Queen Kelley

I like lists, both making them and reading them. When I get to the end, I feel like I’ve accomplished something. For today’s list, I thought about sharing what with you. Then I figured why is a lot more interesting. So here’s my list of why, part 1.

1. Why I prefer reading and writing children’s literature. By children’s, I mean anything from picture books to teen fiction. I’ll admit I haven’t read much adult fiction, so my opinion is definitely biased. From the few pieces I’ve read, though, I have to say that children’s literature seems to offer more imagination, hope, and freedom to dream. Whether it’s fantasy, coming-of-age, or some other kind of tale, I’m completely pulled into books about or directed toward young people. In the best of these books, the characters are palpable, the life lessons subtle, the humor abundant, and the endings nearly always hopeful, if not necessarily happy. I enjoy writing for this age group for similar reasons. I’ve found that I don’t need explicit descriptions of sexual encounters to sense passion between individuals. I don’t need long, drawn-out, brutal death scenes to appreciate depth of loss. I don’t need excessive profanity to understand the fire behind a character’s words. The bottom line is that I simply think children’s literature is more fun and fulfilling to read. With limited reading time, I go with what I love.

2. Why Harry Potter is an obsession of mine. My infatuation with all things Harry Potter ebbs and flows with the book and movie releases. Recently, I’ve rewatched movies 3 and 4 and will soon watch 5 to get ready for the release of 6 next month. Of course, the books trump the movies any day, but time constraints don’t allow me to reread them in the way I’d like. As for Harry, there’s something incredibly moving about witnessing him transform from a small, awkward, and unaware young wizard into a force that defeats the wizarding world’s greatest enemy. Perhaps most fascinating is that he doesn’t actually evolve all that much. While his perspective on life and death and good and evil greatly matures, he is still Harry at the end of the series—awkward, slightly unsure, not at all self-glorifying. There are things to complain about regarding some of Rowling’s logic and lack of editing, but overall the series is powerful, captivating, and enduring. I look forward to reading the books with my kids in a few years. (As for the religious controversy over the books, I say it all comes back to Glenda’s question in The Wizard of Oz: “Are you a good witch, or a bad witch?” Clearly, Harry is good, as hard as it is to be good in a world where evil is so tantalizing.)

3. Why I put my kids to bed at 8:00 every night. Plain and simple, they need the sleep, and the King and I need the time to ourselves. Additionally, my children wake up by 6:30 nearly every morning, regardless of when they go to bed, so why not get them down early and extend the night for everyone? Although you can never be certain of a family’s reasoning, I still cringe when I’m at a grocery store at 9:00 pm and see small children gallivanting around with their parents. Put them to bed already!

4. Why I believe in God. Science intrigues me. The more I learn about our amazing universe, the more I feel certain that there is a Higher Power behind it all. I simply can’t accept the fact that everything, from the enormity of the sun that sustains our life to the tiniest particles that make up our cells, randomly exploded into being. As for the particulars of how, when, why, and exactly what, most days I’m content to discover those things as God chooses to reveal them. I know many intelligent, logical, reasonable people disagree with this belief in a Supreme Force. But I believe. I’ve found that I can’t do otherwise.

5. Why I’m a Baptist. I’d like to say it’s because I admire Baptist principles like freedom of interpretation, separation of church and state, priesthood of the believer, autonomy of the local church, etc. Those are indeed lofty principles when applied to the way one worships God. To be honest, though, I’m a Baptist because I was born into it. Who knows how it would be otherwise. I might just as easily be a Methodist, Presbyterian, Episcopalian, Catholic, some other religion, or not a believer at all. I’d like to think I’d be attracted to the Baptist faith as an outsider, but my particular denomination of Christianity has a poor reputation these days. However, being mature enough now to explore other groups, I choose to remain a Baptist mostly because of the historic principles listed above.

6. Why I give money to childhood cancer research/support organizations. Everyone needs a cause—a place to direct his or her money, time, and passion. For the King and me, it’s childhood cancer groups. Our main inspiration appears occasionally on my blog. A little girl with a big story, Catie Marie Wilkins battled medulloblastoma (aggressive brain tumor) for nearly four years. She passed on at age four in January 2007, just a week before her younger sister’s birth. I still follow the family’s journey, which Catie’s mother Jenny writes beautifully on her blog. What these children face is beyond horrifying. What their parents endure is unimaginable. The strength they all exhibit is breathtaking. The King and I are committed to caring for these kids and their families as much as we can, and hopefully we can increase our support and involvement as our own children mature.

