Author: lleachie

I am an associate professor of human services at a regional Midwestern university. I am also a writer of fantasy and romance, hoping to get traditionally published. I have one husband and am owned by four cats.

Why Novels?

Even though I still ponder whether the world needs my novel, I am still prepping for NaNo, which starts this Saturday. My goal is to finish Prodigies at a clip of 1000 words per day, or 30,000 words for the month-long session. That’s a lot of words, yet I’ve written 50,000 words or more during regular NaNo season.

I used to write at a much more relaxed pace, a short story here, a poem there, and occasionally a chunk of song lyrics. I mostly used to write about my feelings without much artistry (although in my defense, without too much cliché.) On rare occasions, I would show someone and they’d say “That’s really nice.”

I wanted to know how good I was and how good I could be. I read others’ poetry, and felt I didn’t quite have what contemporarily published poets had in terms of their raw emotion and immediate imagery. At the same time, I had to write my truth, which was that of a woman who lives her life in a clear glass bubble, sequestering her emotions. I felt an affinity with Emily Dickinson, another woman who lived in her own clear glass bubble, and I remembered that she died with most of her poems unread. My own truth has a very limited audience — 385 hits a week. or about 45 hits a day (Thanks, readers!)

Once I found out from my first NaNo that I can write over 50,000 words with a coherent plot, I realized I could write novels. However, I didn’t know that I could write good novels. I wrote those novels about other people, other situations, other plots — yet we write what we know, so the brittle beauty and the emotional turmoil still show up.

I hoped to prove my talent by getting an agent and, eventually, getting published. That has not happened. I have gotten over 200 rejections, and almost all of these read “This isn’t grabbing me” or some variation. I may still write novels. I may burn out and develop a project obsession (although we don’t have enough room room in the yard for a 4-season greenhouse with a hot tub. Believe me, I measured).

I’m rethinking a lot of things right now. But I will still finish those 30,000 words.

Writing from the Soul

Writing comes from a personal place.

I would argue that all writing — poetry and novels, song lyrics and even textbooks come from a need within one’s soul. The need may be as mundane as “I really wish someone had written a textbook about case management for the disabled (Me about 10 years ago)” and as lofty as “I want to share this prophetic dream I had last night” (me thirty years ago), or for that matter, “I want to imagine I’m the captain of this starship who gets away with anything short of murder and gets branded a hero” (Whoever write the Star Trek movie reboot).

One also can write for the market, which can be a whole ‘nother thing, as they say around here. This is the thing I struggle with, because I have this crazy notion that people need to read emotionally packed narratives about people who don’t match the status quo. For example, there’s Amarel:

Finally, Janice found herself back at the building site. The bales had been set in place, and workers set a framework inside and out to create the cob walls. Gideon walked the perimeter, pointing out how to develop the frames for the curved sections of the house. Larry and another man watered something in a wide trough, then pounded it with what looked like small tree trunks with handles. 

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Most of the men had taken off their shirts, as it had grown hot outside. Janice admitted she enjoyed the view, and then she saw Amarel, shirtless and untouched by sun, at a wheelbarrow where he mixed mud and straw with a shovel and dumped them at the end of the trough. What Janice saw was beautiful, the angelic face focused, the graceful torso with muscles engaged, pectorals both muscular and curved, the intrigue of slight curves that she didn’t understand at his hip. The alabaster sculpture gained detail in her mind.

Amarel is truly genderqueer, engendered that way by the plan of the Maker. He presents as both make and female, and that causes some consternation even among the supposedly liberal people surrounding him. Janice, the artist taking refuge at Barn Swallows’ Dance, wavers between thinking him the perfect sculptor’s subject and worrying about the implications of falling in love with him. This is what comes from my soul — imperfect people who defy the status quo and have to resolve some great developing problem.
I’m still considering whether I can write for the market and satisfy my soul. I might have to take solace from the case of Emily Dickinson, who continued to write despite a readership puzzled by her poetry. I’ll see how it goes.


Hidden stories in a Poem

Sometimes when we write, we reveal our subconscious evaluation of a situation through the imagery we use, and only later do we realize that.

For example, here’s a poem I wrote thirteen years ago:

Three Men     9/27/05
i.
A polished marble obelisk
in a rose garden.
A portly tiger cat
rubs against my ankles
and nips my hand in greeting.
ii.
A lake at midnight,
with harvest moon reflected.
A distant poor-will calls,
and my heart aches.
iii.
At the end of an endless road —
a house, cool white, surrounded by trees.
I sit on the porch, waiting.
A huge white dog runs to me,
and puts his head in my lap.

