Little Moments

Abraham Maslow talked about "peak experiences"--ecstatic states with awareness of interconnectedness. When I think about my life, each time I gave birth, it was a peak experience. And I remember one night, sleeping outside in the Sierra Nevadas that came pretty close--the Milky Way, shooting stars, coyotes, as close to the heavens as I will likely get in terms of altitude.

But when I think about my life, it is often the little moments that delight me. When I pause and notice how Dynamo Boy has an expression of joy on his face as he holds squirming worms in the garden, or how Oldest Son still hugs me and kisses me goodnight . . . or Baby Girl laughs just so. Or Oldest Daughter shrieks when she is on the phone with her best friend and my house is full. They are small moments, with no meaning to anyone but me. After I am dead, no one will know those moments . . . they're personal and inside my own head, with meaning just for myself.

I like small moments in books, too. In Freudian Slip, I think my favorite small moment is when Jules and Kate visit a cemetery and he tells her they are alone--no other souls around. It's not a pivotal plot moment. Just a quiet moment they draws the two of them much closer together. Or when he watches her sleep and sees the flickers of a dream cross her face.

Little moments, done well, I think, make books richer. They don't have to slow the book down, but they can add reality and richness because we ALL have little moments.

What little moments do you have in your work-in-progress? In life?

The Future of Storytelling?

I've blogged before how "good enough" isn't good enough anymore. Not just because the bar for books is high, but because the bar for ENTERTAINMENT is high. Yes, there's crap out there. But there's a LOT of choice--everything from movies to video games to iPhone apps and gadgets.

Where can e-books go? What about extras buried inside e-books? I've not really drifted too much in my blog into the boundaries of technology and what it means for books.

Until I read this and was utterly fascinated.

Now . . . I'm not saying I would play this game. In fact, it would be too "much" for me. Too emotionally scary. Not. Going. There. BUT . . . the concept? Four POVs. TWO THOUSAND pages of script. Multi-layered characters with inner demons. Homage to noir.

Even more, if things like this take off . . . what does it mean for conventional books someday that DON'T offer this?

And before anyone thinks that idea is ridiculous, I would point to Wii. Three years ago, conventional wisdom was the ONLY people who played video games were adolescent boys. Wiis are in nursing homes. My BLIND father plays the Wii (bowling and boxing) when he visits. My oldest son aligns his arm and shows him how to swing, we play on a high-dwef 52-inch screen he can see. Even my little guys bowls with Pop.

So read the article. And then . . . what do you think?

Quiet Moments

So yesterday's blog was on perfect storms . . .

Today, it's on quiet moments.

Books have climaxes and big moments. Worlds nearly blow up. Gunplay happens. Tragedy strikes. Lives are put on trial in courtrooms.

But books also have quiet moments. These are moments of the author's choosing to show "life before" a big event or "life before" the conflict of the novel. Sometimes the reverse is true and a character has an awful life that must be overcome, and then the quiet moment is at the end, when a new life has started and we glimpse a spot of the new normal, the new happily ever after.

I think of the moment in Patriot Games (the movie) when Harrison Ford reads The Cat in the Hat to his daughter. They could have chosen a million moments from fatherhood, but this one worked for the film (plus his daughter's name was Sally).

Choose TOO ordinary a moment, and it may get lost in your plot. Choose too poignant a moment and it can feel manipulative.

In my current work-in-progress, the quiet moments are between two lovers keeping the craziness outside in the apocalyptic world at bay. They're moments of talking, of making love, of holding hands, of walking their dog. They are moments of celebration and moments of talking. Of seeing a play. It's all (I hope) in how they relate to each other that feels important. How they are always TOUCHING. I've yet to write a scene when they don't. If he sits next to her in the theatre, she puts her hand on his thigh. If he sees her and takes her hand, at first he kisses the center of her palm. She touches his lapel. She straightens his tie. He leans his forehead to hers. They are the moments they will wish they had paid attention to when they no longer have them. The moments they will miss the most.

So do you have any quiet moments of normalcy in your novel? And what quiet moment did you use to show us?

