Just One Thing to Say

At the James River Writers Conference this year, Robert Goolrick (and I had a totally fangirl reaction to him! What a writer!) said most writers have just one or two things to say. That's it. And they spend their lives trying to say that ONE thing, better and better (hopefully) with each book.

I tend to think he's right.

I do not consider myself an optimist . . . but I consider myself a very content, happy person. In fact, I am the LEAST likely person to ever be depressed mainly because I tend to face whatever difficulties life hands me with a "put on your big girl panties and deal with it" or "it is what it is." YET, when I think about the ONE recurring theme in nearly EVERY book (even all my comedies) . . . it's grief. I find the human condition--the idea that we are born alone and die alone, that we say goodbye to so many people we love along the way--to be fascinating. And nearly every character I write is processing some major loss, trying to figure it out, put it on a shelf where it won't consume them, put on a braver face and go out and live.

Ultimately, I think my characters are trying to make SENSE of things that make no sense. And the resolution of that is acceptance. It's the same lesson I learn. And re-learn.

And re-learn.

It's funny, but I rarely, if ever, feel sorry for myself for being sick--not even when in the hospital for extended stays. It doesn't tug at me. I have Crohn's disease . . . because. People get sick and die . . . because. It isn't FAIR but life isn't. So it is what it is.

I find I waste MORE time trying to understand PEOPLE. Wondering at someone's seeming lack of conscience. The Penn State case, for example, is the type of thing on the news that TUGS at me. It nags at the edges of my consciousness. I find myself really thinking about it. I ask, Why? Or maybe more . . . HOW? How can people do such dark and awful things? The last couple of years, I have seen, as I've said before on this blog, Grownups Behaving Badly. People I thought I knew. Once I realized there was no solace to be found in trying to understand others, I turned the focus to me. How could I have been so betrayed or fooled by other people? Is it because I DON'T act that way--so I don't expect it in others? I'm not naive--so you'd think a grown woman would learn. But then . . . it goes back to never understanding the HOW.

And so it goes back to the writing. Characters trying to make sense of that which . . . never will make sense. And so then it becomes finding a sense of peace. A way to live WITH that which makes no sense. A way to live WITH grief and not have it overtake their lives.

In Illuminated (brief shameless plug: preorder it!) . . . Callie wishes she knew her mother, long dead. But her mother is unknowable. How can you know someone who never lived long enough to be there for you? And yet . . . I think part of the journey of my heroine is that at some point Callie finds the traits of her mother are part of her. To know her mother, she only has to look in the mirror. And that makes the grief . . . more manageable.

Do you have just ONE thing to say? And if so . . . what is it????

Still Crazy After All These Years

My Publisher's Weekly review is in.

Illuminated

Erica Orloff. Penguin/Speak, $7.99 trade paper (256p) ISBN 978-0-14-241376-0

The discovery of an ancient palimpsest, a medieval Book of Hours written over an earlier composition, sparks a quest to unearth its origins. Sixteen-year old Callie interns with her uncle, an illuminated manuscripts expert, and joins NYU student August on a treasure hunt that turns dangerous once the book’s value becomes known. Their search takes them from Manhattan to Paris, unveiling layers of parallel love stories along the way. Visionary dreams lead them to the centuries-old star-crossed love affair of Heloise and Abelard, and their tragically abandoned son, Astrolabe. Callie’s personal quest to understand her long-dead mother (“I’ve spent my life... hoping she would whisper to me the way the scrawl in the margin whispered to Uncle Harry”) feeds her yearning, while her keen observation of both healthy loves (Harry and his partner, Gabe) and destructive ones (her father and his numerous girlfriends) provides instruction in the promise and perils of passion, as her feelings for August grow. Though occasionally choppy, Orloff’s (the Magickeepers series) combination coming-of-age, historical mystery, ghost story, and romance satisfies on many levels. Ages 12–up. (Dec.)

Reviewed on: 10/17/2011


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Let me tell you about this book. It was the book that almost killed me.

I'm not sure why.

And I think every author has a book like this. The book that makes them near crazy. Or is it a chicken and the egg thing.

Part of it was the length of time I took to write it. My editor was out on maternity leave, and so I didn't have tremendous pressure to have it in by a certain date. This is deadly to me. Give me an ethereal due date and I will somehow meander my way through the writing. Give me a killer deadline, and I will deliver.

