An Evening with Alice Hoffman

On February 25th Alice Hoffman made an appearance at Newtonville Books, conveniently accessible to me via the subway. It's important to note that in June of 2009, I headed to Long Island to attend one of her signings for The Story Sisters. I had never been to Long Island and had printed directions from MapQuest. Turned out that was a mistake. I was in traffic for hours. I was in the Lincoln Tunnel forever. The directions estimated 2.5 hours and even though I had taken the day off from work and left at 3pm for a 7pm signing, I didn't arrive until 8:30. The signing was over and Alice Hoffman was gone. I bought one of the signed copies and left. Since then I've read more of her novels and my admiration has at least doubled. You can imagine how determined I was to actually meet her this time.

I arrived with time to snag a seat in the center and purchase her latest book, The Museum of Extraordinary Things. Newtonville Books is a cool bookstore. I know all bookstores are cool, right? But check out their check out counter filled with books.

I could feel energy dancing through me, but I managed to stay still and not draw unwanted attention. Thanks yoga. The first thing she talked about was her life as a writer. As much as I love her books, I didn't know much about her personal life or how her writing career began. It's generally reassuring to hear wildly successful authors talk about writing. Their habits and methods are so similar to my own that it's a validation that I'm not on the completely wrong track, as I frequently fear I might be. She described her feelings when she starts a new project saying, "I can't write this. I don't know who that writer was that wrote all those other novels under my name but it can't have been me." While it's not exactly reassuring that writers never lose their doubt, it is a comfort that they write their way through it. If they can, maybe I can too. She talked about having writer's block and how she never expected to write a book like The Dovekeepers or The Museum of Extraordinary Things. She read from the book and answered questions.

The book I'm currently writing has involved a lot of research and I asked her how she approached her research for The Dovekeepers, which is set in Masada in 70. She said it was overwhelming at first, but eventually she realized that she only needed to know what her characters knew and so that helped her target her research area. As there isn't a lot of information about women's lives during that time, she found other ways to answer her questions. For example, nomadic tribes making bread in the desert today without any modern technology probably isn't all that different from making bread in the desert almost 2,000 years ago.

Finally, it was book signing time. I was getting my chance to speak to her privately. I had so many things I wanted to say and ask, didn't I? I must have lost most of them while waiting in line. The only ones I could remember seemed foolish. I managed to tell her that I loved all of her novels and she seemed flattered and a bit surprised, maybe because I was much younger than most of the people there. I thought afterwards I'd remember a million questions to ask her, but I didn't. Turns out the words she gives us in her books are enough for me.

Fact Facing, Overcoming Doubt, and the Truth about Writer's Block

Writers are a sensitive bunch and some days I feel like I'm the most sensitive one. Not that I'm always doubting myself. It comes in bursts of moroseness. The confidence and pride also comes and those are the best times. Those are the times when I tie up my manuscript in a pretty word document and send it off to family and friends. There's still fear that they won't like it, but I know none of my nearest and dearest would be mean even if they thought it was dreadful.

That's how I felt when I sent my YA Fantasy to a few friends and two of my sisters (also considered friends). I was prepared for lukewarm reactions though I hoped they'd enjoy it. What I wasn't prepared for was for some of them to not read it at all. I sent it to nine people and four of them didn't read it. The worst part was, two of the ones who didn't read it were my sisters. Years ago, someone had told me not to send my sisters copies because they wouldn't read it. I had more faith in my sisters than that, of course they'd read it! They're my sisters. It's been almost two years since I sent them that manuscript and neither one of them has read it.

I've asked them why. They both say they want to. They intend to read it soon. They're going to start it tonight. They want to read it with their kids. There's no end to the promises but there's been no clue as to why they won't read it. 

At first, I didn't think much about it. Four of my friends enjoyed it and some even provided comments. I was busy working on another story. After a year though, it got to me. The doubt crept in and planted itself firmly in the part of myself I call on to write. Every time I sat down to work, I questioned my actions. "Why should I write books even my own sisters won't read?" Even my own sisters won't read. Even my own sisters won't read. The words formed an anti-mantra that would not stop until I closed my laptop and lost myself in a cup full of tea and a book full of another writer's words. A writer who's siblings undoubtedly read what they wrote.

I still wrote but less and less. The words came haltingly and I had no confidence or faith in them. I pitied my story that it fell into my hands rather than into the hands of someone who could tell it. People asked about my writing (though my sisters never did) and I just shook my head and said, "It's slow going." Slow was generous. All my time "working" was spent tweaking sentences I'd already written or refreshing my Facebook news feed. My book was progressing at the speed of sloth.

I felt ashamed, stupid, and a little angry. During the summer I tried to force a timeline to finish a first draft of my stagnant book, but I couldn't do it. I didn't want to do it. Far from bringing me joy, I was miserable at the thought of typing nonsense for no reason.

Everything is relative

In February, I visited my family in Florida. One night when just the two of us were driving back from Universal, my mother asked how my writing was going. I was honest. "It's not. I don't see the point of it," I said and explained how my confidence had been worn away. She was not pleased. I should mention that my mother has become an irritatingly agreeable person, so this was unexpected. "I thought you were stronger than that," she told me and she didn't stop there. My mom laid the truth out flat. If I wanted to write, I had to be tougher. Lots of people won't read my books and some people that do might passionately loathe them and post about it on the Internet. Yes, it hurts knowing that important people seem not to care about my writing, but that doesn't mean I shouldn't care about my writing anymore. As much as it sucked to hear it, I had to admit she had a point. 

