An Old Friend

Years ago when I first started writing I had a typewriter. It was a portable Smith Corona. The lid clicked on with ease and had a handle, turning the entire thing into a nifty briefcase. It was very light, and the keys depressed with buttery smoothness. It made little noise; the soft patter of its keys was just right. It wouldn’t wake my parents if I was at the kitchen table at midnight, which was often in those days, when I was studying journalism and wrote for my college newspaper.

I recently read that the last typewriter had been made. The last factory making typewriters, in Mumbai, India, has closed down its production.  Then my friend, writer Julia Martin, wrote an amusing blog – ON a typewriter. 

 All this got me thinking and reminiscing. Those writers I know who are young or new to writing have little idea what it was like to craft a story on a typewriter.  What did we do to make changes? On a computer we have many methods. Copy and paste. Delete. Track Changes. But back in the ‘olden’ days we had a function called cut and tape—it involved using scissors to cut out the parts you wanted to delete or move, then using scotch tape to ‘add’ them in where they belonged. The result was a sticky mess of pages of varying lengths. Of course this all had to be completely retyped before submitting it to the editor.

Labor intensive, as you can imagine.

Or, there was Corrasable paper; paper coated with a film of some magical stuff that allowed one to erase mistakes and retype over them. But you couldn’t submit anything on it, because it had a bad tendency to smudge if stacked, or handled. God help you if you had sweaty hands—and who doesn’t have those when a deadline approaches?

The invention of the word processor was a god send to writers. I don’t want to go back. As my good friend Diana would say: Technology is my friend.

Still, I wish I hadn’t sold that first typewriter.  Hearing the last one ever has rolled off the assembly line made  me feel nostalgic for days gone by, and my friendly little Smith Corona. If I had it I would haul it out of the store room and set it on a shelf in my office. Maybe burn a little candle or some incense beside it…just to remember when.

The Good, The Bad, and The Ugly

The Bad

The truth about writers’ groups.

I’ve belonged to many writers groups over the years, in several different areas of the United States. So I feel I am in a unique position to understand what makes up a good one.

A good writers group offers camaraderie and an understanding ear (something our non-writing friends cannot) as well as free editing, mentoring, growth and advice.

Questions to ask yourself to determine if a group you are considering is the right one for you:

Are the other writers your target audience? Do the others in the group read your genre?

If they don’t, you are likely to get many critiques asking what words mean, and correcting terms, word count and phrases that are common in the genre of your novel, but unfamiliar to those in the group. Not only is this time consuming and generally unhelpful in any practical sense, but it can actually damage your novel. Yes, I did say damage. If you are unsure of your skills you may concede to this pressure and end up leaching all the color and vitality out of your manuscript.

If you choose to participate in a group that reads mainly vampire novels and sci-fi, for instance, you are likely to run into problems with comprehension if you write say, romance, or literary.

Another question to ask yourself is:

Are the folks in your group writing at the same level as yourself?

If they are writing at a level much above yours and they are kind and mentoring folks, good for you! You’ve found a good group! Stay and glean all you can from these kind and giving people.

If, however, they are much more skillful than yourself (or even just think they are), but unkind and egotistical, then you are in for a hellish experience. One of the very first groups I belonged to as a young writer in Virginia was this sort. I always left feeling, not inspired, but depressed and anxious, and as if I would never attain the level of the other writers.

At the very least you will come away from a meeting like this with a feeling that your writing is worthless. Again, this can actually do damage, not only to your manuscript, but to your nascent view of yourself as a writer.

A final question you might ask is: are the others in the group serious writers?

By this I mean: do they write every day, or do they just doodle a bit when the feeling comes over them; when they feel inspired. There’s nothing wrong with this, by the way, but if you are serious about taking your writing all the way to a career, these hobbyists won’t be of any help to you.

Okay, that’s the Bad.

Now for the Ugly…yes, it can be even worse!

Ahhh…the uglies. If you’ve been in many writers’ groups you have undoubtedly encountered them. They come in many guises. But let me tell you about two of the most toxic I have encountered.

First there’s the Monolog-ist. This guy loves to hear himself talk. And talk. And TALK. He will monopolize the meeting (the meeting you’ve been looking forward to for days) to the point where folks begin looking at each other around the table to see if it’s only them, or if this guy really has been talking for 10 solid minutes. About his wife, or his job, or his political leanings, or his car, his house, his sex life, his dog, his shoelaces. Until you want to scream, “Dude, SHUT UP!”

But that wouldn’t be nice.

So, you sit patiently and wait for him to wind down. You examine your fingernails, plan your grocery shopping list…waste your precious Saturday afternoon.

