by susan | Feb 25, 2014 | Uncategorized
last may I began a project, a book about wolves. since that time I’ve traveled to montana, yellowstone, wyoming, idaho, montana again, yellowstone again. I’ve read a towering stack of books, and perused articles and op eds galore. I’ve interviewed dozens of people, from hunters to ranchers to conservationists, attorneys, retired schoolteachers, biologists. I’ve written, I’ve listened, I’ve reflected, I’ve written more. and more, and more, shaping and crafting it into something worth reading.
and yesterday, I took my manuscript–after giving it a thorough polishing–and put it down for a nap. it’s going to rest, now, for a few weeks. I’m going to leave it alone, no checking to see if its breathing, for I’m going to trust that it’ll be just fine without me.
a small period of dormancy is good for both of us. I’m going to focus on other projects, other areas in my life that might need a little attention, and I’m purposefully not going to think about wolves. I’m going to tidy up my living spaces, maybe go for a walk. catch up on all those things I’ve let slip to the bottom of the pile. maybe sing a little bit. sweep out a few corners. think about the cover of the published book, envision it on people’s tables and nightstands, in their hands, in their minds.
this period of enforced hibernation is a trick used by many writers, a way to view something with fresh eyes. it’s crucial to be able to step away from your work, to be able to see it from a witnessing viewpoint. to read it as if you were someone else. and this is impossible to do when you’re engrossed in the writing, the creation of it. some parts of my manuscript I wrote 6, maybe 7 months ago, and during my most recent full-manuscript assessment and edit, I had no memory of writing them. some parts I’d written just 2 or 3 months back, and I read them as if for the first time. I know when I pick the manuscript back up a few weeks from now I won’t have forgotten it all, but hopefully the time away will have dulled my memory enough to let it speak to me in a different way. perhaps parts will be less clear, perhaps new ideas will jump out at me, different ways to organize, to express thoughts, to make the story better hold together, intrigue, delight.
when I return to the manuscript a few weeks from now, I will read it from end to end, I will try to forget that I wrote any of it, I will let it speak to me. and hopefully it will howl.
by susan | Nov 7, 2013 | Uncategorized
I’ve just returned from three days in new york, publishing nexus and writers’ nirvana. on sunday evening, I walked past the simon & schuster building, noting all the lighted windows and cluttered desks, walls, and shelves I could see from my position far below on the street. the biting wind swept romance all about, as I considered junior editors slaving away, stacks of manuscripts piled on every available surface, visions of discovering bestsellers and having their own manuscripts published dancing behind grimy eyelids and living in hearts.
I know, no one uses paper anymore, and there was probably not a soul in that building, but my heart created a dozen dreams of what might lie behind that stone facade.
I still have a dream of being found. being discovered, being asked to come to new york to meet with my editor. and I’m not giving up: I’m being courageous enough to put my dream out there into the universe.
for years—off and on, as projects moved through life cycles and inspiration swooped and floundered—I have sent off queries to agents located in the new york area. many via snail mail, and these days, most all via the astounding and amazing internet. snail mail is more work but more creative, as I addressed envelopes and envisioned the streets, the buildings, the lobbies and elevator operators in creaky metal cages in old brick lairs. some addresses were office suites in tall structures, some were doubtless apartments in brownstones. many went to young agents, some to established names, a few to those top agents that are so busy with their best-seller-writing authors that it was surprising they still accepted queries. but always, inevitably, I would picture the building, the office, the desk, the credenza behind it, the person seated on the chair, the coffee mug on the blotter. the person wading through dozens of queries, coming upon mine, and pondering. can I sell this? do I care about this? will anyone else? can this person really deliver what she promises, and does it intrigue me at all? is my coffee cold? do I need to take a break, go check in with margaret down the hall?
I’d like to be inside their heads as they read my queries. I’d like to read the other queries they receive, I’d like to know where the agent works who will fall in love with my project. I’d like to see her building, her office, her chair. are the walls bright orange and lively, or worn and weary ivory like the keys on my century-old piano? are reviews and cover proofs pinned alongside her desk, and is her bookshelf crammed with every book she’s ever loved? is she too warm, too cold, hungry, anxious about an upcoming release, nervous about a commitment she’s just made? I’d buy her a hot coffee. and a bagel.
manhattan is filled with hundreds of thousands of people focused on their own lives, projects, pets. a million stories rest upon a million stories, separated by walls and floors and sidewalks, by metal doors and elevator cages. I send my queries, they flutter on cyber breezes and magically appear on computer screens, they are stuffed in canvas mail bags and slipped into slots then unearthed by slender letter openers, unfolded and, like those which transversed the country in a split second, perused by eyes that have read a thousand other queries. somewhere, sitting in some kind of a chair, perches the agent who will read my words and find within them a sliver of illumination, a curiosity, and a chord deep in her soul will be strummed. her heart will warm, she will feel a pull, and she will want more.
