The Write Way Home

Tuesday, August 30, 2005

More Than Passion

Mostly, writers are a passionate bunch. There's no way around it.

I've learned something in the past few months, though, and it's changed my life and the direction of my writing career. Wanna hear my words of wisdom?

It takes more than passion to write a successful novel.

Sure, the passion has to be behind the story in the first place. And the passion needs to be in place in order to propel the writer forward through revision after revision -- and rejection after rejection. Without passion, any writer will ultimately fail.

But passion alone won't cut it. The "matured" writer has learned that his novel really, truly isn't an "extension of himself." It isn't sentient; it won't be forever ruined if an editor makes a few astute suggestions.

What the novel is: A product that needs to go through many steps of improvement until it achieves its "finished" status. It's borne from inspiration, yes, but it's the nuts-and-bolts work that crafts it into a polished story.

I can say this with certainty. I have rewritten -- completely rewritten -- the first three chapters of my novel. Had you asked me a year ago if I thought I'd be rewriting so extensively, I would have slapped you. I was still emotionally (perhaps physically) attached to my novel back then. Oh, the path I've walked! One day I'll share all the details.

For now, let this be a word of encouragement to all aspiring novelists. The magic of the finished novel isn't in the first draft. It's in the painstaking, tedious, and ultimately inspiring revisions that will draw the real life out of your original story.

So keep working.

As for me, I could really go for something sinfully chocolate right now. It's been days since I've had any chocolate. There's something incredibly wrong about that.

How I've been writing at all without a supply of gourmet chocolate, I don't know.

Will somebody please send me some chocolate?

Sunday, August 28, 2005

Insect From Hell

The one thing -- the only thing -- that can be said in favor of wintertime is that there are no bugs.

It's bad enough to have to dodge the wasps and carpenter ants and Japanese beetles and yellowjackets when one must get the mail or take out the trash or even have the odd notion to actually sit still on a porch chair for a few minutes. The great outdoors is their territory, after all, and I am the stranger. When, on the other hand, one of these poor excuses for living creatures finds its way into my house, it is a complete affront. And an all-out battle.

The other day, one of the nastiest buzzing things I've ever seen waltzed through our front door. It didn't look like a bee or a wasp or even a cross between the two, but it had the word "sting" written all over it. It was at least as long as my pinky (not that I got close enough to actually measure), and its wingspan rivaled the dragonfly's. I tried to remain calm, since most buzzing invaders end up dallying about the window of our two-story foyer, where they eventually die. Not this guy. He decided to buzz and swoop around the parlor where my sweet Rachel was getting ready to vacuum the sofa (her idea, not mine. No, really!).

It was the insect from hell.

I tried to act like a bigshot. I tiptoed toward the picture where it had landed, a bottle of Fantastik in one hand and a flyswatter in the other. I was saved from my show of bravado by the appearance of Jonathan, our Master Bugslayer.

Handing him the instruments of death, I retreated to the stairway with my two equally wimpy daughters.

"Don't scream," I said to them. "Just don't scream."

Then, Jonathan sprayed the bug. I screamed.

The bug dipped drunkenly through the air and landed behind my piano. I screamed again.

My daughters were highly amused.

The bug ended up very dead, and we went on with the business of our day. I've got to give credit to Maggie, too, who had the guts (no pun intended) to scoop up the deceased monster and chuck it out the door.

I really don't do well with stuff like this.

Thursday, August 25, 2005

Some of You Have Asked, But...

I'm not telling!

The title of my book, that is. It's one of those things that one keeps "under wraps" until the Big Sell.

I'd love to whet your appetite, though.

It's a Young Adult fantasy set in its own, idyllic world. There are two protagonists: a twelve-year-old girl and her fifteen-year-old brother.

It is not a Harry Potter clone: There is not a single witch or warlock to be found.

It is not a Tolkien clone: There is not a single elf, dwarf, goblin, or any other "alternative race that we've all read about a dozen times" to be found.