7. Why symmetry drives me crazy. My husband is an engineer. For his work, symmetry is essential and even at times a life-and-death matter. However, he brings this into the home. The rugs must be completely straight, the pictures perfectly aligned, the colors mirror images of each other. We laugh about it because my instinct is to bump things slightly askew, to scatter the colors, to break the reflection. It makes life more interesting and unpredictable. Of course, John would say just the opposite.

8. Why I wear my seatbelt and switch off lights. It’s my dad. From the time we were small, he insisted that we buckle up while riding, and this was before seatbelt use was the law or even popular. Luckily, the habit stuck with me even through my teen years, when many of my friends considered seatbelts annoying and uncool. Now I have the law on my side, so I will accept no excuses from my own kids. As a Georgia Power engineer, my dad also nagged about us leaving lights on in unused rooms. At this point, I probably use more energy than I conserve because I flip off the lights even when I leave a room only for a few minutes. Thanks, Daddy. (:

9. Why I care about the Earth. I have a hard time understanding why anyone, especially those who believe in God, think caring for the Earth is some liberal, new age way to live. For me, it merely makes sense. When I think about the technological advances that have consumed our world in the past century, our progress blows my mind. Accompanying our advances in America is, unfortunately, a tendency to produce more waste that takes years to decompose (if it ever does), to collect material possessions in excess of anything anyone would ever need, to use our resources as if they are limitless (they’re not), and to disregard the fact that people across the sea still can’t count on clean water, much less electricity to power their lives. Why any Christian would think it’s not important to care for the Earth is totally beyond me. I can’t do it all, but I’ll do my best to recycle, reuse, and choose my food and products carefully in this little corner where I live.

10. Why I take a break from reading to read. The King simply shakes his head at me when, after a couple of hours of nightly editing, I crawl into bed to open a book and read for a few minutes. Let me assure you that there is an enormous difference in reading  someone’s writing in order to correct it and reading someone’s writing in order to enter another world. There is nothing—not movies, not vacations, sometimes not even time with friends—like sneaking away into the world created by a fiction author. I’m so thankful for books and only wish I had more time to read them.

To be continued….

Last night before climbing into bed to escape into a fabulous fantasy book, I looked at my alarm clock. I haven’t actually used it as an alarm clock in nearly four and a half years—almost to the day of Butterfly’s birth. Curious, I pressed the “alarm” button to see what time it displayed: 6:41. I’m not sure why I chose that rather random time to wake up for work, but just seeing those numbers reminded me of the terribly unpleasant jolt the clock gave when it yanked me from sleep. I don’t miss it at all.

Of course, I still wake up around 6:40 or so every morning, but now it’s to the chattering voice of Butterfly, our “morning glory,” who comes tiptoeing into our room until she stands right beside my face. Then she proceeds to say, “Mama,” and immediately begins a drawn-out explanation of the outfit she’s chosen or the stuffed-animal “scene” she’s created in her room or her plans for the morning. I can’t say it’s the sweetest sound I’ve ever heard, because most mornings I groan and fight the temptation to pull the pillow over my head and turn away from her. Even so, Butterfly’s voice beats the alarm clock any day.

No, I don’t miss that blaring alarm. I don’t miss having to hop out of bed and rush into getting ready for a day at the office. I don’t miss carefully choosing my ensemble and putting on makeup and fixing my hair just so. I don’t miss leaving my home for eight hours only to sit in one spot all day long and stare at a computer screen. I don’t miss the pressure I felt to fit everything else into a few hours after work—exercise, errands, dinner, leisure time, bills, attention to my dear husband. I don’t miss any of it. And I simply can’t fathom doing it with two small children in my life.

I like working independently, sitting comfortably on my sofa with my MacBook open in front of me, listening to my older daughter ask question after question about her “rest time” movie, getting up whenever I wish, and arranging my own schedule.

I get tired. I miss adult interaction. My girls frustrate me with their newly developed skills of arguing with each other. (See “Two Approaches to Conflict.”) My “me” time is extremely limited, since my days consist mainly of caring for the girls, editing intensely a couple of hours each day, cleaning house, doing laundry, cooking, grocery shopping, forgetting to get gas for the van, attending storytime or playdates, hauling the kids to preschool, paying bills, caring for pets, and loving on my man (yes, unfortunately my dear King often comes last in a long list). This is why I treasure those 20-minute sips of novel each night before I drift off to sleep. These days are not easy, and I am often exhausted and weary. I sometimes lose myself.