Story and Theme

The other day, over at Lurker Monkey's place (and I really do think of a Monkey having a coffee shop on the Internet when I am there, just as I think of this blog as my own personal diner--and I control the tunes, since, as of the moment, David Bowie's Ashes to Ashes is on), there was a discussion of Story versus Theme. It sort of evolved into a "versus" situation because some debate was occuring, but really, they are intrinsically united.

And so I started thinking about it. At the beach this weekend, I was reading two books simultaneously. Both clock in over 1,000 pages, give or take, I think. The first is this one by Dostoyevsky. I've read it before, but it's been a while, and like a lot of Dostoyevsky, it's a very involved story. However, unlike modern stories, there's tons of telling. And it's all about theme. Big, grand themes that almost fry your brain because they are so complex and debate-inducing. It's a story, but it's told in an old-fashioned way. Dostoyevsky didn't create a page turner, yet every character is compelling.

And then, I am reading this, a book recommended to me by someone I know, a Muslim. And he is right. There are universal truths no matter your religion, and this book . . . you know the theme in the FIRST sentence. The very first one.

"It took me a long time and most of the world to learn about love and fate and the choices we make, but the heart of it came to me in an instant, while I was chained to a wall and being tortured."

And all of this brings me to an exciting new project of Lurker Monkey's. A storytelling project you can read about in the two links below.

http://1-millionmonkeys.blogspot.com/2009/07/storytellers.html
http://1-millionmonkeys.blogspot.com/2009/07/july-prompt.html

As I worked on a short-short story this week (400 words only), it started with a theme. It told a little story. They are united. But had I excluded theme, I would have 400 words that said nothing. I think of a novel as a church now. There is the altar of story. Any words not serving the story are tossed on a pyre. But the the hallowed few, there is an even greater altar. It is Theme. Any parts of the story that do not serve the theme, that's where they are burned.

Thoughts? Are you a storyteller? How do you know?

Reelin' in the Years

I was coping with yet another (!!!) night of insomnia when I went on a Facebook adventure this weekend. I log on once a day, sometimes twice. I use it to play Scrabble with my sister in Texas, and to leave goofy notes for my Oldest Daughter. I catch up in status updates with the pack of cousins I have all over the States . . . and to hear from old friends or what have you. But I have never gone "searching" for old friends. Some of my Facebook friends are readers, some writer friends, some cyberspace pals, some family, and some old friends who have sent me a "friend" notification. But like, I said, I haven't really spent much or any time searching.

Anyway, there I was, insomnia in full dark-circle mode and I went clicking along. Now, I don't know how OTHER people view finding old acquaintances. I can tell you how a WRITER views it. Or how THIS writer views it.

I saw a photo of a girl I thought was single-handedly one of the prettiest I knew in college . . . and she has had "work" done. Not a LITTLE work. A frozen face of work. UNRECOGNIZABLE work. I inhaled sharply. My thought wasn't a gossipy, snipey thing. That's not me. My thought was, "What's the STORY behind ruining your face like that? Behind fearing aging so much? What's the STORY?"

I saw photos of one girl who was sort of an ugly duckling and is now so beautiful. Not because of the "work" she's had done, but because I know about her lonely childhood and she is surrounded by a parcel of kids in her photos and looks SO HAPPY. I know there's a story there.

I saw photos of several people who hadn't aged well. Women who are my age and look easily 10 or 15 years older. No kidding. They have faces that my dad would say, show, "They have been around the track a few times." Bloated by unkind years and I guess unkind lifestyles. I know there are stories there. Likely sad stories.

I saw men I knew had been not nice people in college. Guys who routinely got in violent fights or ruthlessly destroyed girls' reputations by spreading lies or even truths they had no business spreading about friends of mine. And they now have photos of their kids--including their daughters. I wonder what they would think if a young man did to their daughter what they did in their frat houses. There's a story there. An evolution, I suppose into the men they are today. Or maybe the evolution is incomplete and beneath the surface they are still those ruthless or careless people.

