I’m sitting in the lobby of The Elms in Excelsior Springs, Missouri celebrating a very mellow Christmas Eve. Having no children or grandchildren, this is how our holidays go.
We eat at the local restaurants, we shop, we soak up local history. We got our massages yesterday (and that was marvelous!) and have had time to write. We’ve had time to relax, and heaven knows I needed that.
I’m posting my Christmas greetings to you now, because I will probably be busy watching Christmas movies tomorrow in-between writing and the buffet.
I occasionally throw my characters into other situations where they have to have a close interaction with another character. This is the way my characters teach me who they are. These also become short stories to be included in short story collections (such as Stories Within Stories, which will be out January 1st.)
For example:
What does a vision quest look like in a big city?
How do two enemies interact when one is having a very bad day?
How do two characters navigate a cultural divide?
How do a human and an immortal negotiate having a child?
How do you confront a mythical creature?
There are hundreds of ways to write these, and I’ll argue that what really determines where the story goes are the characters. Two enemies that have millennia of conflict may have a rapport. How to confront that mythical creature may depend on whether it has kidnapped your grandma — and, for that matter, whether your grandma can take care of herself.
The thing, though, is that not only do the characters make the story, but the story turns around and makes the character. I learn new things about my characters from writing these stories, especially things like their vulnerabilities and idiosyncracies. Things that make my characters real.
I’m an author. I have self-published and sold books. I don’t have much of a following, and I don’t have the confidence-boosting event of an agent liking my work, but I’m serious about writing.
I still don’t know where writing will lead. I suppose I should assume that if my writing hasn’t gone anywhere in the five years I’ve been self-publishing, that it’s not going to go anywhere. But I’m optimistic, because the most important thing to me are the words and their meaning. Everything else is beyond my control to a great extent.
I don’t know if I believe in God, but I pray for success. I don’t specify what success looks like, because I don’t like telling God what to do. I also don’t think God is going to get me a publishing contract, but maybe They will help me see success when it’s in front of my eyes. Maybe I’ll see a new way to publicize my work. Maybe I will have a strong desire to let writing go.
My definition of success is having readers who want to read the next novel in the series. Readers whose imaginations visit Barn Swallows’ Dance or the neighborhoods of Chicago where my characters live. People who know who their favorite character is. I want people to feel welcome in my world. Maybe I can have that success.
We shall see. I will never have any success if I give up.
Did I mention my darling geriatric kitty, Me-Me, peed on my computer the other day*? I didn’t know until it started ticking. And zapping. And smoking. And sizzling. Then I watched its battery meter plummet to zero, and that was the end of my computer.
I would do very poorly living in the future I’m imagining for my friends at Barn Swallows’ Dance right now, one in which they wait for the technological world as they know it to collapse. I have discovered that my computer is an extension of me — at least an extension of my creativity.
I know I could write on paper, but the convenience is gone. With the current technology, I can write and edit in Scrivener (a composition software), proofread in ProWritingAid, and format in Atticus. I can download the ePub file or pdf file which will go straight into KDP for publication. I can create covers for the book in Photoshop. If that sounded like a bunch of babble to you, I just described the steps of writing a novel from writing to publication.
I now have a new — well, used — Surface Book 2, hopefully temporary. Once I got rid of the glitch that caused mouse clicks to fail and me to consider yeeting it through a window, it’s working pretty well. It’s a pretty muscular machine with a separate video card and an i7 processor (That’s technobabble for “good for graphics but not top of the line video professional specs”).
My goal for our tax return is to get a similarly-situated machine with updated specs, maybe a faster i7 chip. The biggest thing about a new machine over this one is that this one is not only technologically obsolete, but is probably at the end of its service life, or how long it will live before it breaks. And I don’t want to be without a computer again anytime soon.
*You may wonder what would possess a 14-year-old cat to crawl on top of a table and maneuver herself to pee on a computer. I myself wonder. My best guess is jealousy, as I pay a lot of attention to my computer.
Today I was recognized at the university for 25 years of service.
It’s an odd feeling to realize that it didn’t seem too long ago. As my memory always works, there are a handful of snapshots I can bring to mind, with little recall of when they happened except that they happened here at Northwest Missouri State University and I was younger then.
