spend the next two days crying. Better do it right away, like yanking a Band-Aid. But I can’t. Not. Just. Yet.

This is an accurate description of my reaction to an Email I got a few days ago. Not one from any known detractor, but an Email I have waited for and wanted to get. The subject line, from the publisher, said “The Voice of Thunder cover.” I could see there’s an attachment. I opened the Email and, indeed, the text read: “Here you go! The official cover.”

But I didn’t open the attachment. Not until I looked at all the other Emails. Not until I got up and made some mint tea. Not until I took a deep breath. A hundred of them, actually.

While the tea brewed and I breathed, I kept saying to myself over and over- This part is not up to you. Whatever it is, you have to accept it. Whatever it is, it will be all right. Whatever.

Unless you self-publish, the cover design is between the publisher and their designer. I know of others who loved their book covers, some liked their covers, and some who disliked their covers. I even know one writer who was so despondent over the cover that he wanted to remove his name from the book. Writers advise each other to hope for the best, expect the worst, and to remind themselves to let go.

I opened the attachment.

I’m one of the fortunate. I *love* it.

The cover represents the story well, and it looks just as I would have deigned it if I could design. The designer clearly read the book. Mira Levi’s diary pages are set on old oak wood, all from the story. The old photograph is perfect. Now I really want to read this book…

I hope others feel the same. But this, too, is not up to me.

More about The Voice of Thunder on my website Books page.

See you there.

Spring’s in the Air

Finally, in all its fragrant force and dewy sparkle, spring is singing the song of rebirth. If this sounds like a bombastic and overwritten first sentence, so it is. This is how it looks from my window. Nature in overdrive.

Two species of birds have built nests outside, and the parent-birds are busy bringing wiggling worms to their babies. The maple tree in the backyard burst with green, where only weeks ago its branches looked like skeletal fingers. An eruption of weeds looks so gorgeous and flowery that I have no thought of pulling them out just yet.

But something in me is uneasy.

I had wrestled with spring-uneasiness for years, not knowing its source. Yesterday I ran into this quotation from Chaim Weizmann, Israel’s first President and a renowned scientist: “Miracles sometime occour, but one has to work terribly hard for them.” By definition, Miracles are supernatural. But to me life in all its forms is the greatest miracle. Here is a miracle I didn’t work for. I didn’t earn it.

I go through this every time there’s good news. I ask what I’ve done to deserve it. In this case what I’ve ‘done’ is live through a winter. Not enough, by any measure.

I think it’s more than my Jewish DNA to be suspicious of the glorious and the good. The echo of my grandmother saying, “why should it be easy when it can be hard?” is a small part of my discomfort at unearned gifts. {I can see you slapping your forehead in disbelief; thinking- is she complaining about spring now? But you didn’t have my grandmother.}

The bigger part is the voice that wishes to make sense of experience. The writerly need to find moral patterns in everything. Miracles earned, and misfortunes deserved. This is at the heart of this wrong turn.

And spring, with its bounty of gifts, is an affirmation of my error. Spring just is.

©Elina Lorenz

Enjoy.

E-everything

A dear friend pointed out the joys of the new age and its evolving technologies. She was reacting to my last blog post, lamenting a disappearing world, and she made good points.

So what’s with my angst about E-readers? She loves her E-reader, because aside from the obvious ease of lugging around a hundred books in one light electronic package, an E-reader contains a dictionary, (just click on any word) a magnifier, (just click on the size you want your font) and serves as an instant bookstore. (Just click to Amazon or B & N, and voilà!)

Of course she’s right. I’m not a complete Luddite. I use Email, and my reference encyclopedia is collecting dusk, because I navigate the Internet. I’m sure I’ll be getting an E-reader any day now. I got advance review copies (=ARC) in E-files of my novel, sent by the publisher, and I can’t read my own E-book except in pdf. That won’t last long. I’ll catch up. I haven’t quit the forward-running human race.

I’m also sure E-books will soon come with an option to lend, (why buy a good book if I can’t lend it?) and some way to gift these files that retain the ‘thingness’ of a present, (an Email with an attached file won’t do it) and so on. We are a race of problem-solvers.

When we solve these problems, and E-reader devices come complimentary with X-number of books purchased, paper books will become relics. Not for a while yet, but sooner than my slow-to-adjust self is ready.

Because the race is on.

Remember Book Stores?

To quote the wise man Jerry Seinfeld, “A book store is one of the only pieces of evidence we have that people are still thinking.” Not a good thought when bookstores are closing at an alarming rate.