Yet it is, indeed, a fantasy tale, embracing all that is "magical" about a time and place that can only exist in our minds.

And, if one continues to think positively, on the silver screen.

I am endlessly, measurelessly excited about it.

And yes, I'm already hard at work on "Book Two."

That's it in a nutshell, really. (And I promise there aren't any bad cliches like that in the book.)

Thank you for asking.

Oh, and it's not just for the young'uns. Two of my biggest fans (Beta readers, if you will) are adults. And no, Eric isn't one of them. (That is to say, he loves the story, but he's my husband, so how much credibility would that carry?)

I promise to keep you updated as Things Begin to Happen.

I'm also working on a list of "recommended reading," as requested by a reader. So stay tuned!

Wednesday, August 24, 2005

Where's the Milk?

I hope this isn't a sign that my entire day is going to be somewhat "off."

The children had already finished their breakfast when I got around to tossing some organic peanut butter cereal in my own bowl. The milk wasn't in the fridge, but that wasn't unusual, since "clean up time" wasn't finished yet. I fully expected the milk to be sitting on the kitchen table along with the scrunched napkins and not-quite-empty bowls.

Except the milk wasn't there.

I'm well known for brain farts, so I immediately assumed that one of my children had succumbed to a genetic propensity for one. I checked both the freezer and the pantry for the missing gallon of milk. It wasn't in either place.

I checked the floor, the bench, and the seats of the chairs. I looked inside the garbage pail. I peeked out in our screened-in porch. I questioned any child I could find. Nobody knew where the milk was.

Soon Daddy and both girls were helping me search for the elusive milk. Within seconds, Maggie called out, "Here's the milk!"

And she pulled it out from the cabinet underneath the sink.

Yep. It was right in there with the Windex, dishwashing detergent, and plant food. I can only imagine what my reaction would have been if I had found the milk at lunch time, after it had sat there for four hours. Or worse yet -- if I had found it the next morning at breakfast time.

It's a good thing I was running a bit late with my cereal this morning.

I've figured out what happened, too. Jonathan had used the dustpan and brush to sweep the crumbs off of the table. In returning them to their place under the sink, he just keep moving in auto-pilot and slapped the milk under there, too. I'm absolutely certain that's what happened; our brains are wired the same way (poor kid).

I'm hoping my day becomes less weird from this point.

Monday, August 22, 2005

Yes, Thank You -- I'm a Book Snob

I make no excuses for my Book Snob status. It may have something to do with the fact that I am both a writer and a homeschooling mom. Then again, it might be just one more facet of my left-field personality type.

At any rate, you won't find any "schlock" in my house. No latest "bestsellers" with cliched, barely literate sentences; no dorkified, dumbed-down children's books. I have been known to immediately dispose of, via the Good Will route, books purchased by well-meaning grandparents because they fell into the "schlock" category.

Heaven forbid that my children's eyes fall upon schlock.

A couple of years ago, I purchased a copy of The Little White Horse by Elizabeth Goudge for my then-almost-ten-year-old daughter. Elizabeth Goudge falls into the "classic children's literature" category, and the book was recommended by someone whose opinion I respect. In short, I thought it was a safe purchase.

Maggie read it voraciously (I think she would actually eat the books I gave her if I allowed her to). She was underwhelmed. Curious, I opened the book and read it myself.

It was schlock.

Not the writing itself, mind you. The actual writing was beautiful -- vivid -- well-crafted. It was the story that was schlock. Hackneyed, predicatable, downright stupid. Even the names of the characters were dumb. And the heroine didn't seem to ever make a decision for herself throughout the entire book. It was as though her destiny were already figured out, and she just had to discover everything that everyone else seemed to already know.

It was such a stupid book.

I'm endlessly thankful for having read it, though. It was while I was cringing my way through this sorry excuse for a children's tale that I was struck with a sudden thought: "I can write something better than this!"

You must understand that I never dreamed I could write a novel. I had written it off as something I simply could not do. So having this "I can write something better" thought was definitely out of the blue.

