Subdued Intrinsic

You know what are fans? Fantastic. Not just because they are enthusiastic, and supportive, and all the other great fan traits, but because they can do something I can't. Fans can see character's faces.
Not me. I can many a thing about a written character, everything from clothes, to gestures, to hair color/cut/style. Height; I can see height. But I never get a clear bead on a face. Not for characters I read, and not even for characters I write. It's a really bizarre thing. If there's kissing, I can see the profile of a cheek, lips, maybe a shadow of chin, or nose, but I don't see eyes. If there's crying, I don't see mouths. My brain has quadri-sected (new word, own it) faces. Only the action-relevant quadrants appear in my mind's eye. It's like having a really sharp telescope that won't focus out of more than half a face at a time.

But, oh my gosh, fans! You guys are glorious! My friend Kara is an artist, so her whole reader world is images matching up with words in her head. My friend Denise will read a character I've written, and then DISAGREE WITH ME* about what he or she looks like, and I love that. You have no idea how envious that makes me. Fans read a character, and picture him or her. Fans see a character and say, "This character should be played by this actor/actress/puppy dog in order to fit my mental idea of said character." That's wondrous.

Then again, as long as I'm getting all the emotions the scene in meant to evoke, isn't it okay? It is. It really is. My little vague, flesh-colored ovals serve me pretty well, and in fact, it helps me to be open to the physical and visual interpretations of others, readers of my works, or works we both read. So, if you're ever in the position to ask me, "Who would you cast as "Character Character," just expect the best answer you'll get is a general approximation, based on puzzle piece glimpses of features jammed together from scenes all over. And we should both be cool with that, because I'm not blowing you off, or patronizing you. I'm just sharin', y'know?

*Holy Rainbow Suspenders, Batman! How much have we argued about Tristan? She thinks almost all of my casting possibilities/visual aids are too pretty boy, and I think most of hers look like meatheads. But we love each other. We try to find compromise. I think the closest we got was a young Travis van Winkle.

The last line I wrote in The Book is:

"Drew surprises me."

And even though it's only about 55 pages in, and i know how things proceed, what happens, and the whereto's and whyfore's I cannot for the life of me WANT to write anything more.

Send . . . encouragement?

 . . . this statement goes for both my writing life and my regular life (not that they are mutually exclusive, but there's really not enough Me for both all at once).  Recently, I had some drama in my personal life, and my knee-jerk, passive-aggressive response was to dye my hair a color I liked much less than the color I'd already dyed it. The newer color is okay, but it doesn't make me squee with individualist joy like my fire-engine red color did. The fact that I did not cut off my hair indicates the drama wasn't as bad as it could have been; I tend to take a pair of shears to my beloved-long locks when truly despondent.  Hey, some people redecorate, I do stuff to my head.

Meanwhile, being a great admirer of fantabulous hair, ESPECIALLY on boys, I have just recently noticed a personal trend. When dealing with a Villainous Person, I am wont to ascribe unsightly follicular features, either by way of some sort of personal Karmic payback on the bad guy, or possibly as a literary cue, the same way classic Westerns always put the local madman under a black hat. The madman's hat, and my villains' bad--or worse, completely non-noteworthy--hair, both banners screaming UNTRUSTWORTHY.

That said, secret's out of the bag, huh? I might have to go back and improve the coiffure's of a few characters, just to keep you guys on your toes.

*Personal Note: Ants love me, fire ants in particular, whereas mosquitoes seem to find me a bland choice. Not that I give either of them more than fifteen minutes of daylight every 24 hours in which to find me, because as we all know, I hate the semi-tropical variety of nature where I live.  *sigh*  Where one will live for the sake of nearness to a wonderful family.

Well, probably not, but it makes for a catchy title regarding at least one subject in this post, specifically, the one about my husband suggesting I blog book reviews full time.

It's difficult for me to explain to him why the idea of book blogging being a responsibility. There's the time thing, but that's not really that important. I could handle the commitment to the clock. It's that whole thing with taking something you love and making it an obligation. Voluntarily. It's bad enough getting my editorial lobe to shut up (now I've learned so much about writing) while reading without throwing in purposely dissecting a book so I can take it apart later, publicly. I hate the thought of that.