©photo by Leslie Johnson

I do realize we are witnessing a cosmic shift. Stores of knowledge and evidence of thought will come from other sources. I may be the last one to buy an E-reader, and last customer in the last physical bookstore when they close the door for the last time. I’d consider it an honor.

Maybe you can join me and, as we grow ancient together, we can tell of rainy afternoons when we discovered treasures that changes our lives. We can shuffle together past where it all happened, and marvel at a world that moved more slowly, because it took itself, and the turns it made, more seriously.

Bookstores and paper books will be props for period movies and plays. Like vinyl records and turntables.

No doubt many E-books will be cheaper and easier to make. Everyone will custom -make their own, which is what rainy afternoons will be for. They will laugh at how cumbersome it once was, before it’s all gone and a bit of nostalgia will be allowed in.

I’m nostalgic already. In this one and only way I am ahead of the curve.

Seeking Approval

I was thinking about the need to have others call my work ‘good,’ when I remembered the story of the mother who gave her son two sweaters. He let her know how much he liked them. The next day he wore one of them, and she said, “What’s the matter? You didn’t like the other one?”

The need for approval cannot be satiated. It needs to be tamped down, because there is no ultimate resolution or release from it. I have a friend who has garnered many accolades, but always says the approval has not come “from the right people.” In her case it is a spouse who cannot bring himself to say, “You’ve done good.” For many, it is the voice of a parent, even if no longer here, who is forever unsatisfied.

In her book on writing, Crafting Stories for Children, Nancy Lamb calls this voice ‘the spoiler,’ and suggests talking back to it, even getting sassy. I think this applies to all we do.

Because the never-satisfied, never all right, who-do-you-think-you-are strains have overwhelmed too many good efforts. I write this on a day when I’m resolved to punch ‘em back. Go ahead; try telling me my post is worthless, I’m wasting my time, or worse- that it’s nice, but so what?

Today it will not matter. I got my punching gloves on. Tomorrow is another day.

Where the Light Is

So I ran into Frank who was standing under a street lamp frantically looking for something.

“Did you lose something, Frank?”

“Something? Not just ‘something.’ I lost a gold coin my great grandma left me,” said Frank. “I heard it drop.”

“Where exactly did you hear it drop?” I asked.

“Way back a couple of blocks on Miner’s Lane,” said Frank.

I was puzzled. “So why aren’t you looking over there?” I asked.

“Because the light is better over here,” Frank answered.

It’s an old story, and it got me thinking how we look not where the treasure is, but where the light is.

For writers and artists the real treasure is the gift of creating something new, looking at what you’ve made, and seeing that it is good. For one brief moment you get a hint of a whiff of the way we are made in our creator’s image.

The light may be worldly recognition. Not knocking it, but not confusing it with the real treasure either.

The Power of THE Word

“In the beginning was the word…”

In this case, the word is “THE.” Yup, I know. I sound like that ‘who’s-on-first’ Vaudeville sketch. This is a different story, and it’s the story of the title for my upcoming book, a historic novel for middle grades. (And all ages, she said.)

This is a story of impending war, and two girls who listen, clandestinely, to a radio station broadcast by the enemy. The name of this station is The Voice of Thunder from Cairo. This part is not only historic, it’s true. In Israel just before the Six-Day War there was such a station and I did listen to it, much to my mother’s chagrin.

When I submitted my novel to the publisher, I titled it The Voice of Thunder. After the initial joy of acceptance, I noted that the editor referred to it as Voice of Thunder, minus one ‘the.’ There was nothing official about the change of title, the first word,‘the,’ just wasn’t there.

I know publishers often change titles. I was happy to have three-quarters of my title still there. I was happy, period.

Working with the editors has been eye-opening and mind-expanding. I’ve loved it. (I also shed a few tears, and produced some sweat, but no blood. It is called ‘work’ for a reason.) I did notice that my book got listed on the publisher’s site first as Voice of Thunder, then, inexplicably, as The Voice of Thunder, and back to Voice of Thunder.

Looking over the final line-edits, the first ‘THE’ was back. I mentioned to my editor that I still liked the original, and she concurred. The web-site still has the three-word title, the typeset book has the four-word title.

One poor THE is dangling. It knows not where its place is, or if it is.

This saga has got me thinking about writers’ tools. Paragraphs made of sentences made of words. Every word counts. Even a lowly ‘the.’

Because in all deference to John 1:1- not only the beginning, but the middle, the end and the title is the word.

Daylight Savings Dilemma

A neighbor’s kid explained Daylight Savings Time to me this way: “They can’t decide, and they keep changing the time.”

Now I get it. These ‘they’ are confused, and so they are determined to confuse everyone else.