*********
This was about three men who were casually in my life at the time. I was not dating any one of them, but spending time (face to face or online) with all three. When I wrote, it was based on the imagery I had when  I wrote about them, which is one of the reasons I think this poem became a turning point in my poetry skills.

According to the “end of an endless road”, you’d think guy #3 was someone I might end up with, right? Not if you were my friend and mentor Les. I read him this poem and he said, “I’m putting my money on the cat.”

He was right — #1 was written about my now-husband. We’ve been married for 11 years.

What did my friend see in the symbolism? #2 was never in the running, as he was all about darkness and heartbreak. #2 was great for poetry (I wrote a poem abut him which should be set to music.

#3 — wouldn’t he be the one, the one all about settling down and coming home? Not if you’re me, although I didn’t understand it at the time. The dog here is subservient and tame. I’m a high-spirited person, which my friend knew well.

So that leaves us with #1. What might my friend have found in that verse? The description is more affectionate and playful, with a tiger (orange) cat nipping at me. The polished obelisk represents a sense of mystery. Roses represent romance.  I didn’t get this at the time, so it surprised me.

I owe my friend Les a fifth of premium Scotch whiskey.

Actions and Consequences

I just wrote what I suspect is the most unromantic kiss scene ever. The trigger of this was Grace being asked to demonstrate her talent for manipulating emotions, which had an effect in a wider radius than she had counted on:

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Greg bolted from the table and stepped out the back door into the alley. I ran after him, and found him out in the alley, leaning against a grimy brick wall, eyes closed.

I put my hand on his arm. “Greg,” I asked, “Are you okay?”

Before I knew it, Greg had grabbed me by the shoulders and pushed me against the wall. He said something in Polish, and of course I couldn’t understand it. His lips met mine, and —

“Oh,” I exclaimed shakily after an explosive moment where he tried to devour me. It had been … strange. Part of me wondered what it meant; the other part of me wondered “Is that all there is?” Not a great feeling for one’s first kiss.

Greg leaned back against the wall beside me, his eyes closed. I noticed the fine lines in his face as I hadn’t before, and I knew he was what my Grandmama would call a lost soul. He took my hand. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah, shouldn’t I be?” What I wanted to ask was “Why did you kiss me?” but I knew I shouldn’t because people didn’t dissect something as special as a kiss, even if there was something all wrong about it. I thought about that wrongness and burst out crying.

“Oh, Lord,” Greg muttered, “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to — “

“It’s not that,” I sniffled. “I know you don’t — “

“Grace,” Greg sighed, “I wish I could, but I’m too messed up. I don’t even know if I have feelings anymore. And when my memories get too bad, I — I get overwhelmed and grab onto someone or something to remind me I’m still alive.”

We pulled ourselves away from the wall. Greg enfolded me into a hug, and I wanted to sing him a song about contentment and comfort.
***************

So let’s look at the actions and their consequences:

  • Grace demonstrates her ability to manipulate emotions, which affects Greg (in the next room)*;
  • Greg has flashbacks and runs out of the room**;
  • Grace chases him to an alley;
  • Greg, after flashbacks, gives Grace a rather rough and unromantic first kiss;
  • She starts crying;
  • Greg apologizes for not having feelings for her;
  • Grace comforts him.
There will be future consequences for Greg and Grace here which will leave readers thinking there will be a “ship” (relationship) here. I’m not telling, except that I’m uneasy about relationships that evolve from near-assaults.
Do actions always have consequences in writing? Not all the time; I would argue not nearly enough. In the action movie genre, the protagonist executes many destructive and illegal actions, but in the end, the protagonist suffers no consequences. Or, as in the Avengers franchise, the good guys cause immense damage (and possibly casualties; that’s kept off screen.) At the end, an oblique mention of a large bill is made; Iron Man pays it. That is wish fulfillment deserving of a Marty Stu*** award. 
I don’t know if this hurts or helps my writing; it is what it is. I like my people to be realistic by their own definitions, even in fantasy. Actions have consequences, even in space or the middle of a pasture or … 
******************
* Off-stage
** Also off-stage
*** Marty Stu is defined as the male counterpart of the Mary Sue (a character who gets inserted, astonishes everyone, and gets the guy). I will argue that it’s hard to find Marty Stus because they have been defined in Mary Sue (traditional female wish-fulfillment) terms. I consider the Marty Stu as the insertion/wish fulfillment where the hero makes dangerous and destructive decisions and actions, faces no consequences, and yes, gets the girls (usually plural) — in other words, every action movie ever.

If i break the sky

If I break the sky,

the sun behind the sun will stream white light
and all will be known,
yes, all will be known;
and the words cannot be erased
when they’re held in the naked light,
and you will know all,
and you will know all,
and the sun behind the sun will die
if I break the sky.

