Tomorrow, I commit myself to writing 2000 words a day for the next month, I’ll be honest; I’m not as motivated for this as I’d like.
I have a lot of documents to edit (now that my developmental editor lets me know what’s not working). I have a novel that needs 25,000 more words.
On the other hand, there’s feeling a part of something bigger than me. NaNo is huge. NaNo is worldwide. NaNo comes with its own motivation.
Oh, this is such a hard decision! I’ll keep you posted.
As I attempt to settle down for coffee at the campus coffee shop, a spacious, dimly lit Starbucks with sensible tables to work at, a woman quickly walks up to me and asks, “Can I talk with you?” I notice belatedly she has a toddler with her, a towhead with a wise face.
Because the upcoming book, Becoming Kringle, is about Santas and Christmas, most of my mix tape (or as I call it, soundtrack) music is going to be Christmas music. To go with the other theme, which is noir-ish, I chose a lot of Brat Pack and other crooners for my music. The mix is as follows:
Blues for Guy — Andre Hossain
Christmas Memories — Frank Sinatra
Mistletoe and Holly — Frank Sinatra
The Merriest — Various
Sympatico — Howard Shore
Santa Baby — Eartha Kitt
Winter Wonderland — Frank Sinatra
Bucket of Blood — Pino Donaggio
I’ve Got My Love to Keep Me Warm — Dean Martin
Silencio – Angelo Badalamenti
I walk into one of my favorite coffeehouses, all blonde wood and warm brown walls, with an iron and wood staircase which ascends above to a quiet place above the counter. Under the stairwell are more tables, and at one of the tables sits a tall, bony young man with a shaved head and nerd glasses. I sit down; piercing blue eyes regard me from behind the glasses.
“I was expecting you,” he said, cocking his head. “You’re the author, aren’t you?”
“Yes, I’m the author. Are you on break?”
“Yeah, for a few minutes. Want a coffee?” He called out to the counter, “Bettina, Dr. Leach here needs a coffee. My treat.”
A moment later, I’m settled across the table from the man. His long fingers cradle a cup of coffee.
“Your name is Brent Oberhauser, right?”
“Got it in one.” He leaned back in his chair. “This is what I do when I’m not writing my dissertation. Or teaching American History.”
“So,” I asked, “You’re going to be a professor, right?”
“I didn’t have much of a choice. My parents are both professors — political science and chemistry — and I think they’d have died of shame if I didn’t go for a PhD.” He leaned forward again, setting all four feet of the chair on the floor. I heard his foot tap, and I wondered if he ever truly rested. “Me, I’m history. Not that that’s helping me with my latest dilemma.”
“What dilemma?” I inquired.
“I have to be Santa for the Yule Ball this year. I mean, last several years we had Kris Kringle — I mean Kriegel. Short guy, ginger, runs a toy shop. He put the outfit on and he became Father Christmas. I’m gonna put it on and it’s going to barely hit my knees and I’m going to look like a stork in a skirt or something. I’ll scare the kids away …” He rubbed his eyes under his glasses. “Why did Kris have to move away?”
“I don’t know,” I shrugged, knowing that as the author, it was all my fault that Kris Kriegel and his new wife Marcia had moved to Missouri.
“I’ll quit whining,” Brent shrugged. “It doesn’t look good on me.” He unfolded himself from the chair and threw his apron back on. “Stay a while. I have to get back to work.”
And so I stayed.
As I peered into my computer screen, a low and modulated voice broke into my reverie. “May I sit down?”
I look up, and the cafe became solid again. A tall, slender woman with brown skin and fine black braids pulled into a sleek bun stood with her hand on the back of the chair facing me. She is dressed in a red skirt suit with sensible black heels. Her air of calm competence left me feeling a bit awkward.
“Sure,” I said, nodding to the chair.
She reached down to shake my hand. “My name is Sunshine Walton. You asked to see me?”
Oh, I thought. Oh. Of course I had asked to see her. I had thought I needed to see my characters for my latest book more clearly. I hadn’t guessed … “Yes — yes. I did ask to see you. I just didn’t expect you so — quickly.”
Sunshine smiled bemusedly. “Did you want to ask me some questions?” She sat straight, almost primly, in her chair.
“Yes. What is your background?”
“I’m a military brat.” She sobered. “I think we moved five times by the time I finished high school — no, six. ” She chuckled, a low pleasant sound. “I got to see the world. It was a strange childhood. It was hard to get to know anyone outside my family, because then they’d leave, or we’d leave. It was a vivid and lonely childhood.”