I do my best to be prepared. I start a day early. I begin changing all the clocks that let me. This is a habit I have from the time in 1983 when I left my visiting father & step-mother in front of the movie theatre to see the movie Gandhi.

My father joked that he needed to see it while visiting California so that he can causally drop an ‘Oh, Gandhi, I saw that when I was in the United States,’ when one of their many friends in Israel mentions having seen something in Paris, or in Stockholm. I had seen Gandhi the movie, so I just dropped them off. It was April, and yes, it was Sunday when Daylight Savings Time began.

You can guess the rest- I was clueless, and when I came to pick them up, I was told the second showing had started an hour before. The theatre let my father & his wife stay to see what they missed when they came in for the matinee, an hour after it started.

Gandhi, for your information, is a 191 minutes. Long enough to teach me a lesson.

But my neighbor’s kid is right. Because while in 1983 the time-change took place in April and November, it now seems to get closer and closer. This year we got a measly four-months taste of standard time. Just as I was getting on top of how to manage the change in an elegant way, ‘they’ are at it. They can’t make up their mind as to when it starts or ends. A moving target.

Keep the masses confused and disoriented. From the mouth of babes.

Can you tell I’m suffering adjustment pains? Got to get some coffee.

ACCEPTING CRITIQUES AND SUGGESTIONS

To slightly paraphrase an old joke-

How many critique-group members does it take to screw in a light bulb?

Why does it *have* to be changed?

I have a few beta readers I adore. They offer to read and give feedback, asking for nothing in return. [I haven’t checked my bill box today yet. ;)] One of them referred to the tireless work he has done to improve my stories as ‘something worthwhile to do.’ I know there’s a special place in heaven for those who read pre-published manuscripts.

Critique groups are different. Writers helping each other improve, with the understanding that as much as you get, you will also give. I belong to one such group, and eight of us take turns each week giving feedback to one member’s story.

I do well with my beta readers, because I get each as a single review. I have time to think about it, and consider what to accept and what to pass on. I set it aside and get back to the reader’s suggestions again and again, until I feel I have gotten the last drop of help. I can also return to the reader and ask questions and re-visit the story after implementing some of the changes. To be honest, I rarely do this. I almost always ‘see’ what they suggest or I don’t ‘see’ it. But knowing I can come back sets me into relaxed openness, and makes a fruitful revision.

It is different with a critique group. My experience with mine, getting seven sets of suggestions all in one week, can be overwhelming. “Why,” I find myself asking, “is it this particular critique is the only one to see it?” Sniff-sniff. “Why do two think this is a strong sentence, their favorite, and two others think it should be deleted?” Humph.

Never one to ‘just go by the majority,’ I have to consider each on its own. That’s a lot to look at all at once.

So I developed a strategy, which works for me. I read each quickly as it comes in. I highlight what strikes me as entirely valid. Then I set it aside. All of them. Seven hard copies of critiques sit in a folder, quietly waiting.

A week later I will re-visit them one at a time, with at least a day between visits. I will copy the suggestions I want to consider onto a fresh document. When the visiting round is over, I will look at the copied suggestions and work from there. I will not look back at all I have chosen not to implement for now. There is such a thing as ‘too many cooks.’

And I remind myself I am the master chef. It has to taste good to me.

The ‘ALMOSTS’

I was almost born on February the 29^th. It was a leap year, and my mother went into labor that morning. She told me she worried that I would not have a real calendar-birthday but once every four years, and I still think she willed me to wait until the early morning of March 1^st. My best friend and I loved thinking about this, and trying to figure out how many birthdays I almost would have had. We talked about how I was ‘almost just one’ or ‘almost just two.’ It was good for developing early division skills.

When I was six-months old I almost died of Hydrocephalus. A new surgery, just pioneered, saved my life. For years I would joke that whatever cognitive skill I did not excel at was because of that episode. But that Almost saved my life and my cognition, such as it is.

When I was a teen I almost met a prime minister. That story, as told by my mother, went something like this: my mother was a divorced single parent, and I was her designated partner for all cultural events. Once again we were going to a good concert of a world-famous pianist, when I refused to come along. The way I remember it, I had a final exam the next morning and needed to study. My mother took a dear friend instead, and when they came back late that night, their faces were flushed with excitement. Seems that they ran into another old friend who was there with the son-in-law of Golda Meir, then the prime minister of Israel. For some reason the four of them headed to the prime minister’s residence after the concert, and who made them coffee and served cookies? You guessed it. Golda even apologized that the cookies were not home-made. I know you’re thinking my mother made this story up, but if you knew my mother you’d know she hadn’t.