I don't see people per se. I am not particularly interested in rekindling old friendships. I am very happy with my life . . . I'm not looking to recapture anything. I am like an anthropologist. I know there are some stories there.

That's what I see. I fill in gaps with what I might imagine happened. I'll never know, of course. I don't even think I want to know. But it's how my mind works.

I am the person who can go to a stranger's house as the date/guest of someone else. And I can be content to sit and look at the stranger's photo albums for hours. Guessing at stories. Seeing weddings, joy. Seeing wistfulness.

It's how my mind works. It's what photos evoke.

Thoughts? Do you ever fill in the years with stories?

The Altar of Story

I have a St. Jude candle in my office. You might know him as the Patron Saint of Desperate Cases and Hopeless Causes. I sometimes chat with him . . . and often light the candle when friends have the most serious of problems. I have other statues and other saints and Buddhas and assorted odd folk on my little personal shrine there. I have a picture of my grandma in a Mets t-shirt. I chat with her, too. Often. It's the kind of altar you would think I might have, were you a regular blog visitor here. It's cluttered with pictures of my children, too. Sometimes, during the day, I will look at one of their pictures while they are off at school and say a silent prayer that they are being watched over. And then there is another altar entirely.

The Altar of Story.

It accepts sacrifices.

But you must give them willingly.

It accepts scenes.

It accepts "darlings." Whole chapters. It might even accept the entire beginning of a novel once you discover it's all really back story.

It accepts these sacrifices and burns them on a pyre.

When I first attempted a novel, I was a kid in my twenties, and I was in a writers' group with a woman who was an amazing writer (now multi-pubbed by Berkley). I remember her once saying she routinely threw out the first 50 pages once she finally arrived at the beginning. I was astounded and almost didn't believe her, except she was always someone forthright and never lied. I moved away and left that writers' group, and went along my merry little way, always knowing where my beginnings were.

But then I met THIS guy. I have never seen a writer so willing to go the pyre with words . . . beautiful words and scenes and whole characters. Even whole books.

And along the way . . . this decade and a half journey of learning the novel as art form . . . I met the writers who did NOT worship at the Altar of Story. And I recognized them. My God, but they needed to do a pagan dance around the Altar and just BURN that back story dump. Kill off that secondary who really served no function other than to showcase the writer's talent for witty repartee. And they refused to bow down. And most of the time, the hallowed gods of story rewarded them. With a "meh." Manuscripts that didn't move, that had no pacing, that yes, indeed, were filled with beautiful words and great lines and descriptions and a main character who was even quite clever. But without the sacrifice . . . they were always doomed to be stuck in a Sea of What-must-be-burned.

And along the way, I became a regular penitent at the Altar of Story. Whole chapters had to go. Whole storylines. Back stories. Characters. And the hallowed gods of story have rewarded me a few times.

Thoughts? Penitent? Needing to visit the pyre?

Best or Worst? YOU decide

I miss New York. So every day, when I have my coffee, I read the "rags." The New York Daily News and the Post. They aren't great papers. They aren't great journalism. They're call the rags for a reason. Their columnists are "real" New York. When I read them online, I swear I can smell the pretzels and souvlaki and gyros for sale on the street corner. So it was two days ago, I saw this:

NICHOLAS Sparks - who has 100 million copies of his books in print, including "Message in a Bottle," "Nights in Rodanthe" and his latest, "The Lucky One" - told Marymount College writing program director Lewis Frumkes he can't stand so-called literary writers whose prose seems to scream out, "Look how brilliant I am," instead of just telling a good story. "In my opinion," said Sparks, "Stephen King is without question our greatest writer. No one tells a better story than Stephen." He describes his own books as modern Greek tragedies that put readers through the range of human emotions. "I set out to write a good story with 'The Notebook,' one that would sell 10 million copies and make me rich . . . and I did." He also told Lewis that Disney has already bought his next book to make into a movie. Asked what its title was, Sparks said, "I don't have a title. I haven't even begun to write the book."