But this morning, as I watched Ladybug attempt to turn somersaults on the floor of my room while I folded laundry (she finally did it and then couldn’t stop doing it), and as I struggled for the hundredth time to portray a good enough “Rolfe” to suit Butterfly’s “Liesl” (she’s developed an affinity for The Sound of Music), I begged myself to soak it in.

Instead of wallowing in self-pity for the me that I sometimes miss, I want to soak in my little girls while they are little. While the days are ours to explore and discover, while our schedules are not yet packed with extracurricular activities and homework, while they still delight in my company, I want to soak it in.

There will come a time, not too far down this road, when I’ll have to start waking them up in the mornings, rushing them around to have breakfast and get dressed and out the door for school, carting them to different commitments, pressuring them to get their work done, struggling to fit in a family dinner, and steering them toward a healthy bedtime so we can do it all over again the next day.

Sure, I’ll be alone while they’re at school. If I have it my way, I won’t ever go back to an outside office. I might finally find the time and the muse to write that dream novel. But I’m sure, on occasion, I’ll miss those little giggles and voices. I’ll miss my tiny companions.

I won’t dwell too much on what’s to come or mourn too much when these days have passed. Instead, I’ll just soak it in. Right here. Right now.

To my loyal friends who check my blog frequently and come up short, I thank you for coming and apologize for not updating more frequently. Somehow, this simple outlet for my writing and thoughts has suffered neglect in the past month or two. Blame it on the holidays, Facebook, or a heavy workload. All of them apply from time to time. Anyway, I hope to post more often. (I dare not say “I resolve”!)

My cyber friend and young adult author Robin Brande recently issued a challenge to us aspiring writers, especially those of us who have never truly completed a novel. In this post, Robin challenges us to write not one, but three entirely new novels by June. She advises us to choose our favorite escapist genre. What kind of book do I pick up to get away from life? When I have my few moments to dive into a story before nodding off at night, what do I choose? Robin says to put aside the book we’ve labored on for so many months, struggling to perfect it and flesh it out and finish it, and start a completely new tale in our favorite escapist genre. She says to bang out a book from start to finish with no thought to the details, then put it aside, bang out another, put that aside, and bang out a third. Then, she says, when we’ve finished three, we can choose our favorite and work to improve it.

Three novels? Three novels, on top of two kids, a husband, friends, parents, a house, The Dog Whisperer and The Office and Lost, Bible study, Facebook, blogging, church, bills, grocery shopping, a shower at least a few times a week (!), not to mention more editing deadlines and projects than I’ve had in quite a while? Three? Is she crazy?

Robin’s thought is that one of the biggest hindrances to decent writers is never finishing a project. I can certainly vouch for that. I get so caught up in what I’ve already written and what might need to come next that I lose all the wonder and excitement of writing a good story. Maybe her challenge is exactly what I need.

I don’t want to be overly ambitious, though. Not with two little ones to care for and all the other plates spinning rapidly in my life. Maybe I’ll commit to one novel. That challenge, for me, is formidable enough. I’ll simply have to set aside some 20-30 minutes a day (at the very least) to get going. I’ll try to keep you posted on my (non) progress. And I’ll try to limit my other Internet time. We’ll see how it goes….

A friend of mine recently sent an email asking about my writing process and wondering if I had advice to offer. Her request flattered me, mostly because I’m still, just like her, sort of an aspiring writer—meaning I have written many pieces, but I have yet to submit one for publication. I, unlike most published writers, haven’t yet amassed my required pile of rejection letters. One day, I hope to.

I also appreciated Alana’s email because it got me thinking about this hobby/talent/delight/aspiration of mine, one that has lured me since I wrote my first story in kindergarten. What, indeed, is my personal process for writing? What advice might I give to someone else in the boat with me, paddling these waters that alternate between exhilarating and desolate?

After giving her questions much thought, I learned this about my process: 

1. I prefer to write my stories without knowing exactly where they’re headed, or what the characters may do, or even what characters may appear. I find that these things flow naturally (or, sometimes, are extracted painfully from my brain) as the story progresses.

2. Because of my freewheeling approach, I often end up with a scattering of scenes that beg to be tied together. My writing mentor Kevin calls this tie the “theme,” and he says it’s essential for making a collection of scenes into a readable work of fiction.