As a writer I’ve had plenty of less dramatic ‘Almosts.’ Almost went to acquisitions, almost made it through acquisitions, and the picture book that made it almost all the way to publication. These are the almosts I know about. There may be some only the great designer of all things knows.

But of all the almosts, it is the missed leap-year birthday that I keep coming back to. I may be excused now for wishing I had a lower birthday count, or maybe hoping for some distinction. It isn’t that, really. It is a sense that something of a tone had been set to my life story. The ‘just missed it by a hair’ strain. For good and for bad.

To be honest, I have had many ‘hits’ and much good fortune, not only near-misses. But this is February the 29^th, after all. Today is my almost-birthday.

I raise a glass of sparkling cider (it’s almost champagne)-Cheers!

TAGGED!

The incredibly energetic, super-productive Kelly Hashway (she’s also nice and beautiful, but that’s beside the point) tagged me in this bloggers’ game, and my first reaction was- I don’t do these pyramid-tagging sorts of thingies.

My second reaction was that I’ve become old and stodgy way too fast, and I could use some Kelly spirit. So I’m playing this time. In addition to needing an infusion of Kelly’s ‘can-do,’ it’s hard to resist an interview with self.

So I’m playing. Rules/questioned copied are in bold. Here goes-

The Tag rules:

1. You must post the rules!

2. Answer the questions.

3. Tag eleven people and link to them.

4. Let them know you’ve tagged them.

Questions to answer:

If you could live in a fictional world, where would that be?
The Garden, before the fall. I’m a bit tired of our species’ machinations at the moment.

Do you read in noisy or quiet places?

Quiet, when I can get it.

What was the first book you ever read?
A book of folk tales from faraway lands, and I lived in one then- Israel.

If you could only read one book for the rest of your life, what would it be?
I’m cheating because this is an impossible question- an anthology of the greatest short stories. If this answer is not all right, I’d say the Bible, because it is that and more- history, poetry, philosophy and the rest. The Bible is many books in one.

Favourite author?
Can you tell the original tagger is from England or the commonwealth? Check that^ spelling. (My way of avoiding naming ONE.)

Do reviews influence your choice of reads?

If the summary tells me this is about something I want to/don’t want to read about, then yes.

Fiction or Non fiction?
Both.

Have you ever met your favourite author?
I have met one of them, but I’m not telling.

Audio books or Paperbacks?
Paper, always.

Classic or Modern Novels?

Both.

Book Groups or Solitary Reading?

Solitary, all the way.

11 people to tag? Ah!

Naming names is the hardest for me. Join only if you think you could use this excursion in your life….

Diane Hower

Evelyn Christensen

Nancy Sanders

Tina Cho

Vijaya Bodach

Carmella Van Vleet

Mara Rockliff

Mary Rand Hess

Ellen Jackson

Barbara Bockman

And so I lost steam after ten… Typical me- not playing by the rules.

The Ideal Blog Reader

Yesterday I met my ideal reader.

I am thinking of the ideal reader of this blog, not my fiction. I may be speaking of you.

In a place unrelated to the publishing business, someone I don’t know well walked over to me and told me she reads my blog, and loves it. She went on to say some of the most moving words about my writing to have crossed my tickertape. And then she added: “You’re funny too.”

Mind you, she is a busy, productive and accomplished woman. Because she likes this blog, I will add that she is sensitive as well, and has good taste.

And she is not an editor or an agent, nor does she write fiction or buys children’s books. She is not one of the ‘followers’ or ‘Like button clickers,’ or anyone I would have remotely imagined to have a reason to come here.

She likes my writing, that’s all. The ideal reader.

This got me thinking about our readers, the ones we don’t know and would not have guessed we speak to. We read and see movies about the creepy kind. Not much about the sane and the good. We know the ones we know. The others are beyond the sea, where we know there are souls but the naked eye can’t see.

And then, for one brief moment, I remembered the other reason I write. In the roaring traffic’s boom, beyond the confines of my lonely room, I think of you, the reader.

©Painting by Shelagh Duffett

©Happy Valentine’s Day©

The Art and Commerce of Writing

There are certain clichés that abound in Writer Land. One of these is to write from your heart, not to the market.

Literary minded Beta-readers mention it. Editors at conferences say it. ‘How-to’ books exclaim it. Only the occasional blunt agent blog will say otherwise. But they are marketers, after all.

However, every writer who has fashioned stories of real substance has gotten one of those rejections: “The manuscript is amazing. I really love it. Unfortunately it is unlikely to sell well in today’s (fill in the black) market.”

So there lies the dichotomy between internal truths and commercialism.

Or is it? I worry that editors underestimate readers. If they really loved it, so will plenty of readers.