I picture this, I see her office, her glasses pushed atop her hair as she lets her eyes rest unfocused upon the far wall, wondering, considering, feeling that tug that says pursue this, see where this goes, follow your heart. she types on her keyboard, quickly, efficiently, and makes her request. please submit manuscript.
I might have walked past her building last weekend. I might have passed her on the street. I don’t know her stories, only that she has them. her own hopes and dreams, frustrations and qualms. so today, I hope someone treats her kindly. holds open a door for her, moves out of her path as she walks down the sidewalk. smiles at her. compliments her, gives her faith in her own abilities to weed through queries and find the one that inspires her, that intrigues her, that has the potential to become a book of import. and whose author would gladly, if given the chance, buy her a cup of hot coffee. and a bagel.
by susan | Sep 16, 2013 | Uncategorized
I can’t seem to write.
now, I know this is a temporary state of affairs. last week I whipped out a 5,000 word essay, and I wrote a bit the week before that. so, chances are, I will be writing again soon. but today I have no motivation, can’t find even a thread of it. I forced myself and wrote a grand total of 254 words today, 251 of which will probably be edited away later. I don’t want to write, I have nothing to say, I no longer wish to be a writer, I’m looking for a new career, a new passion, something to sweep me out of this abyss I’m in and help me build new dreams.
sigh.
I don’t like being in this place. I’m bored and grumpy and antsy and would rather do my physical therapy exercises than write. instead of journaling, I took the dog for a walk. instead of doing more research, I ate. (even as I type this, I’m thinking of eating again.) I am ready to throw my dream of being a published, prolific, professional, prosperous author out the window and go back to school . . . maybe I’ll study nursing. or dentistry. or accounting.
the good news is that, based on experience, this slump won’t last long. I tend to slump for short periods of time, then bounce back to being my passionate writer self quite quickly. I am a writer through and through, heart and soul, pen and paper. I can no more walk away from it than I can be a natural redhead. it’s ingrained in who I am, in my dna, in every cell in every part of my body (including those parts that are still recovering from that accident that led me to read all that no-brainer fiction.)
but today, this evening, I reside in a slump. it’s gray and dreary and deep, and something far below is trying to grab my toe and pull me even further down. I type away in an effort to resist this pull, but I’m not certain it will work. I own not a single iota of creativity, I have nothing to say, all of my projects will wither on their vines.
come tomorrow, I expect things will be different . . . because they always are. I will go to bed tonight and ask for a reconnection with my heart, with my soul, with the pen and paper I so dearly love. the prince of sleep will send me colorful dreams that will stimulate what is today lying dormant, and upon waking I will once again have the desire to write, to create, to find inspiration everywhere I turn.
I accept my slump this evening—moments like this are part of everyone’s lives—but will banish it tomorrow. because I am a creator, and like every artist out there, I have no choice but to do what I do, because it is who I am. not a redhead, but absolutely, a writer.
by susan | Aug 7, 2013 | Uncategorized
today I handed over a piece of my new project to my publisher. if you’re any kind of a creator you can relate to the feelings involved, which are similar to those of a parent whose newborn child is on display.
possibly worse than being the parent is to be the viewer: dare we speak our truth? um, gee, that face is red and squishy, and the cheeks are out of proportion, and all those wrinkles around the eyes aren’t very attractive . . . the hair’s a mess, and yikes, look at her scrunch up her face and turn bright red and oh God, here comes a wail . . . no, we try to find the positive and focus on that. we put ourselves in the mind and heart of the parent and say, she’s beautiful.
as I handed these 4400 words over this morning, I told my publisher I’d already imagined a slew of responses he might have, considered what those might do to me and my project, and decided that I was going to keep moving forward anyway . . . so I handed the papers over.
and now I feel like I loaned him my baby. he might come back with responses meant to mollify me, stroke me, encourage me. he may say things that make me want to grab my baby back and never give it to him again. he might be honest, and I may or may not like what he has to say. it doesn’t really matter: I will keep writing what I need to write.
I hope he likes it, of course. I hope he thinks it’s fantastic. but I also know that whatever he says I will hear through a parent’s (and a creator’s) self-protective, love-filled bubble. I will listen, take in as much as I can, keep on writing, and subtly adjust as time goes on and the words flow through.
today I handed part of my baby to a relative stranger, and I’m waiting for him to tell me what he thinks of it.