3. At a certain point, probably when my group of scenes begins to feel more disheveled than ordered, I find I need to organize in some way. This may necessitate making an outline of the story’s parts, which I detest but which is actually helpful.

4. My packed schedule demands that I set aside specific time for writing, and the best way I’ve found to do this is to meet with my writer friends several times a month for discussion and, of course, writing.

5. The end of my process—the editing, the submitting, the editing again, the submitting again—will have to wait until I actually complete a manuscript. I’ll keep you posted.

Here is the best writing advice I’ve gathered from my years of interest in the craft:

1. The best writers probably read more than they write, at least initially. Know your audience, and know what is being marketed to them.

2. Try to show more than you tell. Rather than always stating character traits directly, reveal them during dialogue or other actions that move the story forward.

3. Write what you know, but don’t be afraid to change it or stretch it. The key is remembering that, no matter how different or fascinating your world and characters are, you must make them believable enough to matter to your readers.

4. Know the thematic goal for your work.

5. Try to find a group of writers, and spend time together. Collective creative energy provides great motivation to keep going.

6. When an idea/scene/segment of dialogue/etc. comes to you, write it down! Make a habit of recording your ideas. 

Thanks, Alana, for your questions. They made me think intently about why and how I write.

As previously established on this blog, I’m no runner. One of my husband’s cousins is a runner, and she’s so dedicated she’s still running in her third trimester of pregnancy. She has my complete admiration, as by the time I entered my third trimester, I was struggling to walk along the flat roads around my neighborhood.

I’m starting to think I know some things about marathons, though (at least metaphorically). I’ve been in one for a few weeks now—ever since I agreed with Kevin that I could produce a complete first draft of my novel by Christmas. There’s the finish line, draped with colored lights and wreaths and bows, with carols playing in the background, and here I am, miles back and trying to keep a steady pace.

Some moments I write at a sprint, pounding the keys with my fingers the way a runner pounds pavement with feet. These moments happen most often when I’m in the company of my fellow writers. Maybe, when we all move alongside each other, our combined creative energy powers us along. Maybe we all need that particular window of time when we dedicate ourselves solely to talking about our work and then to actual, real-live writing.

Unfortunately, I spend many more moments bent at the waist, panting and sweating from the effort of trying to maneuver my packed schedule in order to fit the novel in somewhere. The finish line is up ahead, but there are days when I simply can’t write. I make no progress toward the goal.

How grateful I am that, even when most of my days the novel sits at the back of my mind, my writer friends continue to gather. They keep coming back to let me catch up, week after week. They encourage me, stretch my possibilities, and inspire me with their own creative endeavors.

Thanks, friends.

Monica and Robin let me know of two goodies from one of my favorite authors. The first is a handwritten card created for Waterstone’s, leading bookseller in the U.K. The company is holding a contest in which writers 18 and over can submit their own brief story. Those who win will be published alongside authors like Rowling, Doris Lessing, and Neil Gaiman in a “postcard” book scheduled for an August release. (No, I didn’t enter the contest. I like to think I’m creative, but I’m not THAT creative, and the deadline is June 19. However, any of my writing friends who read this and decide to go for it, good luck!) To read Rowling’s amusing story about Sirius and James, go to this link, click on “read our author’s stories,” then click on JK Rowling.

The other treat is an outstanding commencement speech Rowling recently delivered for Harvard graduates. She is funny (even throwing in Harry Potter tidbits now and then) eloquent, and, above all, thoughtful and bright. I encourage anyone to go to the link and listen to it or at least read the transcript, as it’s an important reminder to all of us about what we can learn from failure and the power of the human imagination. The most meaningful line to me is, “Unlike any other creature on this planet, humans can learn and understand, without having experienced. They can think themselves into other people’s minds, imagine themselves into other people’s places.” The significance of this ability cannot be overstated. When it comes to reaching out to others, serving others’ needs, and caring for others, the human ability to empathize is essential.

I had the privilege of meeting with my writing mentor and friend yesterday evening. As we sat in armchairs and sipped our respective hot beverages at Barnes and Noble, we chatted about his latest project–a screenplay continuing the fascinating saga of Star Trek. I found it easy to talk about his already well-written, carefully crafted work.

Then he turned to me and asked, “So what do you want to accomplish tonight?”

Um. “I’ve got about four chapters in sequential order that seem to work well.”

“But what’s your theme? Where are you going with this?”