Another ugly that haunts some meetings is The Expert. The Expert knows more about your topic than you do. He will cite pseudo facts and give Wiki-links to back them up. If you dispute them he will challenge you to email him with your links after the meeting. The others around the table will listen and assume The Expert knows what he’s talking about…he certainly seems to. The Expert has a little of the Monolog-ist in him—because he will dispute your facts at length. For the first few meetings you may not mind this too much. After all, this guy really seems to want to help. But after going home to redo your research each time this occurs you soon discover The Expert is not really as knowledgeable as he pretends to be. Your research is solid, your facts irrefutable.

The Ugly

So, you rise to his challenge at the next meeting and politely suggest he stop checking your facts. The meeting degenerates into a brawl. No solid critiquing of your work or anybody else’s gets done. The Expert is quiet for a meeting or two, presumably chastened. But then one evening it’s His turn to give His opinion…and you see that maniacal gleam in his eye.

Even if you like the other writers in these groups, STOP GOING! If the group’s leader or the other writers do not rise up and control a tyrant, the group will just be a drain on your time, toxic to your life, and your work. Stop attending and look for another group. You’ll be so happy you did.

And now, at last, the Good  (always nice to leave on a positive note).

Good writers groups are out there. A good writers group has a leader(s) that directs the meetings and keeps them on track if they begin to stray. In a good group writers check their egos at the door on the way in. They are well-read, well-mannered and come from a wide range of life experiences. If they have something to say that might be hard to hear, they say it kindly. A good group is one where the writers respect each other.

Sound too good to be true? Well, it’s not. I have belonged to several. I belong to one now.

If you know what you’re looking for you’ll be able to find it. And if you can’t? Well then, Creative One, why not create your own group? Cruise the established groups in your area and find some good writers. Get to know them. The internet provides any number of venues to advertise and attract the sort of people you want to your group. One such venue is Meetup.com. Think about what you want the atmosphere of your group to be. What is the ideal you have in mind? Then set about making it happen.

The Good

Happy writing!

What are some of your writers group experiences? What advice would you give to a writer looking for a group?

Broken Ones: A Review & Interview with Author Sophia Martin

The author at her home in Mount Shasta

 

It was a rainy Saturday morning. I’d planned on spending it writing. But that was before I made the decision to jump onto Smashwords and quickly download the copy of Broken Ones Sophia Martin gave me for review. I thought I’d just open it and take a peek—you know, just see what kind of writer she is and what I was in for.

By page 4 I’d forgotten all about my plans to write (thanks a lot, Sophia). The first person narrator’s voice is natural and tough. Louise tells us she’s thought of killing her brother-in-law, Everett, an ex-cop who likes to pound on her little sister, Marie—who Louise once again comes home to find sleeping on her couch, surrounded by Marie’s three little ones.

Everett comes looking for Marie and his kids the next morning, doesn’t find them, and beats Louise. Louise wakes the next day to Marie sitting beside her hospital bed, learns Everett is up to something illegal and has threatened to kill Marie if she leaves, for fear of her telling what she knows. Louise makes the decision she must get them all away from Everett.

Followed by an Amber Alert, they make their escape: Louise, Marie, Marie’s three children, and  a neighbor’s neglected pit bull Louise has been dying to rescue, all stuffed into Marie’s mini-van. Louise pulls strings and obtains fake ID’s, and a beat-up old station wagon that can’t be traced by Everett and his cop buddies.

What follows is a fear-drenched run for the mountain town of Mount Shasta, Louise struggling to deal with her spiritually broken sister, while leaving a false trail of breadcrumbs in a gambit to throw Everett off their track.

I don’t want to give away the plot. A haunted (or is it?) cabin, and a town full of interesting people—some willing to help, others not—make this a satisfying read. If I have one disappointment with Broken Ones, it’s only that the reader never really finds out just what Everett’s hinted at nefarious dealings are. But all in all, it was a lively read, and well worth the price of downloading it. 

What follows is my interview with Sophia.

What led you to write about domestic violence?

I was a counselor on a rape and domestic violence hotline for a year, and the people I spoke to stayed with me after that. I went into the job with some of the typical ideas—that if a man hit me, I’d just be out of there, that there must be something wrong with women who wind up in that kind of relationship. Working the hotline opened my eyes and gave me empathy for survivors of domestic violence. I wanted to write about it because of that.

Why do you think ghosts turn up so often in your writing?

Good question! It’s a combination of things. I was always afraid of the dark as a child; I believed that ghosts would get me once the lights were off. That lasted well into my early teens. And then at some point I lost all faith in ghosts (and everything else) and the idea of there being nothing after death was much more terrifying. Now I am back to believing in them, after years of spiritual searching, but I’m not frightened of them anymore. I think that journey has been such a big part of me; it just seeps into the writing in many ways.

You are a teacher – how does that effect your writing schedule?

Oh, it’s a bear. Teaching can be good and bad, and when it is good, it is a huge sap on my creative energy. When it is bad it just saps all of my energy. So it can really be an obstacle. But it also gives me a window into many lives, which can inspire me.

