The Blank Page

I am jealous of readers because they get to see my work wholly divorced from its writing. A project will always be tied up with its history for me. Did I write quickly and painlessly? Was the writing a struggle? Did I “save” the project in revision?

When I reflect on my books, I prefer the hard ones. Because I am a slow and ponderous writer, and thus I tend to wander down many wrong paths, I haven’t had too many books go “well.” Those that have… I don’t trust. They’re some strange witchcraft; they don’t feel like mine.

But a reader doesn’t know any of that. There isn’t any noise around the book. It must be quiet.

Lately, I’ve struggled to write because there’s so much noise, I can’t hear myself. I have writer friends who can listen to the market, to their readers, and to industry trends and still have something outward to say. I’ve been trying to do that, to write books that might be for a more general audience rather than only for my little niche, to listen to the outward stuff and modulate my voice in terms of it. But I simply can’t.

I’ve been trying to tune out those outside noises–not because they’re unimportant, but because I can’t hear myself or see my work. I’m snow-blind.

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American Literature, My Way

I read a piece on Lit Hub today about the view of American literature from abroad. For what it’s worth–which is not much–here’s the list of 25 titles I settled on. They’re numbered for my own count, but aren’t in any particular order. I’ve omitted Faulkner, Salinger, Kerouac, Nabokov, Twain, and Toole (all of whom appear on the Lit Hub list) because they’ve never appealed to me personally.

This is slightly edited and corrected (in other words, IMPROVED) from the Twitter version. I’m reprinting it here because it seemed like a suitable celebration of the Fourth of July.

I don’t have enough poets, and probably not enough non-fiction/biography/dramatic literature; there’s also a dearth of the nineteenth-century female novelists I love so well but whose work is both long and problematic. But it’s a list of works that speak to this national project: its high idealism, its deep and repetitive failure, and the hope we still hold, must hold, for the future.

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On the Potential to Change

This started out as a conversation on Twitter. Since I have longer thoughts, I’m expanding on them here.

There was an interesting profile in the Washington Post this morning called “Love Thy Neighbor?” about a Minnesota doctor named Ayaz Virji. Dr. Virji began to feel uncomfortable in his small town after the election, and so he made several attempts to talk to his neighbors after his Muslim faith in order to (perhaps) change their minds. I’m not doing the piece justice; the entire thing is worth reading.

For my purposes here, it’s the last bit that interests me the most. Around the election, there were a host of articles about voters experiencing economic anxiety that led them to support the candidacy of the current president. For example, sociologist Arlie Hochschild wrote one for Mother Jones detailing the five years she spent interviewing people in Lake Charles, Louisiana, in order to understand their lives and world views.

But a notable difference between today’s Post article and Hochschild’s (and the other authors I’d put in this category) is that the latter never attempted to change her subjects’ minds. To be clear, I don’t mean that as a criticism; I’m describing a difference.

It might be, however, that it’s impossible to change minds as Virji attempts to do because people aren’t persuaded by facts. In fact, research suggests that confronting people with facts that are counter to their worldview can lead them to become defensive, to dig in, and to become, in other words, less likely to change.

I could make a bunch of political points about this, which I’m purposefully avoiding, but the pieces also raise writing questions, including: do people, and by extension characters, change? if so, what motivates them to change? how can I write change realistically?

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Happy Book Birthday to Special Interests

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According to Facebook’s anniversaries, Special Interests released three years ago today. It’s been a rough week for me writing-wise, but this anniversary feels significant. I’ve talked before about how the theme of the series is having your life not go according to plan and trying to remake yourself, to imagine your life differently, in the face of that. It’s optimistic about self-growth, an idea I find even more relevant and encouraging today.

“Stir the Bubbles Out”

Two weeks ago, my kids were sick, which isn’t in itself terribly interesting. But it was the first week-long illness of their lives, and their first full week out of school. And that meant it was also my first extended period playing the nurse version of mom.

When instinct kicked in, I administered Ginger Ale with the bubbles stirred out and put on The Price is Right–because there is no cold that cannot be conquered by that combination.

cover of the 1976 edition of Dr. Spock's baby and childcare, featuring a smiling baby

My kids weren’t in the least intrigued by Bob Barker, probably because they’re kindergarteners. Instead, it was Moana marathon for us. But they were curious about the flat Ginger Ale.

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It Must Have Been Moonglow

I find myself staring at the moon more and more.

It started in 2014 when Genevieve and I began writing Star Dust (yes, we’ve been working on this series for that long). The core of that book is the hero and heroine sitting in the dark saying things they wouldn’t otherwise. Secret confessions and wants and dreams and hopes, all accompanied by the stars.

To write those conversations, I would walk Gromit, my dog, late at night and contemplate the few constellations you can see in my suburban neighborhood. There is a lot of light pollution, but Orion is there. So is Taurus, which Kit shows Anne-Marie how to find. But mostly the moon dominates the view.

There are nights when the moon is so beautiful it hurts to look at it, and I can only manage a few brief glances. When it’s full, it seems so close I’ve reached up as if to nudge the craters with my fingertips. Lately, it’s been a gold scythe in the sky slicing through the blackness.

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VOTE

If you’re in the United States and you can, please vote. As I said in the afterward to Party Lines, Michael and Lydia–probably my personal favorite couple from any of my books–would want you to. If you’re not certain where your precinct is or what’s on your ballot, Google will help you (search “where is my polling place” or “who is on my ballot”). Yay, democracy, y’all!

ETA: oh, and if you need a distraction, A Midnight Clear will only be free for another week. Joe Reynolds would be happy to keep you company while you sit up late waiting for election results.

2015 in Review

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Let’s do this again! In 2015,

  • I released Party Lines, a book I’m fiercely proud of;
  • Gen and I finished writing Star Dust, plus we edited and released it;
  • Gen and I wrote, edited, and released A Midnight Clear;
  • I got the rights back for Brave in Heart;
  • I finished a novella in The Easy Part series, though whether I’ll publish it is unclear;
  • I wrote 20K on a standalone novella (and I may have figured out what to do with it!);
  • Gen and I wrote a good chunk of Earth Bound; and
  • I wrote a good chunk of two other books, each of which would kick-off a new contemporary series.

My total words written this year is again in the 100K-range, which isn’t where I’d like for it to be, so I need to get that side of things in gear. I also read 50ish new-to-me books (plus I did a lot of comfort re-reading).

My goal for next year is to publish (or republish) four projects, to query agents with the contemporary romance I’m writing, and to work more consistently and happily and with less self-consciousness.

I’m wishing you, dear reader, a happy and healthy 2016.

Reflection

I cried last night about Paris, about Beirut, about a shooting near the campus I teach at. There’s more than enough senseless violence in the world to break your heart today and for the rest of the week. For the rest of your life. I cried for the victims, and I cried for their families, and I cried for all of us falling asleep with more fear in our hearts than we’d had there in the morning.

In the middle of the night, my son had a nightmare. I was grateful–not, of course, for his worries, but that I could get into bed with him and smell his hair. That I could feel his lungs fill and empty, listen to the dub-Dub of his heart, and soak up the evidence that he, that I, were alive.

Fiction immerses the reader into someone else’s point-of-view. It permits us to share intimately someone’s joys and fears and hopes. As readers we take on a different set of skin with every book we open. And as writers we push past our own experiences to imagine other ways of being in the world.

I don’t know much, but I know that we share a common humanity. I know that mine is enriched by recognizing yours. I know that love is transformative and the world needs more of it. Whenever I’m tempted to turn away from the world, what I need is more love and empathy. Those, and not hate, are the roots of my humanity, and words can nurture it.