Um. Kevin never fails to challenge me. He probably asked the theme question four times last night, and I don’t think I ever gave him a straight answer, and I’m not sure what that means for my little novel wannabe. He assured me that I had some good stuff, but he said it reads like events happening with no clear authorial purpose. One question he asked stopped me cold: “What are you trying to tell these kids?” He meant my intended readers, of course. Indeed, what do I want to tell them? How can I tell them this without being preachy and intrusive and heavy-handed? Kevin’s point is that without a focus, my work will probably not connect with any reader. And he’s right.

I wavered between feeling disappointed, overwhelmed, inspired, excited, and confused. Writing is certainly more complex and complicated than many of us imagine. It still gives me great joy and continues to feel like a passion. I’m grateful for people like Kevin who not only offer great advice but also hear my input about his own work with humility and honesty. Who knows where this will all lead, but for now I’m glad we (and often Karen and Jeremy too) try to meet a few times a month to bat around ideas and give each other helpful, constructive criticism. If nothing else, it feeds my soul for a while.

Yesterday evening, I had the pleasure of finally meeting again with my writer’s group. Our ultimate goal is to gather every two weeks at someone’s home, discussing our ideas (and often our reactions to each other’s work), then dedicate a block of time to the act of writing. For me, this kind of carved-out slot of time and discipline is essential. Telling my sob story to my buddies last night, I nearly got overwhelmed. The kids and I play all day, and my only time to work is after their bedtimes. In those two hours before I’m ready for sleep, I cram in editing projects that carry deadlines. Call me frivolous, but sometimes I write emails to friends or visit a few favorite websites as well. And, believe it or not, sometimes I talk to my husband. Then it’s off to bed, where I will drift into sleep only to be awakened by a teething baby or a child who needs to potty. As I realized last night at Kevin’s, though, I don’t need a huge block of minutes to make progress on my novel. In little more than an hour, I produced 800 words–basically a chapter of my middle-grade fiction work. Now, I have a total of 50 double-spaced pages. With a couple more months of dedicated writing time, I could at least complete a first draft! Knowing this–that the story is brewing inside me all the time and, with a focused effort, seems to pour out relentlessly–is incredibly encouraging for this aspiring writer who sometimes wonders if I really have it in me. I do. I simply must take the time to release it and fine-tune it, and then I’ll use Kevin and Karen’s Christmas gift to me–the 2008 edition of Writer’s Market. As intimidating as it may be, I know that at least a submission is within reach. Acceptance by a publisher? Maybe. Maybe not. But I owe it to myself and my fellow writers to try.

Well, it’s happened. My dear King has followed me into this blogging world. So, friends, if you dare, take a trip to shallowthinker.com and enter a world you never imagined. Just don’t expect him ever to post a picture of Johnny Depp. That would be weird.

Good grief. I haven’t posted in ages. I totally intended to write a post on New Year’s Day–start the year out right. It didn’t happen. The whirlwind of the holidays, a vehicle mishap, and overwhelming work loads have made me a delinquent blogger. My apologies to anyone who actually checks this with regularity. (Do I have such a reader?)

Lately, I truly feel as though I have no time. My days, happily, are consumed with my girls. Butterfly and Ladybug keep me busy, especially since the baby has learned to get around quickly and with ease. She is across the room in a flash, often with a leaf, a small toy, or a piece of paper stuffed in her mouth. My big girl lives in her imaginary world and constantly invites me to visit. She just discovered The Wizard of Oz film, and all day I hear, “Mommy, you be the Tin Man and I’ll be Dorothy. Now be the Lion. How about the Scarecrow?” Never beautiful, sparkly Glenda, mind you. No, I have to be those without a brain, heart, or bravery.

After the dinner rush and cleanup, the girls go to bed, and I hit the computer for work. No time to work out, no time to watch a TV show (and Lost is tantalizingly close to airing again!), no time to talk deeply with my husband, no time to read more than three pages of a book I like, no time to blog or email, and certainly no time to write on my poor little novel-in-progress.

I work until my eyes refuse to stay open, and then I toss and turn all night while the baby calls out or my dear husband snores. I’m restless and anxious.

I know it will pass, and time will be mine again. At least a bit more mine. For now, I’ll do as much as I can with the time I have–the same time we all have.   

Reading the “Why?” section of Cornelia Funke’s website, I found a couple of her answers that emphasize (and explain much better) some of my previous post.