Why did you choose to self publish your work as e-books?

I got really excited at the possibilities epublishing presents. I like the freedom to write whatever I want, without having to consider whether it will please agents and publishers. I have no beef with agents and publishers, but they have their rules and I don’t want to be constrained by them. It’s a lot of work to self-publish, but I find that many people are willing to help, and with their help I’ve been getting it done!

What has the e-book experience been like for you?

Mostly positive. It’s exciting to know that I already have readers enjoying my books. I’ve gotten encouraging feedback. It’s work, though. I’ve had to reformat two of my eBooks and figuring out the right way to do that took a while. And marketing is not easy; I’m trying to find the best way to do it. But people like you make that hill a bit easier to climb!

What are you working on now?

I have a series about a psychic—the first book is out, entitled The River and the Roses. I finished the first draft of the second book last month and have been letting it sit for a while before I get into my first cycle of revisions. I’ve been batting around some ideas for other stories as well as the third book in the series. But at the moment, I’m not doing a lot of writing. I plan to treat May like NaNoWriMo, though, and aim to write 50,000 words of the third novel then.

Who are your favorite authors?

I love Jacqueline Carey, who wrote the Kushiel books (very, very different from mine). Another favorite is Qiu Xiaolong—he’s a Chinese author of detective novels set in Shanghai. I also love YA fantasy, and one great author is Libba Bray. Oh, and have you heard of the Kiki Strike novels? Great girl adventures! Those are by Kirsten Miller. I could go on.

Tell us something about yourself that nobody knows.

I worked at a sandwich shop a few years ago. The mayo and the horseradish squirt bottles looked very much the same. So for a while, when people asked for mayo, I’d give them horseradish instead. It was an honest mistake—but when I figured out what I’d been doing, I never told! It was too late to fix the sandwiches. Why tell? Right? Oh boy. Still feel bad about that.

And so she should. But shady sandwich making activities aside: Sophia is a sweet writer. Check her out here.

She

She’s never told me her name. And I never ask. I don’t ask her age, either. But she’s younger than me. At least, she looks younger; firm, soft skin, dark shining hair worn in a chin-length bob. And she’s thinner; I never ever see her eat anything. But she feels old. She knows things. And she’s completely fearless.

She rarely dresses to go out, preferring to wear something soft, flowing; a kimono at times, unbelted and worn over flowing satin or silk house pajamas. Other times a getup that looks straight out of the roaring twenties; a knee-length sheath dress and kitten heels. She has an overweening fondness for polishing her toenails (but never her fingernails), and often does this while talking to me. From a chaise lounge, the Paris skyline visible beyond the balcony behind her. Occasionally I hear an underlying French accent. When she’s angry, or excited.

She smokes; Gauloises, from the look of them. I can see the smoke, drifting in dreamy arabesques, up and out the French doors to the balcony, but thankfully I can’t smell it. She spares me that. So she’s not inconsiderate. But she is demanding, and can be petulant. (Sorry, but sometimes you are.)

If she gets really tired of me, of my not understanding, or being too lazy or distracted to do what she‘s telling me, she refuses to speak in English, lapses into French until I do whatever I must do to mollify her. Not an easy task; she is impervious to flattery, and can’t be bought with the usual gifts one gives to a friend who feels wronged.

She often comes out with me. When she can be coaxed into putting on shoes (she loves to go barefoot) and something appropriate for venturing forth into the world. She’s a great companion; often whispering to me: look at his hands – remember those for later, or listen to the way she speaks – you’ll need that. When she points something out like this I always listen; experience has taught me to do so. And nothing pisses her off more than me looking up at her later, mid-sentence and saying: what hands are you referring too? What woman’s voice?

You don’t want to see the distain on her face, hear the swearing (in French, so it doesn’t sound that bad, really, but still) a stupid question like this can elicit .

Merde, she mutters, finally, squinting at me, one-eyed,  to keep the smoke from a smoldering Gauloise from blinding her, What am I to do with you?

Do you ever get the feeling your stories are ‘being told to you’? If your muse were personified, what would she be like?

Coaxing the Muse

Blooming Lavendar

What time of day do you do your writing? Is it in the morning? Just as the sun is coming up, the first yellow rays streaking across the roofs of your neighbor’s homes? Or just after you see the kids off on the bus, perhaps?

Or are you a night writer? One of those folks who like to stay up late and write into the wee still dark hours of the night?

I find I prefer to write early in the morning. I get up at 5am, make myself a cup of Lipton tea with milk and sugar, trying to not slam the microwave door too hard and wake everybody else. We have a big comfortable old overstuffed chair in a corner of the kitchen; the perfect place to curl. Sometimes while I am waiting the few minutes for the water to heat and the tea to brew, I read a little from a magazine my husband and I love. The Science of Mind. It’s a spiritual magazine with daily readings. Sometimes I don’t get around to reading these until later in the morning after I’ve finished writing. All depends on my mood, and whether my muse is sleepy and reluctant, or already whispering to me.