Moments later, the seed of an idea crept into my mind. I could feel my heart begin to pound -- proof that true inspiration was happening.

It was late, though, and I was tired. So I breathed a little prayer: "Lord, if this is something You want me to pursue, please keep it fresh in my mind when I wake up."

Needless to say, the story was fresh in my mind when I woke up. And the rest is history.

I'll bet you're dying to know what's on my "non-schlock" list, though, aren't you?

For middle readers, you can't go wrong with the Little House series, The Chronicles of Narnia (though admittedly I only like two or three of them), Heidi, and the Anne of Green Gables books. The Betsy-Tacy series isn't a bad choice, either.

For older or more advanced readers, there's Little Women, The Adventures of Tom Sawyer, and, in the case of my reading-way-beyond-her-years daughter, there's Tolkien.

But...but...but...I haven't mentioned Harry Potter, have I?

I will be the first to admit that Jo Rowlings is a gifted writer. She has a lovely, dry wit and an excellent command of the English language. The Harry Potter stories, however, aren't on my "love list."

It must be my "Book Snob" coming out, but I find too many of the Harry Potter characters to be mere caricatures -- an attempt, perhaps, to grab children's attention with the ridiculous. It's a great device -- it works. My "I hate to read" son has just devoured the first Harry Potter book and asked me for the second one without even stopping to breathe. Everything that I find -- ur -- let's say "silly" to be nice -- in the books, Jonathan likes. Flying cars, vomit-flavored jellybeans, a goblin-run bank. Yes, indeed, Ms. Rowlings has found a certain "magic" that draws in the reluctant reader. There's no denying it. I just wish she would have chosen a better story line to do so.

But that's just me. The Book Snob, homeschooling, "I prefer classic literature with definitive good and evil" me. The pure writer in me, on the other hand, is wildly happy for Ms. Rowling's success. Hers is a story that inspires and encourages, and I wish her well.

Well, let's be honest. I wish I could follow the same path of success as she has.

For now, I'll content myself with my morning cup of Starbucks and a bright outlook on all the "writing tasks" that lie before me today.

Have a great week!

----
Jill Schafer Boehme

Thursday, August 18, 2005

Our First Tomato

It sounds more grandiose than it is, perhaps. But I'm awfully excited about it.

Way too late in the season, Eric put in five tomato plants for me. You have to understand how much I love homegrown tomatoes. It was a huge part of my childhood; for years, my dad had a garden that always produced buckets of tomatoes. Even when we weren't growing our own, my dad would bring home tomato love-offerings from his patrons on the mail route (what can I say -- they adored him!). We would slice them, salt them, and eat them with a fork.

Of course, my favorite way to eat a tomato is on a sandwich. White bread, a bit of salt, scads of mayo, and freshly sliced, homegrown tomato. Bliss!

Our five little tomato plants made me nervous at first -- they didn't seem to be growing. Then Eric and I figured out that their tops had been chomped off by the resident deer.

There's another useless trivia fact to store in my brain: Deer eat tomato plants.

The plants recovered, and finally -- FINALLY -- the first, teeny-tiny, fetal tomato appeared. Green, new, full of the promise of a juicy tomato sandwich.

For weeks, it was the only tomato to be spotted. August was on the horizon, and while our neighbors were busy harvesting, we were busy watching our one, prize tomato growing.

I claimed it early on. "This is my tomato," I said. "I am going to pick it. Nobody else may touch it."

My children know I mean business when I say things like that. Nobody touched the tomato.

Then, wonder of wonders -- other wee tomatoes appeared. We weren't going to have a one-fruit harvest after all!

Yesterday was The Big Day. It was time to pick My Tomato. Two of my children came with me -- it was like a ritual, really. The Watching Mommy Harvest the First Tomato ritual.

The tomato was covered in the shimmering droplets of leftover rain. I admired it for a few moments, wishing beyond goodness that the battery in my digital camera hadn't died. Then, I plucked it. It felt perfect in my hand. I smelled it -- oh, how I love that "tomato vine" smell!