Do you like to write about magic? I admit, as a reader I have always loved good fantasy. I think that fantasy is the oldest way of storytelling. Fairy tales, myths … I strongly believe that we sometimes understand reality far better if we disguise it, if we find pictures and images which describe sorrow, joy, fear, and other feelings we all share. The human mind often grasps a visual image better than an abstract or realistic description, and as a writer I love to work in a genre that doesn`t forbid my imagination to work unlimited. You could say that I enjoy being able to clad reality in different clothes. I often have the feeling that writing fantasy frees the unconscious and allows things to flood onto the paper, ideas I didn`t even know I could write about. Apart from all these quite philosophical thoughts, I love to imagine riding on dragons or meeting creatures I have never met before and make them feel real for my readers.
Can a good fantasy book be religious? I think fantasy is very often about religious beliefs or ideas. They are not always as Christian as C.S. Lewis’, but the beliefs of a writer on death and life, good and evil always also reflect his or her religious beliefs. Just make sure they never overshadow your story or try to indoctrinate your readers. That is disrespectful and will cripple your storytelling!  

My oldest daughter finds many ways to pass the time we spend in the car. Fortunately, we don’t travel much, but even a 10-minute drive to the library stretches her patience to sit still and listen to the music. (Especially if it’s Mommy’s music.) Lately, as soon as she and her baby sister are buckled into their car seats, before I even back down the driveway, Butterfly says, “Tell me a story.”

As a writer, I should thrill to these words. They should spark my creativity and send me spinning fabulous yarns worthy of writing down and perhaps even submitting for publication. After all, many a published writer of children’s books grew up telling stories. At least that’s what they say in their interviews.

But when Butterfly says these words to me, I freeze. Sitting at a keyboard before a blank screen is one thing. Driving with my eager, detail-oriented, almost three-year-old sitting right behind me is another. Feebly, I try to think of an amazing, original tale that will keep her rapt for the span of the trip. Then, when no inspiration comes, I fall back to “Once upon a time, there was a girl named Little Red Riding Hood.”

“No, Mama!” she interrupts. “Tell me about one, two, three, four, no, five babies and their big sisters and all the mommies and daddies going to the beach.” And it’s as simple as that. She wants to hear this story over and over, every time we get in the car. Sometimes the gargantuan family goes different places–to the zoo, to a fair, to the swimming pool. Sometimes the parents leave the big sisters in charge, and the babies get into all kinds of mischief. These stories delight her. I doubt anyone would ever buy them, though.

Over several car trips, I’ve realized that my life is actually full of stories. In fact, it’s a growing chain of stories that began at my birth and will continue even beyond death, as far as I’m concerned. I’ve remembered how much I enjoyed my mother’s stories about her childhood–how she and her three sisters used to argue; how once at age five she was asked to watch her younger sister, who ended up in the middle of the street and then was picked up by a neighbor who drove her back home; how one night soon after she had her tonsils out she screamed throughout a roller coaster ride and later, when she was in bed, her throat bled; how one of her sisters pulled out every bit of hair around her eyes, including all her eyelashes.

Now I can tell Butterfly (and eventually little Ladybug!) my stories–how my brother, sister, and I lined up dresser drawers and ride-on toys under our carport and made a train; how we hid in the rich, dark hills of earth turned over when our dad had the backyard leveled; how I tripped on the back patio and landed with my arm in a bucket of hot ashes my dad forgot to douse with cold water (and I can show her the scars those burns caused); how my sister and I shared a bedroom almost from the day she was born; how much I loved to sing while I soared through the air in my swing or rode down neighborhood streets on my bicycle.

We all have stories. Some are deep and intense. Others are light and humorous. Some teach lessons. Others are merely for fun. The characters who fill them made us who we are. Even today, we’re part of a story, just waiting to be told.

A month and a half ago, I linked to an interview with an author whose first book recently hit stores. Since then, I’ve been checking Robin Brande’s blog nearly every day and have found her down to earth, hilarious, humble, and honest. To put it simply, she’s great fun. How fabulous for me, a lifelong aspiring writer and an avid reader mostly of young adult novels and children’s books, to have such access to the thoughts of a REAL, LIVE, PUBLISHED author. The secret, she says, is to keep going. No one who quits the process ever gets published. I appreciated this quote from a different interview (for an organization called Embracing the Child, by the way, which supplies books to vulnerable kids):

I’ve found if I give myself too much time to work on a book, I end up revising the life out of it. I much prefer the heat of creation, writing a book straight through to the end so I can know how it turns out (I never ever outline–it would completely ruin a book for me if I knew the ending ahead of time).

