Listening to my muse . . .

So, I'd thought I was going to give myself a rest, a break. I was going to be, as folks in Hollywood say, on hiatus. I'd just finished a major rewrite of the novel I started in January 2007. I haven't even heard back from my agent about whether or not she deems it "submission ready." My sons will be home for spring break later this month (and one of them is getting his wisdom teeth out, so I'll be wearing my little nurse hat). Then I'm off to the Virginia Festival of the Book. The following weekend my husband and I will be in California celebrating my dad's 80th birthday. We're stretching out the long weekend even more to see Springsteen on April 7.

So, with all of that, it didn't make sense to immerse myself in starting a new novel. I mean, I wouldn't be able to establish any writing rhythm, and I might still have to make changes on the MS I just sent off. Giving myself a clean break would be good. Clear the decks, so to speak, so that on April 9 I could dive in. Spring is the season of new beginnings, after all, and we're still mired in winter here in The Heartland.



But you know what? All week, I've had this woman nagging at me every morning when I'm first waking up (my husband can insert his own joke here). And yesterday, the harping continued throughout the day. She poked at me when I was trying to read the paper. She followed me around the kitchen when I was putting away the groceries and loading the dishwasher. She even bugged me when I was in the shower.

So I opened a new document on my laptop. And I was her steno. I took dictation. She's got quite a story to tell. I'm just trying to record it. And I'm hoping the muse who brought her to me will keep her talking and will also introduce me to some of the other people in her life: her mom; Jim, her husband; and Maggie, her daughter. I figure they'll help me understand how she ended up in a parking lot on a hot June day about to pull the trigger.

It Takes a Village

In June 2006, I resigned from teaching high school. At the time, I was ready. I'd taught for 15 years, and while I'd loved it, I was ready to embark on my next career: Novelist. Ever since, I'm often asked if I miss teaching. Honestly? I don't. But I always feel a little guilty about that. And it's more complicated than a simple yes/no answer.

Here are some things I miss--the energy of teenagers, watching them "get it", the funny anecdotes I was sure to come home with, getting to talk about books and poetry I love.

Here are some things I don't miss--standardized tests, helicopter parents, checking up on kids' whereabouts, grading essays, some administrators, the hours.

Before I quit, I already knew all of the above. But there was one thing I was really worried about leaving behind, and that was the camaraderie with the other teachers. Dishing with my buddies in the hall during passing time. Knowing that there was someone next door or down the hall whose room I could burst into and who would get it, whether I was exhilarated or frustrated. Talking about a lesson that worked or didn't. Laughing about another lame excuse from a kid.

I worried that writing full-time would leave me lonely. I'm a social person. I was afraid that not only would I have no one to chat with, but that I wouldn't have anybody to talk to who "got" my job. Who understood the joys and irritations and fears of it (and, believe me, writing is full of all of those. Publishing is a wacky business).

But, I've discovered a writing community beyond my wildest dreams. I've always got somebody to jabber with if I want. And much of it is because of this really cool blogosphere I hadn't even known existed.

I've got links to my buddies over on the left--and what started out as just commenting on other folks' blogs has segued into e-mail correspondences and "blind-date" phone calls. I've met writers at conferences and festivals. We cheer each other's successes; we talk each other down from ledges. We share scoop. We know the lingo; we get the details. We read each other's WIPs and we offer insight.

And sometimes I know I need to pull myself away from the computer and get some writing done, just as when I was teaching I sometimes had to hide out so I could get papers graded.

Just this week, a whole community of girlfriends has been "touring" my book on their blogs as part of The Girlfriend Cyber Circuit (links on left). I've only met one of these women in person--but we all are there to support one another's efforts.

So, to Therese and Kristen and Lisa and Larramie and the great gals at The Writers' Group and Carleen and The Good Girls and Melanie and The Debs and everyone else, thanks for your support and friendship . . . and to those of you who are lurking or wondering if this community is for you, kick your shoes off, pull up a chair, and join the fun. The village is richer because of each of us.