Then, I kissed it.

There you have it -- a complete picture of my obsession with homegrown tomatoes. Maybe I'm just really easy to please (Eric would disagree), or maybe I'm way too nostalgic about food. At any rate, the joy of picking that beautiful tomato was the highlight of my Wednesday morning.

Guess what I'm having for lunch today?

---
Jill Schafer Boehme

Monday, August 15, 2005

NY Publishing: A Universe All Its Own

I am not exaggerating.

I think one of the things that pre-published authors (note the optimistic tone there) tend to obsess about is the how does it all work, anyway? of the Publishing World.

Things that keep the rabid wannabe's awake at night are:

What do agents do, anyway?

Is anyone actually going to read my query letter?

Why do all the "rules" seem to contradict themselves?

If my manuscript is anything but a poorly written, sex-laden beach read, will it sell?

Why did I ever, ever, ever, ever decide to be a writer in the first place?

On it goes.

And that only scratches the surface. I know, because I fit the profile; and because I interface with other writers on a regular basis -- some published, some agented, some fresh from the typewriter and wondering what to do next.

Of those on the "outside" looking in: OH! The value of a tiny glimpse of the "inner sanctum."

That's why bloggers like Miss Snark and Agent 007 have become so popular. Between the two of them (and, I might add, in vastly different styles), they satiate the aspiring author's thirst for knowledge, and offer a peek at the day-to-day "stuff" in the life of an agent.

Crumbs to the hungry dogs, really. Well-meant crumbs, though, and certainly well-received by most of their faithful readers.

I confess: I check their blogs daily. (Miss Snark is on vacation for the rest of August -- what will I do?)

It's not like I have nothing better to do; I am, after all, in the midst of my second novel while simultaneously dealing with the "business end" of my writing career. Yet there is something undeniably irresistable about reading the words of "those on the inside."

Take a peek if you'd like. I've added them to my list of links. (Be warned: Miss Snark's language is a bit -- um -- raw at times.)

Now it's back to other things. Have a great Monday!

Labels: writing

Saturday, August 13, 2005

Celebrating the Love of my Life

Today is our seventeenth wedding anniversary.

To this day, I don't know what possessed us to choose August for our wedding month. Even in Pennsylvania, where we were married, it's a hot and muggy time of the year.

We were married in a stone, Gothic chapel that was built in the 30's. And silly us -- we thought that the stone would keep the building COOL. Actually, it heated up like a pizza oven. I can still remember the sensation of sweat running down between my shoulder blades. And all those hot, itchy layers of bridal clothing.

That didn't sound very romantic, did it?

Just last night, though, Eric was reminding me how excited he was when he got his first glimpse of me coming down the aisle. The only thing that has eclipsed that over the years, he said, is the birth of our children.

I can't argue with that.

Still, I wish I had warm memories of having been a svelte, stylish, elegant bride, instead of a fluffy, boufed-hair, chipmunk-cheeked 80's bride with a "pouf" veil. I cringe when I look at wedding photos.

A wedding is a mere event, though. It's the marriage that really means something. And despite the rocks-and-bumps bit, I am divinely happy sharing life with my soulmate.

And guess what?

We're getting a free dinner tonight at our favorite restaurant!

Something to do with a business "thank you" and someone who knows the restaurant owner. And it just so happens to be our favorite restaurant (and too expensive for us to go there lately). All we have to pay for is the alcohol, and I never have more than one glass of wine (never -- I'm serious).

What a cheap date!

So I'll be going on a cheap date with the most wonderful man I know.

I hope your Saturday sparkles, too!

Tuesday, August 09, 2005

Challenge of the Week

And the challenge is: to write and perfect a less-than-ten-page synopsis of my more-than-450-page novel.

I've done the writing part. Now I'm working on the "perfecting" part.

Trust me, this isn't easy. In fact, it's probably one of the most challenging bits of writing that I've done. Unfortunately, every novelist needs to pen a synopsis for various reasons; sometimes agents want them, sometimes publishers want them.