It seems we writers (whether would-be, still aspiring, or actually published) work in varied ways. Some plan every detail of their books before writing a single scene. Some madly type whatever spills out of their imaginations. Some do a bit of both. Maybe the happy medium is the best place to be, but it’s a tough fence to sit on. Personally, I love the idea of Robin’s way. It seems free and freewheeling, even magical. Giving characters such life and breath that they actually begin to surprise you, doing things you didn’t expect, turning the course of the story in an entirely different direction, delighting you with actions your control-freak personality would never have considered.

My writer friends and I are hoping to get together more often to discuss our projects, ask questions, and help each other lay the groundwork for writing so that, when we have a moment to steal for actually crafting a work, we are prepared. Instead of staring blankly at the screen trying to figure out what scene we should write or what puzzle piece is needed, we might use the time to fill that screen with words. Whether or not we delete them later is another issue.

Some of my friends like to plan their work carefully. I think I prefer the freewheeling approach, even though it may back me into corners at times. If nothing else, at least I can say I have communicated personally with an author for whom this method worked. I’ll let you know what I think of Evolution, Me, and Other Freaks of Nature when I finish.

After reading my sophomore effort at memorializing Granddaddy (see previous post, “A Tenth Grader’s Grief”), I was struck by several things about my fifteen-year-old self. First, I seem rather self-aware. Like many teens, I could be highly dramatic and overly emotional, and I knew it. Reading my words, though, I can recall how strong and real those feelings felt at the time. When I poured out my heart, aided by the sappiest music available, I cried true, hearty tears. Another striking observation is that I considered family essential. Though I often tried to keep them at a distance, my parents, siblings, grandparents, and other extended family members kept me grounded while still letting me search for myself. I’m sure there were times when I pretended not to care about any of them, but they were and still are my lifelines. The final thing that struck me while reading this early essay is that this event, losing Granddaddy, marked my first big step toward disillusionment. I don’t know if we’re all born this way, but I certainly had my fair share of naivete about life. Crises existed, but in my rather small world they were limited to a fall-out with a friend, an argument with my sister about her not staying on her side of the room, hurt feelings when a boy didn’t like me, or frustrations with the way my parents dealt with me. When Granddaddy waged his war with cancer, bits and pieces of my wall of safety begin to crumble. And when he died, an entire section fell away.

I’ve since learned, of course, that as adults we must recreate the illusions and ideals through the beauty that remains in the world–nature in its most glorious state, music so lovely it takes your breath away, fiction that envelops you and carries you away to another time or place or person, your child’s giggles, the unique and wonderful smell of your spouse’s hair. I’ve learned, too, that family is indeed essential, but that it can consist of more than blood relatives. Some of my closest family members continue to be my grandparents, parents, and siblings, but to them I’ve added numerous loyal companions. Finally, I’ve learned that it’s okay to have overly emotional and dramatic moments, as long as they don’t consume all your moments.

Today, when I think of Granddaddy, I regret that he isn’t here to see his grandchildren get married and have their own children, that he isn’t able to keep mentoring his four daughters, that he had to leave his wife’s side. But I also see an old-time country store not a mile from a railroad crossing. In the back, expertly slicing enormous red hunks of meat, stands my Granddaddy. “Hey, Toochie!” he exclaims, then directs me toward the registers at the front, inviting me, as he always does, to choose one piece of candy. Heading from his store to visit Grandmama in the next-door post office, I chew on one of several chunks of banana Laffy Taffy enjoyed at Granddaddy’s expense.

I see, too, a big house whose every room remains solidified in my memory, where I and several cousins shared laughs, tears, good Southern food, talent shows, movies in the basement, scary stories in the dark by the fireplace, the best hide-and-seek spots. I see a yard whose vast expanse offered opportunities to act out scenes from Little House on the Prairie, play a variety of ballgames, hunt dozens and dozens of Easter eggs, climb a dogwood with branches that provided the perfect horseback ride, roll down a hill covered with crunchy leaves, and pick muscadines, sucking out the slimy insides and chewing on the sweet peelings. Granddaddy and Grandmama created and sustained that environment for all of us, and I will always treasure that they lived only a few miles down the road.

I remember stories of how Granddaddy, before he was Granddaddy, defended the black people of his community in his own quiet ways. Whether they were customers or employees at his store, he tried to treat them no differently than he treated the white folks. I didn’t live during that incredibly difficult period, but I am aware enough of the racial issues still pervading the South that I have great respect for how tough this must have been for him. My greatest lesson from him is that people are people, regardless of their origins (and often because of them).