It's Been a Year . . .

There are so many ways to view that phrase, so many different inflections. For me, this week, it's been a full year of being a published author. Whew. Pretty amazing. I had all sorts of dreams and hopes and wonderings for what the first day, week, month, year would be like.

Here's a brief summary: 2 TV interviews, 1 radio interview, 1 podcast. 5 literary festivals. 18 book club chats, 11 bookstore appearances, 8 visits with high school creative writing classes, 3 conventions/luncheons with organizations, 1 four-week class taught. 1 trip to NYC. I've made drop-in visits and signed copies of my book at bookstores in 10 states.

But those statistics don't begin to tell the story. I don't even know if I can put it into words (kinda scary as a writer to say that). A year ago I hadn't yet discovered blogs, let alone thought I'd ever have one. A year ago I hadn't yet experienced walking into a bookstore and not only seeing my book on display, but having employees saying (before I'd introduced myself), "Hey, it's the author!" And year ago I hadn't met most of the fabulous writers I now consider friends.

I hadn't heard from mothers and fathers who'd experienced what I'd only imagined. I hadn't known they'd show me pictures of their children and the organ donors who'd received life-saving organs from those same children. And I hadn't yet hugged those moms and cried with them as they thanked me for putting into words what they couldn't. In a radio interview the other day, the co-host asked me if I felt "like a success" and if so, how. I told her the biggest thrill, bigger than signing a contract for my manuscript, bigger than seeing my book in stores, was hearing from readers all across the country. Readers who read my book, connected with it and took the time to write me and tell me. And that's the truth. Knowing that my words resonated to someone I've never met, except through my characters, is success beyond any measure.

I remember when my oldest son turned one, and I looked back over his first year. He'd gone from a four and a half pound preemie to an almost-eighteen pound almost-toddler who could run and climb and laugh and who'd stolen my heart from the first second. I was stunned to think that a year earlier I hadn't know him, hadn't been a mom, and now, for the rest of my life I would. And it was this same oldest son (now 21), who insisted last summer that he didn't want one of the complimentary copies of my book, no, he and his brother wanted to walk into a bookstore, plunk down their own money and buy it themselves. And, mention to the clerk that their mom had written it. (Yes, I cried.) And now, looking over the first year of my book's life, I feel some of the same awe I felt with him. A year ago, I didn't yet see myself as an author. Now I do.

And, I have to say, as unprofessional or unsophisticated as this might sound: cool beans, hot damn, it totally rocks.

Transitioning

Over the holiday weekend, my husband and I went to the high school graduation party of a good friend's daughter. And it got me to thinking about transitions. Just one year ago, we were hosting such a party for my younger son--he's now home from his first year at college and he's different. Not better or worse, just different. He's made the transition and it shows. (This picture is from last August when we moved him into his dorm. You don't want to see what it looked like when I picked him up two weeks ago.)

And that's what transitions do--move people forward or towards a new beginning; sometimes forcibly, sometimes painlessly. And at some point, when we're going through such a change, we realize there's no going back.

I've been thinking about this with my novel-in-progress. Sometimes, I move my characters forward very incrementally--from day to day, for example, and other times I'm leaping them forward by weeks or months (or, in the case of one of my two narrative lines, anywhere from 1958-1971 and not always in chronological order). And the transitioning is mostly by instinct, by feel (or leap of faith!). And while I worried some about this, I'm finding, as I reread and edit, that the transitions work. Sometimes the two narratives are very closely linked, other times not at all, but in the big picture, the connections become clear and the characters become who they are going to be --both for themselves and for the reader.

And by the end of the draft, I know that, just like my son in his freshman year of college, the characters will have changed; they'll be further along on their way to becoming who they were meant to be, and I'll have had the pleasure of watching it all evolve. And, as I edit and revise and rewrite, I'll help polish them (sort of like I'm hoping to do with my son this summer).