I’m not holding my breath, but I am, however, gently holding my heart.
by susan | Jul 31, 2013 | Uncategorized
I attended a wedding the other evening, a beautiful celebration on a grassy lawn beside a pond, shaded by trees, with dappled sunlight touching guests here and there. a chuppah was set in front of the chairs, a striking collection of slender logs with smooth gray bark, chiffon, and flower bunches thick with light purple hydrangea and pale yellow roses. the ceremony was heartfelt and personal, while still adhering to tradition and doctrine. other than one of the bridesmaids fainting, it flowed easily and engagingly. a string quartet had played traditional music as we gathered and seated ourselves and for the entrance of the wedding party and bride, but as the newly married couple departed the setting, they played a beatles song, in my life.
I don’t listen to beatles’ songs nearly enough. in my life is a love song that includes people and places and memories, saying I’ll often stop and think about them, and that I’ve loved them all. life is filled with experiences and encounters, and there’s no better way to go through life than by acknowledging how each one–good and bad–has affected you for the better.
reading good literature and poetry, listening to powerful compositions, and hearing musicians do what they do best are all things that touch hearts and souls. and the beatles were extremely talented at writing poetry, lyrics, and music. I am not placing them above anyone else, I am just using them as an example of talented people who created amazing works. I listen to lyrics like these and think, what else do we need to say?
we now live in a world of 7 billion people, a world that has fostered writers for over a thousand years, writers who have produced millions of written works.
I sometimes wonder if there’s anything left to say.
yet I keep plugging away at it, as do tens of thousands of others. after all these years, after reading and listening to thousands of others, we still want to say things in our own words. I think about just spending the rest of my life reading what everyone else thinks, feels, and writes, and it’s certainly tempting. but I find that after a period of time spent reading, or riding my bicycle, talking with friends or just being, my hand begins to search for a pen, and I want to write.
whether it’s all been said or not, I have a desire to say it again, perhaps a little bit differently, hopefully from a perspective that is subtly shifted away from that of others. I accept the reality that my words will bear striking similarity to those of others, and that none of my thoughts are truly unique. that’s okay. I still have to write.
may you continue doing what you need to do, whether someone else is doing the same thing or not, whether it’s already been done a million times, or even if it feels like just one more version of someone else’s idea. you have a passion for a reason: fuel it, feel it, live it.
by susan | Jul 10, 2013 | Uncategorized
two months ago my favorite publishing company–torrey house press–approached me with an idea for a book, and asked me if I would be interested in taking on the project. let me clarify: they approached me with a topic. a one-word topic, a topic that they said I could take on and write about in any way that inspired me. sounds great, doesn’t it? sounds like a dream job, sounds like something any writer with half a brain should say yes to.
so I said yes, (because I appear to have–sometimes if not always–about half a brain). and thus I find myself writing a book about wolves.
yep, wolves.
and it is going to be a damn good book.
I’ve been researching like crazy for the past two months, reading and interviewing and traveling to yellowstone and missoula and bozeman, thinking and feeling and synthesizing it all . . . and I am creating an incredible book about something I never even knew I might care about. at least, I’m creating this incredible book when I can tear myself away from the never-ending research.
about a month into my indoctrination-by-overload into the world of wolves, I had eight books stacked on my table and I needed a bike ride. along the route, my biking buddy bob was listening to my current-and-future wolf reading list, and he said to me, “back in college, a professor once told me–after listening to all of the research I’d done–just start writing.”
so I just started writing. and I’m still writing, and researching, and reading, and continuing to write.
there are numerous books about wolves already out there: you can read about the reintroduction of wolves into yellowstone, you can read the science, you can read books with amazing pictures, you can read about people who camped and lived with a wolf pack for six years. mine will be nothing like these: they’re already out there. mine is a personal story, a personal journey, with universal application. it’s a book about wolves, and it’s also a book about what it means to be human, in a world with wolves.
and it’s getting written. slowly. there’s more research to do, more experiences to be had, more people to talk with. but I’m remembering to write. because it’s an awful lot like bicycling: nothing happens when you don’t pedal. and once you begin pedaling, your destination comes closer and closer, one pedal stroke at a time.
one day you’ll want to be reading my wolf book. because not only am I an excellent researcher, but I’m a darn good writer and I’m going to keep writing, one word at a time, each day bringing my destination just a little bit closer, and closer, until one day, the wolf book will be ready for you and I will begin writing something else.
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