This man, whose photos sit on my dresser where I can see him often, will always be a significant part of who I am. I’m grateful that he lived life so fully.

Occasionally, when I think about writing my young adult novel (I actually have 40 double-spaced pages of writing, but lately I do more ruminating than anything else), I delve into my abundant collection of journals and writings from my childhood and teen years. I want to validate that some of my character’s reactions to her experiences are believable from a girl her age. And yes, I consider myself a somewhat accurate source of validation, as I was a girl her age once.

In my delving, I happened upon reflections about my beloved maternal grandfather, who, at age 66, died in 1993 from treatment complications for lung cancer. One example is these excerpts from an essay I wrote in tenth grade at age 15. I begin with his diagnosis and conclude with the aftermath of his death.

It was November of 1990 and I had just turned thirteen. Being a teenager was already beginning to take its toll on my life. Sudden mood swings were not uncommon, and I would often find myself in my room pouring my heart out while listening to the most dismal songs. The silliest things would set me off: the girls at school had prettier clothes than me, a certain boy had failed to notice my attempts for attention, or Daddy would hand me a harsh word for talking on the phone too much. During those times I would resort to feeling sorry for myself and to thinking of no one but me. Aside from this new adolescence, however, I was mostly a happy person. It’s odd how the news of Granddaddy didn’t devastate me, but I was young and ignorant and incapable of believing something bad could happen to anyone close to me. Meanwhile, he was undergoing surgery and treatments and having to endure the terrible side effects that result from them.

…I see 1992 as a “preparatory” year. It was the year that helped me get ready for what was to come. Many times I struggled with hidden feelings, forever wondering “why?” I pondered many puzzling questions. Why my Granddaddy? Why do medicines designed to make you feel better make you feel worse? Why is God putting our family through this immense trial? I was only fourteen, and I felt totally useless. There was nothing I could do to help him. I couldn’t even find the answers to my questions….

Christmas of 1992 is an especially memorable time. I relished each happy moment and was left with an odd sense of emptiness after each enjoyable event. I desperately craved to put a hold on time, and was careful to record each detail of everything we did, even down to what we ate. As the family and I opened our gifts, I snuck glances at Granddaddy, who was slumped on the couch where he could see everyone. He seemed content and peaceful, but extremely exhausted. He was wearing down.

…Almost immediately following Easter, Granddaddy developed pneumonia, a common occurrence in lung cancer patients. I saw him for the last time on April 12, 1993. My aunt Laurie took cousins John and Cori and me to the hospital. Granddaddy was drifting in and out of a restless sleep, but he awoke to say hello, squeeze our hands rather tightly, then again later to say goodbye. He was able to return home for a couple of weeks, then was rushed back to the hospital when his breathing became difficult. I often experience uncomfortable feelings of guilt that I did not go to see him again, and I have to remind myself that I was indeed able to say goodbye.

…On Saturday, May 1, 1993, I was in my room when the telephone rang. Minutes later, Daddy came to my room and told me gently, “Granddaddy died a little while ago.” So strong was the sympathy in his voice, and so powerful was the meaning of those six words, that when he left I shut my door and crumpled to the floor in tears. All I could think was, “It’s finally over.”

…The funeral took place on May 3, 1993 in the little Woodland Methodist church. That morning my aunt Robin took Cori and me to the funeral home to see his body. It was shocking to see him lying there so still when he had once been so full of life, and my head began to spin. I clutched Cori’s hand for support, then reflected on how well he looked. The rosy color had returned to his flesh, replacing the dull pallor we had become accustomed to. A feeling of peace came over me, for I was assured he was in a better place and that I would see him again some day.

Tonight, for the first time in many months, I had the opportunity to talk with fellow writers about the writing process. We lounged on couches in my den and, in between my rushing to care for children, we bounced ideas around, questioned each other’s theme choices, posed possible plots and scenes, and generally laid the groundwork of thought required for all good writing. Now that we’ve explored avenues I might take with my young adult novel, the random ten minutes I can grab to write will be productive minutes. Thanks, Kevin, Karen, and Jeremy, for stopping by this evening for a four-hour chat about one of my favorite topics–writing. And thanks, my sweet King, for working so hard to set aside an environment in which we writers could talk. I promise I’ll get that best-seller written one of these days….