Planting my Garden

I am surrounded by love,
and love is my protection.

This is my mantra when my thoughts say ugly things to me. Negative self-talk is ingrained in the mind to be triggered when emotions pull us below zero. It hollows out my sadness until it is a gaping maw to devour me.

I am surrounded by love,
and love is my protection.

Negative self-talk is learned — by parents, by experiences, by other trusted adults. I experienced extensive bullying, emotional abuse, sexual assault and rape, conditional love. I have learned to devalue myself.

I am surrounded by love,
and love is my protection.

My self-talk tends to tell me that I’m no good, nobody has ever loved me, and everyone thinks I’m weird. My mind believes that I am helpless and powerless and that everything bad that happens to me is still my fault. Most of the time I can keep these insinuations at bay, but when I feel negative emotions, the negative self-talk gnaws at me, spiraling down so that I reside at the bottom of a dank well.

I am surrounded by love,
and love is my protection.

I don’t know if the words are true, but when I say them, I feel loved and protected. I don’t know if it’s my mind is soothing me now, if I’m making a prayer to a higher power, or if one can actually feel love from people far away. It doesn’t matter — my mantra is making me whole again.

Celebrity Cats Have Gone to the Dogs

I live my life simply, asking “Do I need it” before seriously considering “As Seen On TV” gadgets (and the answer is usually “no”.)

 I am not inclined to buy the latest fashion, arranging my wardrobe into two categories: classic and long-lasting work clothes, and jeans/t-shirts* (even t-shirts with words on them, which are supposed to be passé for older women.)

I avoid television, mostly because I have an infinite attention span in the wrong moments — like, say. commercials. And celebrity is lost on me — I have no desire to get an autograph from Wolverine, Lorde, Chris what’s-his-name who played Captain America, or Oprah Winfrey. **

Therefore, I  thought I was immune to the celebrity testimonial advertisements, which are supposed to make us feel closer to said celebrity if we buy these items. *** I wasn’t a namedropper, I didn’t covet fashion accessories, and I surveyed potential purposes by their usefulness.

And then came the Celebrity Cats.

For those of you who hate cats, the allure of Celebrity Cats has escaped you. You have never watched Surprise Kitty do jazz paws, or the round-faced Waffles demonstrating what cats look like when they’re in-bread (you do get the joke, don’t you?) And the slightly crosseyed Nala Cat, and the Boddhisattva from outer space, Lil Bub …

Obviously, I don’t hate cats. My Instagram feed has as many cats as humans. And yes, I follow the Celebrity Cats and their owners like others would follow the cast of Supernatural. The other day, Monty Boy had a seizure and I was combing his Instagram feed for the latest word on his condition (latest word — it’s not anything horrible).

But then the Celebrity Cats started selling things.

It began with fan merchandise (yes, Celebrity Cats have fans) like t-shirts**** and coffee mugs, and that was cool, because it was fun to be a follower of a quirky cat.*****

But then the Celebrity Cats started doing product placement and brand testimonials for cat-related items like automatic litterboxes and high-end cat food and something that looks like a gerbil wheel … and something has soured in my relationship with Celebrity Cats.

Why have I soured to these cats’ newfound success? Is it that I think they’re being exploited? I feel this way, although it’s not rational — the humans sign contracts that the cat hasn’t even seen (or likely cares about). Why was I not opposed to the t-shirts and the coffee mugs and …?  Because those reached out to other cat lovers and provided a sense of affinity.

What changes when selling third-party products enters the equation? First of all, cat lovers are a quirky lot, and we feel we have personal relationships with our small, furry divas.****** When they start becoming commercial actors, or worse, celebrity endorsers, the illusion fades and we realize that the owners, not the cats, are running the show. The curtain is gone, and what lies behind it is not a cute, quirky cat but a human with a degree in marketing.

* You may notice that this list leaves no room for sexy outfits. Deal with it.

** “You get an autograph, you get an autograph, EVERYBODY gets an autograph!” Sorry, international readers, you probably don’t get this. Comment if you want an explanation.

*** Not closer as in “Open the door, love, and quit calling the cops”, but closer as in “I’m in the in-group, I’m cool, I wear the same jeans as someone who launched a career by looking good in these jeans. Maybe I’m next.”

**** I only have three Bub t-shirts, and only because I had to replace one that had gotten too big and it was on sale, so … My husband reminded me of the sweatshirt. oops.

***** I have stuffed toy Bubs, Grumpy Cats, and a Simon’s Cat.

******As I speak, Girlie-Girl is sitting on the leg of the couch and the computer stand, purring.