Now, what he says . . . I can go with. I agree it should be about story. I guess what strikes me as . . . I don't know . . . negative, is setting out with the goal to "get rich." Don't get me wrong, I would LOVE to make 10 million dollars. I have the "dream," if you will, that maybe a book will just really, really take off. (I also know sustaining the take-off is beyond difficult.) But I suppose I think of story, of readers, of my characters and their lives. When I am writing, I have never sat down--not once--and thought, "Let me come up with the moneymaker." I have MET writers who do that. I have met them so often, it's the ol' "If I had dollar for every time . . . ." And with one exception, none of them ever got published. Why? Because it became TOTALLY about "Listen to this hook--I know the reading public will love this"--and it was never about sustaining the book beyond the hook. It strikes me as utter condesencion. That somehow people don't DESERVE a good book all the way through. Because they won't recognize it. That learning craft is immaterial. Because no one will notice if I come up with this 10-million-dollar idea. I had one guy I worked with who NEVER (and I mean never) could get a book past page 100, because his hooks ran out of gas. And he wondered if he could just sell on proposal and have his editor help him with plot.

Um. No.

I also worked with a writer anxious to break into chick lit who threw in every (and I mean every) chick lit device known to man. "Let me toss in a gay guy! Let me add a wedding!" with the idea that somehow this combination was what made the best-seller--not the story.

So is Sparks refreshingly honest? Is he any good in your opinion? (I have never read him . . . if you like him and he's an awesome storyteller, let us know, for real). Is this idea offensive? Does it represent the best of ideals or the worst?

Weigh in.

Happy Friday! And hey . . . I'm heading to Manhattan this weekend. I'm eating souvlaki. Just kidding. I actually hate the stuff. But I will be walking for miles while clutching my Starbucks and holding hands with my OLDEST DAUGHTER. (Yeah, we're really dorky like that--we still hold hands.) I will post pictures. I can't wait to hug her!! I even loaded David Sedaris for us to listen to on my iPod. AND--bonus--get to see my best friend from high school and stay at her place.

Digging Deep

I will never forget the first time I read a "meh." It had never occurred to me that writers would see what editors are buying and then go and write a book based on that. I always assumed it was the other way around. Writers wrote what was meaningful to them, and if that occurred at a good intersection of timing, luck, talent, and market conditions, a sale was made.

But the more writers I met, the more I realized that some would see a trend a chase it. And there was no passion for the story. Just . . . "I think this will sell." So it was that I read a manuscript. On the face of it, it had a decent chick lit premise. There weren't any typos. You know you are in trouble if the best thing someone can say is your manuscript is typo-free. I read a few chapters . . . and it dawned on me that when you stripped away the trendy setting and the designer clothes and the cocktails, that you didn't care about the characters at all. They read, to me, like a laundry list of traits--much of them external. When I questioned the writer, she was all about "I know this is what they're buying in NY." And no, she didn't get a sale. I actually, because one editor she tried was one of my own, was privy to the editor's feedback, who offhandedly said, "She can't write." But it wasn't that. She couldn't write with heart.

I'm often asked if I have advice for aspiring writers. I don't. What the hell do I know? I have my journey . . . all the writers out there have theirs. But I suppose I ascribe to one thing . . . not write what you know. No, I don't really believe that one. Write what you feel. But someone else said that far better.

Put your ear down next to your soul and listen hard.

~Anne Sexton

Thoughts?

Tell Me Everything

One my desk sits a picture of my Grandma Irene in a Mets T-shirt. She's a frail-looking 80ish, give or take, and her Mets--HER Mets--were her life. Keith Hernandez was her personal dreamboat.

I was at Game 7 when the Mets won the World Series. I took the train out to Shea, and rode the train afterwards. Rather than get off at my stop, I ended up getting out in Times Square. If I recall correctly, I think I danced in the street with a cabbie from Turkey. New York City was delirious with joy.

The next day, I went to visit my grandmother. She opened the door to her apartment, dragged me by the hand, sat me down at her kitchen table and said, "TELL ME EVERYTHING."