Distilling an entire fantasy novel into a brief yet intriguing "this is what happens" is a stretch, to be sure.

Nothing is supposed to be left out of a synopsis, either. It's got to include every twist of plot, every secret, and the ending. That's a toughie! What author in her right (write?) mind wants to reveal the ending of the novel before someone's actually read the whole thing? So this synopsis thing really goes against the grain.

I was awake in the middle of the night, too, coughing bits of my lungs out. Okay, not really -- I think my lungs are still intact. I've had a nasty, dry cough for three days, though, and I'm starting to get sore chest muscles. So the likelihood that I'll actually do a good job on my synopsis today is fairly low.

Unless, of course, the large quantity of Starbucks Sumatra I've consumed this morning stays in my system long enough.

And it goes without saying that I happen to have a slightly congested and extremely bored thirteen-year-old on my hands who doesn't seem to know what to do with himself today.

Yesterday he spent the entire morning creating a cardboard airplane for his younger brother's "little people" to ride in. It's a remarkable creation, truly. Not that I really needed another cardboard creation to add to our collection (he's also made a three-story cardboard house and a two-tom cardboard drumset). I don't mind, though, because the creative process for each one affords me a several-hour respite from BOY NOISE.

I grew up without brothers, you see. I never knew what BOY NOISE was until I gave birth to a couple of males.

So I'm off to work on my synopsis, hoping that something -- ANYTHING -- catches Jonathan's attention in the meantime.

Well, as long as it's not something flammable. Or rabid. Or dead.

Oy.

Saturday, August 06, 2005

Who Needs Clean Underwear, Anyway?

My son obviously doesn't.

He returned home yesterday afternoon from a 6-day, 5-night Youth Group camp. I was all prepared to roll up my sleeves and tackle the pile of dirty laundry that I knew was crammed into his duffle bag.

I unzipped the bag and lifted out a fairly limp, not-even-one-fifth-full plastic garbage bag that was supposed to be full of dirty clothing. Underneath it was -- the rest of his clothing. Unused, unsoiled -- still neatly folded the way I had packed it.

In the course of six days, my son wore three pairs of shorts, three shirts, and two pairs of underwear.

He (proudly) told me that he had showered twice and used his deodorant once. His travel toothbrush and trial-sized toothpaste were unopened -- still swathed in shrink wrap.

Considering the fact that he seems to have spent an inordinant amount of time putting dead fish on girls' heads and down the backs of their shirts, I can only conclude that he has completely alienated himself from every female between the ages of twelve and eighteen in the Youth Group. Between the non-bathing and the dead fish, he isn't measuring up to be Every Girl's Dream.

Not that I'm complaining about this. I don't want him to be Every Girl's Dream. It's just that I find his complete lack of personal hygiene a bit -- disconcerting.

I washed all of the underwear in the bag just to make myself feel better.

My mother claims that she practically had to throw me into a tub when I was thirteen. She says this behavior is "normal." I still say I never would have gone through only two pair of clean underwear in six days, greasy hair or not.

I may need therapy over this one. It's one thing to have a son who doesn't like to bathe. It's another thing altogether to have a son who doesn't like to bathe and who spends almost a week with a hundred other kids and several adults who now know that he doesn't like to bathe.

And now, you know it, too.

It's a good thing he hates reading almost as much as he hates bathing; he won't know that I've just told the world that he's a bit on the smelly side.

I do love him, of course. He's one of the coolest kids I've ever known (if I do say so myself). If he decides to wear the same pair of underwear for an entire month, I'll still love him.

I may not sit too close to him, but I'll still love him.

Sometimes I wonder why I spend all my time writing fiction. My life is a story all on its own.

Thursday, August 04, 2005

Deboning the Chicken

That's the job waiting for me down in the kitchen -- I've got to go debone a big pot of cooked chicken.