But sooner or later it is time to take myself down the hall to my home office.

The house is dark and silent. My loved ones safe and sleeping, tucked up in their beds. My cell phone is with me; I know I may need it around 8 am when my job begins to call or text me, but for now it is blessedly mute.

As I write, the denizens of my backyard begin to stir outside my window. Sometimes I am lost in my story, fully absorbed, and the softly exuberant calls of the birds who make their home in our fichus barely penetrate my consciousness. Other times, I hear them and look up, listening during a pause in the work. There are those individuals whom I recognize; the ones who like to rise before dawn, like me, and sing the day into existence.

Eventually, I hear stirrings from upstairs. Bare feet on the wooden floors, a toilet flushing. The click of the dog’s nails and my husband speaking to him. I get up and shut off the light and twist open the blinds. My backyard is beautiful; bold morning sunlight casts long charcoal shadows across the patio, the turquoise pool reflects the potted plants perched around it’s lip; sunlight gilds cactus and Bougainville, the uplifted alien architecture of the Yucca and the cerulean blossoms of the Rosemary, covered now in honeybees.

It’s 8 am and my phone remains silent. Jim is making coffee in the kitchen. I turn back to my desk, to write some more.

 Life is good.

What time of day do you write? Do you have writing rituals? How do you coax your muse?

Upside-down River

Spent the day at the Hassayampa River Preserve on Sunday. This riparian oasis is a bird sanctuary that draws carloads of binoculared, kakis-clad bird enthusiasts every year. The Native American  name for the unusual place is ‘the upside-down river’ – the reason being that the 100 mile river runs beneath the earth for most of its length, only coming up above ground for this brief 5 mile stretch.

Lorraine, the volunteer humaning the desk when we arrived, was happy to tell Jim and I about the different hikes to choose from, and even satisfied our curiosity concerning the mysterious ‘Murdered’ headstone visible from the dirt road leading into the preserve. (Seems a family of three was murdered there back in stagecoach days. The owner of the ranch felt he owed it to the family to give them a proper burial on his land. He even had it written into the deed that any who purchased the ranch after his death would agree to keep up the burial spot.)

Armed with hats, camera and bottled water we set out to explore the four miles of trails through this 700  hundred acre cottonwood forest. In the picnic area bird loving volunteers were busy tagging birds for wildlife study programs. More than 250 types of birds pass through or live in the preserve.

Eager to view the river we took the Lion Trail first. This led us down through a sandy dry riverbed where hiking felt like slogging along a beach. We’d been told by Lorraine to expect to come across large tumbled snags of debris washed up by flood waters, and that these were deliberately left undisturbed, “because, it’s nature, you see, and you wouldn’t believe the creatures that live in there.” She didn’t specify what kind of creatures. I kept a wary, if hopeful, eye out for said creatures, and my camera ready in case any of them felt photogenic. We heard a lot of rustling, but only spotted this fellow, sunning himself. I assured him of my good intentions and asked if I might take his photo. He allowed it, observing me with inquisitive eyes and swiveling head, his bravado reminding me that in his world, he’s a fearsome dinosaur best known for devouring insects whole.

Hassayampa inhabitant

The actual river, when we came upon it, was creek-sized, its crystal water filled with long flowing tresses of bright green moss and clumps of tiny-leafed duckweed. The banks are dotted with baccharis and horehound and sheltered by towering cottonwoods and willow.  A narrow, child-sized bridge cut through the reeds and carried us to the other bank.

Next we climbed to the highest point, Lyke’s Lookout. Not a long climb, but very steep. A bench at the sun-baked summit provided the perfect place to observe the green cottonwood canopy below. A pair of turkey vultures circled the peak and I wished for binoculars to better observe them. Being up on the peak with its long views led to a discussion of macrocosm and microcosm (Jim), which in turn led to Horton Hears a Who (my contribution) – I’ve always thought Dr. Seuss knew our human hubris would cause us to identify with Horton, but I feel he wanted us to see we are really more like the Whos. (What do you think?)

Descending was slippery and hot; the denim I wore felt like it might spontaneously ignite if we didn’t find shade soon. We opted for a cool stroll beneath the willows and fan palms along Palm Lake Loop. Sitting in the lacy shade beside the marsh lake we admired a pair of ducks, and listened to the tender singing and fluting calls in the fluttering woods around us.

Hassayampa Oasis

It was a perfect day in every way.

Brava! Mother Nature.

What are some of your favorite places to get out in the wild? How does being outdoors in nature make you feel? Do you think we’ve cut ourselves off from our natural habitat with the type of homes and cities we live in? Do you feel a special ‘connection’ when you are in a natural setting?