As a writer for younger readers, I’ve also gotten the “kids won’t get this.” Again, the gate-keepers think too little of the readers. I know, because I have test-driven stories with their intended audience.

And then, everyone and their cousin complain about how flat and content-free most of the offerings are in books/movies/television.

Even gifted stock-traders are baffled by the market place, and rarely understand trail-blazers. So too for publishing. If acquisition editors really knew the market, they would be zillionaires.

{All right. I’m whining about good personal rejections. I should also say that they make my day and leave me buoyant. My writer friends can attest to how I barely contain myself as I share positive feedback, that oxymoron writers call ‘good rejections.’ Any response these days is rarer than a red diamond. But yesterday a supremely talented writing friend shared one of her rejections that were in the ‘wonderful-but-not-commercial’ vein. I found my frustration floating to the top. I know her manuscript, and it is far stronger than most I see in print.}

So I’m back to where I started this meditation. My mantra, my answer, is to write the best stories I can. From the heart

Creeps and Crawlers

The other day I noticed an unfamiliar charge on my card. I monitor my account closely, so I spotted it while it was still pending. I called the bank, thinking this could be a benign mistake. They put the transaction in the ‘to be investigated’ virtual pile.

Two days later an even larger charge from the same purveyor (the bank was unable to get any information on them) appeared. Now the bank and I were clear this was fraud, and that my charge account had been compromised. The account was closed immediately, and now it’s in the hands of the Fraud Department.

That same day the ants appeared. They make their yearly appearance when the rainy season starts, forming a dense parade route somewhere in our bathroom or kitchen. The rains started late this year, so the ants came late also. Over the years I have tried many gentle ways to persuade them to take their business outside. I tried pouring cinnamon in their path, on the advice of an animal activist. I tried the sort of ant traps that supposedly only make them uneasy, and I tried wiping a hundred times a minute. I even tried talking to them. Nothing worked.

But the solution did appear in the form of those traps that make the ants come in, take the sticky sweet food on their backs to the nest, and this kills the whole nest. It takes about a day to work, but it does, every time. We don’t see each other until the next rainy season at least.

A day later the ants are gone from our bathroom, but the charges on my card are still pending. I trust that I will not have to pay them, and because I acted quickly, even the bank will not be out. But the creeps deserve no less than the creepy crawlers got.

So I had this amazing idea. What if instead of just closing their account with a slap on the wrist, the bank gave them money, even more money, sweet and sticky money that was marked as loot from a deadly robbery? Then, once in their possession, they will be arrested for the worst kind of crime, put away, and the key thrown in the ocean.

All right. I’m fantasizing. But it does me good at the moment. It’ll be a much more just world if innocent ants get to live free (but not at our homes) and creepy thieves get their nests poisoned.

Wishing all good folks none of the above.

Something and Nothing

There’s an old Jewish saying- IT’S ALWAYS SOMETHING.

(The English version is more like ‘if it’s not one thing, it’s another.’)

I remember the hot water heater bursting many years ago when I lived in a rented apartment. I was supposed to fly to New York for a funeral the next day, and the landlord was too busy to deal with it right then. I remember thinking that I’m glad it didn’t happen when I was away and the damage from the water would have been substantial. But then, it would have been better if it didn’t happen, period.

And then I thought of this^ saying.

I thought of it again when a writer friend, now jobless (she did have a day-job, as most do) and newly out of unemployment benefits, had her water heater burst. Now what.

I thought about it last summer when the third of our semi-antique vehicles became dysfunctional, just as my kid needed to be taken to the doctor. We had three non-working cars and one sick kid. What next.

I thought of it when my editor (an otherwise fantastic professional to work with) had a new brainstorm, which required a whole re-write, only days after an Email telling me we are good to go and heading to line-editing. Tell me about it.

IT’S ALWAYS SOMETHING.

But then I thought- what’s the alternative? NOTHING.

This is not to disparage those calm periods where everything is ticking along smoothly. Those halcyon days gliding on gently, where the silent pulse of time ticks without murmur. Those are the breaks, allowing batteries to re-charge.

To be honest, I am barely alive during the calm. If I am, I must confess I don’t remember it well. In life, like in stories, it’s the punctuation, the breaks, the cracks and the explosions that make the stories. There has to be SOMETHING.

Ah, blessed Something.

And as I’m counting, I wish blessings to come in gingerly. Unlike fiction, where the ‘one-two-three-CLIMAX’ is a convention of story telling, I wish the Somethings will space themselves. More like a fender-bender, not a pile-up on the highway. In my less Zen moments, I wish for more Nothing and less Something.

I wish you plenty of Nothing, bits of Something, and a good working car.