by susan | Jun 10, 2014 | Uncategorized
earlier I wrote about reviewing others’ works, and how difficult I find it. I wrote about losing myself in books, finding myself in books, falling in love with what I read, becoming spellbound. and the other day, while reading a book, I discovered the reason I’m not a book critic and why I react to books as I do.
it’s not earth shattering. in fact, it’s something we all innately sense. I’d just never heard–or read–it so beautifully put as I did by carlos ruiz zafon in his book, the shadow of the wind, when he wrote,
books are mirrors: you only see in them what you already have inside you.
ah. I read, I see, and I stay in that place, not able to tear myself away and pretend impartiality.
hold this thought; consider your most cherished books.
ponder.
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 | Jan 7, 2014 | what I'm reading
I am writing a book about wolves. about people and wolves. about what people think, feel, and believe about wolves. about what it’s like to be a human in a world where there are wolves. it is an awesome book, one I’m extremely grateful to be writing.
currently I am working on a section about nature and its impact on us humans. richard louv has written a book about children and nature titled “last child in the woods” in which he suggests that much of our population suffer from what he calls nature deficit disorder, especially our children. this resonates with me. in a sentence I find particularly meaningful for its insight he states:
“Given a chance, a child will bring the confusion of the world to the woods, wash it in the creek, turn it over to see what lives on the unseen side of that confusion.”
it isn’t only children who benefit from that time in the woods; we adults, too, can take our confusion, wash it in the creek, and explore nuances and understandings we hadn’t yet discovered. the only one who won’t benefit from time spent alone in nature is the one who isn’t yet ready to face oneself. children–blessedly–are naturally open to this kind of exploration and will remain so until the world convinces them they’re not. the answers, the solutions and understandings, rarely come as lightning bolts ~ though they may ~ more often adjusting us minutely and softly, helping us to breathe more deeply and corral the strength that resides within.
often we aren’t even able to articulate a question, but have an awareness that we’re unsettled. taking that to the woods, to the river, to the mountain, is important therapy, inexpensive and wildly effective.
much can be learned from studying wildlife, and the way wolves live is especially instructive for us humans. they form bonds with others, and are extremely loyal and protective of the space they share with their family. they nurture and teach and play with their offspring. they persevere; they only give up when it’s necessary to give up. they roam and explore but always come home. they howl.
it’s possible they take their confusion to the creek, splash around a bit, and come away better.
when we listen to our hearts and souls and remember who we truly are, we are drawn to the land, to the wild. and it is there that we can embrace our truths and let nature work its magic on us.
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 | 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.
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