But of course, my husband thinks, "Hey, she loves reading, she's great at it, she likes telling people about books, it's the perfect thing for her to do for some side cash," (thinking more of advertising, here). Um, no. His heart is totally in the right place, completely, but still no.

Turns out watching  the whole nineteen episodes of My So-Called Life over about three days will totally help you if you're in a slump regarding introspective characters. Also with remembering the best flammables to fuel teen angst. So, like, thanks, or whatever, Angela and Jordan.

Personal Note: I hold completely useless grudges against people I don't even know. Or maybe it's better to say I lose respect for them, and after that I can't see them the same way ever again.  Angelina Jolie and Brad Pitt, the way they handled the commencement of their relationship was just crude and callous. And speaking (indirectly) of Claire Danes, she and Billy Cruddup got together while Cruddup's girlfriend of many year was still pregnant with his baby. I used to love Claire Danes, and I'm fond of what little work I've seen of Cruddup's, but just knowing the man didn't keep to his obligations (as I consider them--we won't be getting into the "He can still be a great father," arguments--I know that), and Danes's complicity therein, it's like there's the cloud, this pall over all the professional stuff they do.  These people (yes, I realize I'm a bit particularly tetchy about cheating) have lost honor in my eyes, and that makes a difference to me.

(With apologies to Shakespeare's Fates)

Personal Note: I am nagging you again. That poor SocialVibe badge to your left has been stuck at 57 minutes for a long time. Do another acitivy, if you don't mind taking three minutes. I think I'd actually rather you do the activity than read this post.

Today, after this post I’m going to write a post about how I see villains. And tension. But you won’t see this post until tomorrow, because I’m telling Blogger not to release it into the wild until then. Yeah, I know; I’m diabolical and crap*, as my friend Matt might say.

But first! An update about what’s going on here in Amethyst is Learning to be a Writer Land.

Top of the list, I have two extra humans to guide through homework and such in the afternoons, bringing my total to four students (and a toddler). The toddler isn’t slacking on needing my attention, though. He’s learning to use a potty, so he requires my attention every fifteen minutes or so. It almost killed me yesterday. Mondays generally have a lot of homework for all four older children, and this one was true to form.

Next, I’ve been reading. A lot. Because when the aforementioned favorite cousin came to visit, we (oh, unwise, unwise we) went into a bookstore (on a side note, if cash is a little tighter, but you have to see to your book thirst, I suggest heading into the Middle Grade section of your bookstore. Most paperbacks are under ten bucks there, and either those MG authors have stepped it up or the world at large has realized people in their early teens aren’t just elementary kids with things budding and sprouting—in other words, not idiots—and there are some really fantastic MG stand-alones and series to choose from). So far I've loved Lisa McMann’s Fade (have a total crush on her character "Cabel"), am having a little trouble getting into Pride and Predjudice and Zombies, not because I don't like it, or it isn't good, but because I am such a cannon loyalist. The book is different, and interesting, sure, but it's not catching me. I also really like Terry Pratchett's A Hat Full of Sky, sequel to his The Wee Free Men.

But. The cake-takers so far have been Suzanne Collins's The Hunger Games, and Catching Fire. These books are the first two in a trilogy, and I've been putting off reading them because I knew even before I bought one, after I'd read them, I'd be hit in the face just how much work I have to do on plot, tension points, and cliffhangers. Collins is a pro when it comes to these things. I can't say how surprised I've been while I read the books, because I knew so much going in, but even knowing what would happen I found myself flipping pages like crazy just to get the answers I needed. On the surface it all seems simple, when you describe it. Post-apocalyptic girl, fighting for her life and the lives of her loved ones. Easy, right? Noooo. Not easy, because Collins has made us all wonder just how girl is going to pull it off. We're all pretty sure we know where we're ending up, but getting there is just so amazing.