It's not that I don't enjoy cooking. In fact, I actually do enjoy it. The problem is that there are many things I'd rather be doing than deboning chicken. Or making a white sauce, or peeling carrots, or boiling noodles, or whatever the heck else I'm supposed to be doing in the kitchen on any given day.

In short, I'd rather be writing.

To be completely honest, I'd rather be on a quiet beach. Writing.

Or just on a quiet beach.

It's not that I feel that I'm "above" deboning a chicken. Au contraire! I fully embrace my role as wife, mommy, and CEO of the household. I am not embarrassed to admit that I bask in my husband's praise of my cooking. It may sound old-fashioned, but I really do enjoy pleasing him.

The problem is my temperament. I can't deny that I am the artistic type; that I'd rather be creating than cooking; reading than ironing; singing than correcting an unruly child. I like things to be tidy (though my desk never is) and I like my meals homemade and preservative-free (I just wish someone else would cook them). It's just that...well, I can't help who I am. Right?

So the thoughts of deboning that chicken have me groaning in pain.

It's been a busy week on the writing front. And it's hard to just "turn off the switch" when I have to go downstairs to debone chicken.

I'm going to have to suck it up, though. It's 4:00, and I'll have to cream the chicken after I debone it. So I'd better get going.

The only good part about deboning this chicken is the fact that it didn't cost me anything. The chicken I had originally bought smelled like dead trout, so I returned it to the store (and no, the date wasn't bad). Not only did the nice lady refund my money without any fuss, but she sent me back to the meat department to pick out any tray of chicken that struck my fancy -- free of charge. The Very Nice Butcher gave me a fresh pack of bird bits -- almost a pound more than that which had gone bad on me. It was a lovely trip to the store.

So, I'm off to debone my free chicken. (And you thought I wouldn't find a silver lining in this one!)

Monday, August 01, 2005

Trust Me -- This Is Huge

Of course, you may not think so; especially if you're not a writer. But to me, this is definitely huge.

You see, I've written a new opening paragraph for my novel.

"Ridiculous," you say. "That's not even remotely 'huge.'"

Ah, but it is. Ever since having written the opening sentence (almost seventeen months ago, but who's counting?), I have loved it. Prided myself in it, as it were. Read it out loud to myself as though it were some sort of holy passage.

Seriously. I had an emotional attachment to it.

So I can't help but think that, by having rewritten my opening paragraph, I have reached some sort of "author growth level." Let's face it -- writers who are unwilling to hack apart their beloved creations aren't going to go anywhere fast. The entire editing process has been a journey of intense growth for me. But this first paragraph thing -- this "beautiful entry to my world" -- I never dreamed of touching it. Which means I was wearing blinders, because it occurred to me that I had to change it. It wasn't even an option.

And I love my new opening. It's -- well, it's better than the original one.

Naturally I handed it to Eric, and held my breath while he read. (I simultaneously fear and crave his opinions.)

"I like it already," he said, he eyes still moving over the page.

"Really?" (If that sounded insecure, you're absolutely right.)

The real test was handing it to eleven-year-old Maggie, who is by far my biggest fan. I explained what I had done and told her that I needed her opinion because she is a "book snot." (She smiled when I said that -- she takes pride in being a book snot.)

Maggie read quietly, then said, "I like it. It really draws you into the story."

Does she sound like a thirty-year-old book editor or what?

So, I'm sitting here feeling like I've just done some gigantic piece of work, when all I've really done is written a new beginning and tightened up the first five pages.

It's the small victories that add fuel to a waning creative fire. I feel supremely ready to dig into my second novel today, which has stalled in the middle of chapter 4. Of course, I'll have to do all sorts of boring things first, like dusting and vacuuming. I might even feed my children lunch.

I love my life -- I really do!

: Name: Jill; Location: United States

I am: Mother to five stunningly individualistic children... Writer of young adult fantasy... Passionate advocate for Women At Home... Madly in love with my husband... In need of Organic Gourmet Chocolate on a regular basis. I've got a Paypal account if you'd like to contribute to the cause....

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