“Any romances in your life?” I wasn’t sure that was a good question to ask, but I asked it anyhow.
“Oh, I had a grand romance in high school — that was ages ago …” Sunshine chuckled. “I was convinced he was the love of my life, and then — “
“Then what?” I asked impatiently.
“We moved again. Apparently it couldn’t last long-distance. He never wrote. Since then, I’ve been too busy to have a relationship — college, finding a job in my field …” Sunshine gazed in the distance, then shrugged.
“What is your field?”
“Accounting. But I also have some management skills. I think I have an innate talent for management, but I thought accounting was safer.”
“Safer?” I queried.
“More likely to get a job. I don’t like the thought of starving.” Sunshine raised her eyebrows. “That’s why my dad ended up in the military, I guess.”
“One more question,” I stated. “How do you feel about Santa Claus?”
Sunshine laughed. “I haven’t believed in Santa since I was seven. I guess he’s a good thing for the children. I suppose if I have kids, I’ll do the Santa thing with them, but …” Her voice trailed off as she gazed into the distance, then she shook herself. She checked her watch. “I have to go — I have an appointment across town in fifteen minutes.” She stood in an efficient motion, nodded to me, and strode out the door.
I smiled. Sunshine’s studied calm was about to be upended by a bit of Christmas magic.
If you’re interested in hanging out on my Facebook page, especially if you want to read shorter posts and interact, you can find and like my page at: Laurenwriter
As I noted in these pages prior, I am trying out two publishing coaches (this happened by accident when I realized I’d verbally committed to two different people). I spoke with coach #1 yesterday and this is what I learned:
1) My cover letter needs to be more personal. I had no idea of this — I’m used to writing business letters, and that’s what I did. I rewrote my cover letter keeping this in mind.
2) I need more of an online presence. This blog, for example, is an online presence, but few people know about it. I have a twitter account which posts links to this blog. I’m putting up a page on Facebook and have invited friends — but few people etc. etc. In other words, I haven’t been letting the agents into my online presence. I’m fixing this.
3) I have a writing quirk that could be dropping readers out of the story — and it shows up on the first page. The quirk is that sometimes I give background in a blunt manner rather than through narrative or other storytelling. I break the adage “show me, don’t tell me”. My publishing coach is going to look for this in the first 50 pages; I need to edit the rest of this.
Being a serious writer, it turns out, is hard work. In my arrogance, or perhaps my ignorance, I thought my writing was publishing-ready when I finished it. I thought all that was needed was to proofread and change up some awkward language.
At the same time I’m grateful for my coaching and editing and I’m sighing about having to go through the document again.
But hello, online presence! Thanks for sharing the day with me!
On Facebook, getting to know someone looks like this:
Have you ever been arrested? Y/N
Had a parent die? Y/N
Traveled overseas? Y/N
Gotten married? Y/N
(My answers are, in order, N, Y, Y, Y).
I don’t think that’s getting to know someone. Getting to know someone involves listening to the stories behind the answers above. In doing so, one can detect the feelings and thoughts of the person who’s telling the story.
It’s hard to do this on Facebook. People don’t tell their stories when they don’t think the other is listening, and it’s hard to look like one’s listening behind a screen. Nuances are lost. Emotions are lost.
That’s not to say that I don’t feel connected to people on Facebook. I feel connected to the people I’m friends with in real life. They’re the ones who have my stories.
My worst fear about writing is that, after developmental editors and publishing coaches, I will be left with this choice: Write what I love or get published.
I have gotten several rejections by agents. I don’t know if anyone will read me if I self-publish, because I’ve never been good at self-promotion.
There, I said it.
This has been my fear all along, that I will hit a dead end in my writing career — and yes, I think of it as a career, or at least the start of a career.
If that’s the worst thing that can happen, what are the possibilities?
I don’t have more than three possibilities in my mind. My mentor Les says that’s a bad thing, because there are always more than two options. I, however, cannot quit until I’ve exhausted all avenues.
On the flip side, how would I measure success?
I sit in my writing chair, keenly mindful of the leaves outside which have turned, brilliant colors we don’t usually associate with wisdom and aging. Exuberance, we think, is for the young and for their springtime. yet the flames of the trees in fall should remind us that those of us who have grown older have our own glory.
Words Like Me 