Anyway, I am once again convicted of my need to think ahead. I, too, am writing a trilogy. I'm studying writers who have totally nailed cliff-hangers, taking notes when I catch my breath, asking myself what about a certain feature or passage makes my brain go, "No! No, don't stop there, I have to know what happens!". Yes, the project feels enormous again. I knew it would. That's okay. I've got time. It's like I tell all those boys while I'm overseeing their homework: I'd rather take a little time and do it right now, than have to waste all that time having to RE-do it because it wasn't right in the first place.

Get ready to hold your breath. I plan on taking it away.

*Okay, so technically Matt would probably not use the word 'crap', but I'm editing his language in this hypothetical situation.

Personal Notes: Things I have to bar myself or I will cry:

• Country music
• Holiday commercials featuring family reunions
• Anything dramatic or emotional involving fathers*
• Or small children/babies being scared or hurt
• My church choir, especially during Christmas

Seriously, I just can’t handle those things without bawling my eyes out. I’ve started keeping Kleenex in my purse Just For Choir Performances.

So, for once the title is kind of apropos of nothing, except that it’s a line from a song playing right that moment, and I have been kind of lax in posting. Shall we remedy that for today?

I told Blogger to make sure to publish this post on December the 18th.  This year December the 18th is a Friday. It was also a Friday when I was thirteen. Quick, remember being thirteen, or this won’t be quite as potent!

I rocked all kinds of upheavals the year I was thirteen, the biggest perhaps being The Move. Now my family had never been one to really put down roots anywhere; we moved at least once a year, and actually I never went to a single school two years in a row until I attended M. Elem. for fourth, fifth, and most of sixth grade. That was a good year, almost.  Finally had a BEST friend, had a cute little puppy love boyfriend (Hi, Jensey and Eric, of you’re reading this!). And then.

My mom remarried. Yup. And we moved. Not just a town away.  No. We moved from our very small town in lower Missouri to a very small town in Alabama. Myself, two, erm, larger adults, and an infant, stuffed into the cab of a sixties model Ford pickup truck, with a horse-trailer full of our possessions attached.

When I was thirteen, it felt like losing everything important in the whole world. Thirteen-year-old me is still holding a grudge. Thirteen-year-old me cried for every waking moment of the fifteen hour drive. Darn straight, I did.

But, eventually, I calmed down.  A pair of gorgeous blue eyes may have had something to do with it. But that’s only the half of it. The eyes are what made me look at him, but it was the I.Q. that made me fall head-over-heels in first real love with him.

You think I’m kidding, or foolish. Are you remembering being thirteen?  Did you forget? Sure, physically, in a more adult way the big pre-husband, teenage love was more cataclysmic, but that first love, it left its mark, too.

At thirteen, I hadn’t yet had my first kiss, hadn’t yet figured out that I should totally want to be kissing someone, because I was still clinging to the idea that shoving your tongue in someone else’s mouth was disgusting (don’t worry; I am very much over that misconception.  One day when I was FOURteen, Jimmy K. helped realize my fallacy there).  Anyway, the most serious thing Gorgeous Eyes-Q and I ever did was hold hands once or twice. And part of me really regrets that, because I can romanticize the Hades out of most of my previous relationships. Part of me still wishes she knew how GEQ kisses. Which is a kind of a tangent, sorry.

The point is, that was my first real love, and my first real heartbreak, and even though we’re friends now and love each other as such, I still remember December 18th, 1992, the last day of school before Christmas break.

Because that was the first time he told me he loved me and asked me officially to be his girlfriend. I remember how hard my pulse slammed into my veins, the enormous rush of adrenaline and endorphins. Oh, man. I’m not sure anything has ever felt that same kind of amazing before or since.  Sure, my first kiss was pretty awesome (thank you, Jimmy; I’ll always be grateful), and a few years later, when I fell into real, grown up love for the first time I was changed, different forever, and of course married love is the inexplicable phenomena and all . . .

But on December 18th I am always thirteen again, and I am horribly in love with you.

Personal Note: Um, Happy Thanksgiving! May your families forget all the grudges for the day, and you have enough turkey to knock you all out, if they don't.