To be sure, she watched the game. Just as she faithfully watched every game on TV. But she was looking for something MORE. So I started with how I got the tickets (an unusual story that I will spare you all the details, involving scalped tickets, a pair of illegally bought sneakers, and other assorted insanity). Next there was the fact that I spent my LAST DIME on the tickets and was literally, in my pathetic little apartment at the time, scraping together quarters for train fare. I moved along to the train ride (drunken Mets fans). Banging on the train walls and doors . . . the noise, the anticipation. The sheer tremor that ran through the fans.

Next, arriving at Shea. The weather. The seats. The BOSTON fans (boo, hiss) who sat next to me and taunted me the whole time. The fights in the stands. The smell of pretzels and beer. All of it. BEING there when they won. The pile-up on the field (THE JOY!). The train ride home. Kissing total strangers. Dancing in Time Square. Everything.

She wasn't in a rush. In detail, the story from beginning to end takes a solid two hours. Minimum. One baseball fan to the other.

I remember that when I write. Because I think, if you do it well, when you tell your story, your reader should live vicariously through the characters. By the time I went to Game 7 of the Series, there was no way my grandma could have gone. She was too frail (open heart surgery), too fragile. Too old. In her heart, she had all the enthusiam. She loved Keith Hernandez like a high school girl with a crush. But she couldn't have been there. So she got to go through me.

THAT'S what writing a story is like.

Tell me everything.

Thoughts?

The Blanket of Story

First . . . don't forget to drop by Magical Musings, where I am guest blogging. Second, let's talk about Blankleys.

I have four kids . . . and three of the four went through babyhood without any particular attachments to stuffed animals, dolls, etc. Oldest had a doll named Harriet she was fond of, but it wasn't like she couldn't sleep without her. But Demon Baby loves "Blankleys." Not any one in particular, just ALL Blankleys.

Well, my week went from bad to worse. Baby Daughter (actually 9), who was so sick, contracted rheumatic fever, entailing the hospital, and now a pediatric cardiologist. So to say I am stressed . . . understatement. Distraught . . . that, too. And so this a.m., Demon Baby came up to me as I was sitting on the couch at 6:00 a.m. (when Demon Baby arises) and brought me a "Blankley" . . . "to make you feel better, Mommy." Moments like that make him seem slightly (just ever so slightly) less possessed.



Which brings me to story. You see, this week, I got my contracts for my new trilogy (swear the announcement is coming soon) in the mail. In fact, they came Friday, but I was at the hospital, so I finally opened them today. (And for those of you dreaming of lucrative retirements once you sell a few books . . . if you read this blog regularly, then you will know it's been AGES that this contract has been going back and forth being drawn up.) Anyway, I was sitting here feeling weary beyond belief, when I looked at them . . . and smiled. And no, not because it's a contract, but because I realize I will soon have my adult version of a Blankley. I will be deep into a story I love, pulling it around me, lost in my world, feeling warm. Sometimes I need to remind myself that . . . through it all--the ups and downs of a writing career--there's always that. Getting lost in a story, like disappearing under a giant Blankley with Demon Baby while we watch sing-along shows on TV.



Is you story ever like that for you? A place of refuge. A big Blankley?

What if . . .

. . . You couldn't write.

I mean . . . what if by some alternate universe, some curse put on you by a witch, some freak of brain function, you suddenly, tomorrow, woke up and couldn't write fiction?

What would you do instead? How would you express yourself?

I've been thinking about the creative . . . I mean, I know people who are creative cooks, or quilters, or knitters, or who do Martha Stewart-esque crafts. And I definitely give credit for creativity in all its forms. BUT . . . writing has this other "communication" dimension. Knitting doesn't. I liken that dimension to music. But that wouldn't be an option for me. I can't sing. I can't compose a song.

And the desire to communicate creatively is so intense, it's not like I could sublimate it entirely into my knitting--no matter how much I like making my kids hats. Eventually, there just wouldn't be enough cold days for my creativity.

So I would say that I would take photographs. I think that comes closest. I would tell a story, just in a different way. Which I guess means the storytelling is what's most primal for me.

Thoughts?