Making A Book - Part 1

About a year ago, I wrote a series of blog posts with insight on just how we nutjobs writers put together a book. Well, after stuff went down with my former agent, I deleted those posts in a fit of insecurity. The problem is that Blogger keeps listing them as old posts and people keep clicking the links. I've decided to try again. Those posts are gone, but the knowledge is still there.

So let's try this again.

Where does it start? Does making a book start with an idea? Does it start with reading a book? Or a passion? I'm going to say that it all starts with a question.

Sluts and Sports

So there's a lot going on in the news to talk about, and anyone who's read my blog for any amount of time knows that I have a plethora of opinions. Rather than rant at length about All The Things, though, I'm just going to condense things down a bit. Join me. Let's chat.

Cotton Candy With A Door

A long time ago in a galaxy far, far away a friend of mine once referred to my brain as "Cotton Candy With A Door". Never have been quite sure if this is a compliment or not. I prefer to think of it more as a place of whimsy, color and filled with childlike wonder and a door to Anywhere. Then again, he may have been saying that inside my mind is all sugary fluff devoid of any nutritional value.

Anyway, the other day said mind was filled with too many ideas and not enough time to siphon it off. I made a comment on my Facebook about this and the old conversation began... "if only I could just plug in a USB drive to my brain and download it all there and it would all show up fully formed in the Word document." That idea makes me wonder... if that was possible, would a computer program be able to take the amorphous chaos, thoughts, colors, sensations, emotions and words in my head, smack them all together with ones and zeroes and produce something that did justice to the raw germ inside my head? What would it look like? How would a machine realize the way my brain thinks?

Stuff Happens

"Rocks fall. Everyone dies."

So, drafting a new book can be...(choose your word carefully)...fun? Interesting in the Chinese proverb sense of the word? More aggravating than a honey badger singing Narn opera while you're trying to get your baby to sleep? Anyway, drafting is tempestuous. At its best moments there is elation and confidence, a real feeling of excitement for what you're creating. At its worst, you've been staring at a single paragraph for the past hour and you hope that a hole will open in the earth to swallow you up so that humanity will no longer be infected by your hopeless drivel you call a 'story'.

When flailing about in authorial insecurity, the temptation is to blame Writer's Block. Really? Let me just tell you now, right here, that this ailment is bullshit invented by your tender snowflake mind. Writer's Block is a balm, a healing salve to nurture your artist's ego.

Fuck that.

I don't know what to write. I can't think of anything. I'm blocked. No, you're really not. Well, okay, maybe you are, but it's not this illusory disease plaguing writers since the dawn of time. The "blockage" is in your head. Think about it for a minute. You have a story you want to tell. You've got an Idea. You just don't know how to put it out there. At least, that's what it usually is with me. I have too many ideas. Or I know *exactly* what I want to happen two chapters from now but have no earthly clue how to connect the two. Sure, it's just a matter of pages, but that gap feels about as big as the Grand Canyon. So, my tendency is to turtle up. It's like some form of paralysis where there's so much I want to write that I don't know where to start with any of it and aaaahhhhhh! *hide in the Internet! Oh look! Kittens!*

Or maybe you're scared to write a scene. I know that might sound silly, especially to non-writers. But, if you're going to write from a place of truth, you have to dig deep into your own emotions, experiences and bleed on the page. It can be terrifying to face the stuff that comes out of your own head. There's a scene in the book I'm drafting that I do not look forward to writing because it's going to bust open a wound that is finally starting to heal. I'm a little scared to scream those things out to the world, afraid to go back into those thoughts. But the story will be better for it. I will be better for it, too.

At its core, Writer's Block is about fear. Fear of allowing ourselves to suck. Look, it's a rough draft. It's going to be lumpy, uneven and raw. And that is okay. It's better than okay, it's what you need to do. Get that story out of the muck and slime of your mind and put it out in its most elemental state. It doesn't have to be perfect or nuanced or praiseworthy...the story just needs to be told. All that other stuff can come later. Just tell the story.

So when you're drafting, it is okay to insert a placeholder to act as a suspension bridge across the Grand Canyon of your "block". Stuff happens. Put that in there and move on. Tell the story, fill in those gaps later. Shape the landscape during edits.

Trust yourself.
Tell the damn story.
You're the only one who can.

The Odd Day

I live in a small, middle class neighborhood in Phoenix. It's usually quiet. There are horse farms to the north and south nestled among schools, churches and businesses. My daughter goes to school about two miles north of our house and because the school doesn't have busing, I take the city bus or walk depending on the weather. The first half mile of that walk is through my own neighborhood. Today, I was stopped in the middle of that walk by a convoy. 


In the lead, a large white cargo van with "K9" stenciled in the front window. Behind, two ginormous armored trucks (one with a battering ram). Both were labeled SWAT and their team members clung to the open backs of these behemoths. Following were two police cruisers, another van, an SUV and a couple of unmarked officer vehicles. 


They turned a street or two north of me and a few minutes later I could hear someone barking orders over a loudspeaker. Couldn't make out words, but it had the tone of the "come out of the house with your hands up" thing you see in movies. 


As if this wasn't enough action, I found a bullet on the side of the road at the city bus stop across the street from K's school. I'm no ballistics expert, no matter how many episodes of CSI I've watched. What I found had been chewed by Goodyear and asphalt. The bottom, though, read clearly "Winchester 223 Rem". Couldn't tell if it was real, if it was someone's novelty key ring or if it was a spent casing. I don't know. Looked it up...apparently it's a rifle round. 


I have to say that this well and truly freaked my shit out. Violence and crime are commonplace, it's true, but I can't say that they have been so diluted by television, movies and a 24 hour news cycle that I just shrug off the physical evidence. And that got me to thinking.


I am blessed. I don't live in a place where armed safety personnel patrol outside my window on a regular basis. I don't live in a neighborhood that is a militarized zone. There are day laborers waiting for pickup a quarter mile from my house... not car bombers. This freaked me out because it's not normal... and that's good. 


We've got it good. In this country I think it's easy to get swept up in abortion debates or partisan politics or worrying about the Super Bowl or award season. Doesn't matter if you're the 1% or 99%, Democrat or Republican, Pro-Choice or not, whatever... it doesn't matter. You are lucky if you don't have to walk out your front door and fear an air raid or suicide bomber. That's not an everyday fear for most Americans. 


We've got it good. Remember that. 


And don't blow it.