Part of it was I write tight, and so I would go over the first 100 pages time and time again maybe cutting ONE word. Until I . . . hated . . . my . . . own . . . book. I was so sick of the words. By the time I turned it in, I never wanted to read my own words again. How many times could I read those pages? Had to have been a thousand.

Then I got the galleys. My mom had moved in with me by then. I was reading the galleys. And I told her, "I hate this book."

Then I got to THE SCENE. One of two that deep down I loved and had worked particularly hard on. This one was a heavy dialogue scene. And I remember I had talked them out. Reciting my own dialogue--both parts. Over and over. So I read the galleys. That scene. And I got weepy.

And I turned to my mom and said, "Well, no . . . I don't hate it. After all this time, THIS SCENE still gets me."

Every time.

Proof that I was not crazy when I wrote it. That there was something in it that was from the deepest part of my writing self. That three YEARS after first writing it, first envisioning it, I could still wring emotion out of myself.

The PW review is nice. Maybe it confirms I wasn't crazy all this time, too.

Then again . . . really? I'm a writer. I think crazy is in the job description.

Anyone else feel a little nuts when they write?

The Kid Space, The Joy Space

I just got back from speaking to a classroom full of first-graders. And though I need to be careful around those little germ factories, fact is . . . I love them. I love being around them. I love writing for them. And I would rather speak as an author to a room full of little folks than a room full of grownups any day. No contest.

In the last year and a half, it's been no secret on this blog that I have had a front-row seat to Grownups Behaving Badly. The pathetic reality show continued last week when someone I have known for years put on a nasty face and stormed past me without acknowledging my existence. If not for the Church People Hypocrites . . . my goodness, what would amuse me? I have seen Grownups as Cowards, as Gossips, as Backstabbers, as Liars. I've seen them do things NO first-grader would do because in first grade, your basic rule is still BE NICE.

When I write for kids--the little ones--I am transported to a place BRIMMING with enthusiasm for imagination, for words, for illustrations. When I go to Pirate Boy's Tae Kwon Do class, any time anyone struggles, the Master makes the ENTIRE class (and parents and visitors) chant, "YOU CAN DO IT!" and "FINISH WHAT YOU START!" In first grade, the kids still ooze joy.

When I write YA, it's different. My heroine, Callie, has an empty ache. But there is hope--she hasn't hardened into a Grownup Behaving Badly. She isn't hardened at all. She is quiet, with a space that feels empty inside, and she will search for the origins of an ancient manuscript in order to fill it.

I know teens bully. I know the high school years for many are anything BUT the best years. But I still think deep down inside is that joy spot, that space, where you believe that anything is possible.

I like to think that even the Grownups Behaving Badly have that spot too. But some are so far down the course of ugliness, it's virtually lost to them. For me? I will keep visiting those little kids, keep writing for them, keep hugging them, hoping to absorb the joy they give off. 'Cause I, for one, no matter how sick, how tired, how weary . . . never want to lose it. And I'm (ahem) old enough to think that yeah, I won't. It's just a part of me. The very best part of me.

Thoughts? What's your joy space?

Sometimes the Cover Gods Smile on You

I am delirious over it. :-)

Who Are You?

Finishing the rewrites on ILLUMINATED. It was pretty amazing to me to see a new layer come to the surface. All along, I struggled with this very inner girl character. She's not like her peers, she's brilliant, but quiet, reserved. And how do you create this good girl in a Gossip Girl world and make her emotional . . . make her someone you can relate to.

All along, she has been playing hide and seek with me. I don't do those character interview techniques. I don't freewrite as a character. I just don't use some technique. I am sure they work for other writers, but it all feels forced to me. I either inhabit the character. Or I don't.

And then, in a bit of dialogue, the uncle in this story tells Calliope, "It's okay to feel happy, you know."

And it all came rushing out. This serious girl with an overbearing father who didn't really feel the right to embrace JOY. To embrace life--not with a 4.3 G.P.A. and the weight of aiming for valedictorian on her.

And so . . . three years, many thousands of words, and four rewrites later, I finally GET her. I know this girl. I know who she is.

When I talk about voice, for ME, this is a part of it. I know her intimately now, like she's written in the lines on my palm. I get her. She and I had to take this long journey together to arrive at this place.

So tell me, who is your main character? And how is it you got to know them?

And watch here on Wednesday for a little announcement.