A few days after, my friend Ashley, who did read my book, asked about the first book I ever wrote which had been shelved before anyone read it all the way through. A while ago, I had told her about the premise and now she wanted to read it. It was perfect timing. I gave that dusty, old manuscript a quick edit and sent it to her and my mom. The following day, I picked up the project I'd been ignoring and have been working on it every day. I stay up writing until I have no words left and my dog is grumbling for a walk. My thoughts drift to what the characters say if they were cramped into a crowded subway car with me on my way to work. I've received concerned looks from other passengers when I laugh out loud at their responses in my head. Maybe that makes me crazy, but don't feel crazy. I feel like I'm back.

With my mom enjoying a Butterbeer at the Three Broomsticks

I believe now that it was a form of writer's block. I thought writer's block was not knowing what to write about, which sounds terrible enough, but not being able to write even with ideas pounding away inside of me was a different kind of horror. Block seems innocent compared to what I experienced. I had the Hoover Dam of writer's block. I wasn't depressed or miserable except for when I tried to write. I distracted myself with other hobbies and my friends, but I wasn't completely me during that time and I'm 100% me now. Only now I don't care if no one reads my book. I'm just happy to be writing and relieving the pressure that's been building up internally for so long.

Keeping The Readers Happy

Recently, I had some welcomed guests, my newlywed Harry Potter friend, Ashley and her husband, Ryan. We reminisced while we wined and dined. A naturally loquacious person, wine has the troubling tendency to increase the topics I'll ramble on about. My point is, I'm usually tight lipped about my writing, but after half a bottle. . .I'll talk about it without an end in sight.

When I described my first book which I wrote, considered editing but inevitably shoved under my dresser-don't ask why I put it there, I don't know-they were obviously impressed.

In fact, they wore his and her stunned expressions complete with open mouths. I love when couples are so perfectly matched as they are and it was a great sight to see them making the same face.

 There's not much in the world I find as impossible to resist as an attentive audience. It's like a warm chocolate chip cookie and I'm not one to just leave it on the counter to harden.

They urged me to finish the edits and please, please, if it's okay, to let them read it. I can't recall when I last felt so flattered. I've got a lot of writing projects in the works but I think it's smart to focus your energy on where the pull is strongest. Of course, it would be different if I had contracts and deadlines with publishers. Since I don't have any deadlines, I decided to do a quick edit. In addition to wanting, the intrigue still fresh in Ashley and Ryan's minds, two other beta readers are traveling to the British Virgin Isles in late July and I just know they are dying to read about magic on those white sandy beaches.

Even if the story remains unworthy of publication I'll have gained some more editing experience. Besides, it's never too soon to build your reputation as a writer who does it all for her fans.

You Betcha, Beta!

If you have been following my blog for the last few months then you are probably tired of reading about me editing my YA Fantasy. Well you are in luck because I am changing my focus to a new story which at the moment is only an outline and a few hundred words of nonsense. The new story is a YA Retelling, there are fantasy elements, of course.

The YA Fantasy will continue to be edited and critiqued two chapters at a time with my super fabulous critique group. But I won't be waxing on and off about here.

I have finally sent copies to a few Beta Readers.

Eek!

It isn't perfect, far from it actually. However, it is time for it to be read. I am tired of keeping it to myself. I keep thinking about what Ursula LeGuin said.

"An unread story is not a story; it is little black marks on wood pulp. The reader, reading it, makes it live: a live thing, a story.”




I want it to come to life, to be a proper story. And then I want to perfect it. I want to know other peoples' thoughts because I am getting lost in the minutiae. For every hundred words I add, I remove just as many. I need to talk to someone who has read the whole thing, so they can ask questions.

It's time to let my sweet betas breathe some life into it and see if it can stand.

The Not So Lazy River



Janis was on the baggage carousel at the Austin Airport

I spent Thursday through Sunday of last week in Austin, Texas. What did I do there? Well, I avoided red meat, was surprised at the humidity-I assumed Texas had dry heat, I relaxed by the pool while reading about the Zombie Apocalypse, did a few laps in the lazy river, and I wrote over 7,000 words.

Wowza!

I rarely make that much progress in so few days. On average I write 800 words a day. I credit my (almost) supernatural productivity to the lazy river and not having to go to work. I guess both could be summed up as having the time to write.



Always on the job.

 My dream, like many writers, is to survive on my writing alone. Until then, I work in an office crunching numbers. I am in no rush to get published though I dream about it nightly. I never queried my first manuscript because I knew it wasn't the quality I wanted to send out to publishing's gatekeepers.

There is no ticking clock and I am not banking on author super-stardom to validate my life or to pay for my next vacation. However, when it comes to what I do eight hours a day, five days a week, I would rather be writing. My mini-escape helped me see that I can write a lot if I didn't have another job. Maybe that's not too impressive to the average person who may think, I am a writer, therefore I write.

The truth is writing can be hard and between daydreaming which pair of Jimmy Choo's you will splurge on for your first-ever book signing, following fellow writers and potential literary agents on Twitter, reading industry blogs, imagining your book's cover design and reading because you love it-that's how you got into this mess-the actual amount of time a pre-published* writer spends writing can be tragically short. So, I am proud I forced myself away from the pool and got my butt in the chair and wrote for hours and hours.

Lazy River



The lazy river allowed me the time away from writing and reading to just float along. It's important to do this because when you are relaxed your mind is free to wander and perhaps offer up solutions to plot holes, tricky sentences that need reworking or whatever your WIP needs. Also, it is important to remember that we can't write about life if we don't live. That's not to mention relief from the eye-twitching caused by staring at black and white print all day.

I didn't see much of Texas, I stayed at the resort the whole time, but in between trips to the pool and seeking out cool places to write I had the most delicious guacamole ever. Keep that in mind if your travels lead you there.

*Nicer than unpublished