I have survived financial exigency and the loss of the Family and Consumer Sciences department, a bipolar diagnosis, several budget cuts, many boring meetings, a couple ice storms, and the football team not making playoffs. I have experienced the university’s centennial, six national championships for the football team, the world’s shortest St. Patrick’s Day parade, and gratitude for all the people I have known here.
Eventually I will retire. But not right away; I’ll make it to my 30-year recognition.
My local library is going to have an Author Fair this weekend, and I will be there. In fact, I will read an excerpt from one of the Kringle romances; I still haven’t figured out which. I’m tempted to read from It Takes Two to Kringle. In this scene, a beleaguered junior faculty member discovers that the attractive man who treated her to coffee is a Christmas fanatic who will create extra tasks for her. I’m going to have to figure this out by Saturday morning.
Author fairs are unnerving. I have never sold over three books at an author fair, because I’m an indie writer and my novels are quirky. My male leads are college professors, professional Santas, and pacifist warriors. My female leads are college professors, accountants, and former labor organizers. The immortals are not elves or angels, although they’ve been mistaken for both.
So I sit there and watch people walk by, and sometimes they stop and peruse. Sometimes I get to answer questions, and I feel like anyone could answer these questions better than me. But despite my impostor syndrome, I enjoy getting questions. I just wish I was more articulate on the “summarize the plot” questions.
The nature of being faculty is that fall semester ends in the middle of the Christmas season. That means that, while others are playing Whamageddon, I’m grading two major papers and three essay exams. Plus doing those end-of-semester things like filling out paperwork and fielding student questions (some of which would be answered if they read the syllabus). I’m single-minded and all I can think about is getting through finals week. I still have the three essay exams to grade and one exam to write.
I’m sitting in Starbucks looking at festive cups in green and red and — pink? I feel like that cup; something’s distracting me from being merry. Probably the three essay exams and one to write.
After finals (next Friday), I’m free for three weeks. I have to do a little research and set up my classes for next semester, but that’s on my time and in a place of my choice. The thing, though, is the change of pace, the ability to rest my mind and let go of the semester.
And, of course, taking the time to pay attention to the season, with its lights and tinsel and classic Christmas movies like Hogfather. I will get there. It’s less than a week away.
I’ve had a few minutes to think between final project grading and final exams, so I’ll share my thoughts:
I don’t believe in “manifesting”. God is not an ATM. But just in case I’m wrong, you’ve heard it here first: I want my niche to discover my writing. I want an engaged group of readers who can identify with the small magics of Barn Swallows’ Dance and the power of InterSpace.
On being 60: I have to accept that I’m now reminding my students of their grandmas rather than their mothers. It’s a shock to the system; I don’t feel that old. Moreover, I think it’s affecting my ability to write romance, because I’m not getting those looks anymore. You know, THOSE looks. (Not lustful, but playful. That’s just how I roll.) It’s not bothering me; it’s just weird, like I’ve lost a color in my vision (say magenta) and I barely remember having it.
If I didn’t have a third item in this list, you would feel vaguely dissatisfied. That’s because three is a magic number. It’s not universally magic, but in a list, we feel satisfied when there’s a third item. Two becomes magic because of its connection to ‘either … or’. And couples, of course.
That’s enough. It’s time for me to write for a while. But first, a cat:
I like the idea of a festival to celebrate giving thanks. I don’t like the mythology of Thanksgiving so much — the white savior narrative, the lack of acknowledgement of the genocide of the Native Americans after that.
I like stuffing and mashed potatoes. I‘m not so fond of turkey. Turkey wasn’t even part of the original Thanksgiving (venison and fish were). Turkey is very dry unless you deep-fry it.
I like the fact that Starbucks is open, and the youngsters running the place are a bit silly today. One keeps doing bird calls for reasons I don’t understand.
I think this is my official announcement that I am getting old — I don’t know what I want for Christmas.
Given that “to be thin” isn’t a possible Christmas gift, I don’t know what’s left. I don’t feel a need for anything in my life. I have upgraded all my electronics except my computer (mostly with my own “mad funds”). I’m not in the market for anything small (like fountain pens; I found the fountain pen I like and need no more). I don’t wear jewelry. The only thing I need is a new computer, and the household doesn’t have the money to buy that as a present. The only thing I want is a squishmallow.
This is strange. My husband doesn’t want anything for Christmas either. I guess we’re both getting old.