OHMYAPOSTROPHES!!!


The fabulous, probably-doesn't-think-highly-enough-of-herself Brianne Heavy has written a couple of tunes; the first, "Guardian", is inspired the first Dionadir novel, Silver, and the harder second is an untitled anthem for the trology's very own tortured bad boy, Ian.

GO. LISTEN. TO. THEM.

Personal Note: A lot of things that wake up other people make me sleepy. Showers. Eating. Not wearing my glasses (my eyes don't want to focus, so they keep telling me I'm tired so I'll close them. Also, Dayquil just makes me want to puke, and doesn't do jack for preventing drowsiness.

In lieu of a real post, I'm telling you about four songs I just discovered and love, to act as a place holder until I get my act together and write a real post.

1. "One in a Million" by Monty Are I. Brianne just told me about this one today and I liked it right away. She's right; it totally suits the new 'entitled, arrogant' thing Sebastien's rocking on the surface.

2. "The Sound of Settling" by Death Cab for Cutie. *shrugs* Just like it.

3. "Rooftops" by LostProphets, a song that may sort of wrap up the entirety of the big theme for book three of the Dionadir trilogy. It's rather . . . revolutionary. I am 85 per cent decided I'll try to use a section of it in the epigraph.

4. "Breaking" by Anberlin. The very first time I heard this song (day before yesterday?) a character butted into my head and would not leave me alone. I've got a query blurb, title, and first line, all amazing. I'm not posting them here because frankly, um, I'm afraid someone random will steal them*. That's how much I love them.

*Not you, of course, loyal readers. I'd never mean you.

*****

Personal Note: I was almost a teacher, in the traditional sense. It's true; if I hadn't taken a semester off school to plan my wedding and prepare for transferring colleges (which I was doing before I knew I was getting married, just to make that clear), and then I hadn't found out three weeks after the wedding I was two weeks pregnant with Gabriel, I would have gone on to finish my degree in education. My grandfather was a teacher, so besides having a natural affinity for it, there was that added bonus of making him especially proud, a little nod of respect in his direction.

But . . . I'm not a teacher, as in one who goes to an education institute with a lesson plan book, and tries to carve what's in it into the heads of non-adults. Some may argue that I'm my children's first teacher, or my readers' teacher, but the truth is, "teaching" isn't what novelists are generally paid to to. We're paid to entertain, to illicit emotional responses, not help you memorize your times tables (I only know up to my tens--stupid math *grumble, grumble).

My job as a writer is to imagine the intensities of life, but its heartbreaks are small and insular, and at the end of the day, only my own. When there's grief in my working life, it belongs only to me, or possibly a few fictional people. It doesn't affect others in some negative way. Rejection is personal. Tragedy is empathetic, but easily set aside, because it's of the 'make-believe' variety. Failure doesn't fail anyone else, and if I give into it, it is always, always my fault, not a result of the impossible restrictions put on me by some higher authority. I have all control over the quality of results my efforts produce. If I do the work, I'll reap the reward.

In my personal life, I'm insanely blessed. I married into the most amazing family, and they all live within fifteen minutes of my house. My husband is the perfect compliment to my needy, anxious personality. He's always telling me to "Just breathe". He's no nonsense, and logical to a fault. I've probably referred to him as a Vulcan on more than one occasion. My sons are all amazing kids, beautiful and typical, but also huge-hearted. I get to stay home and be here for them, because my husband makes enough money on his own. Even though I could sometimes scream, that's amazing in this economy.

So why the Hades am I whining about the opportunity to make a mess better? Why am I complaining about being given enviable guidance on the road to my own dreams, especially when all I have to do it TAKE IT? I don't have to sit by and watch other people lose themselves in the crush of reality, knowing there's nothing I can do about it. I have freedom.

My best friend does not.

Personal Note: When I was a little girl we played this imagination game (I dunno, maybe little kids are still playing it?). I really liked it, especially when it worked right. One kid balled up her fist as tight as she possibly could for at least a whole minute while another kid rubbed the clenched fist (now that I'm an adult I understand this has to do with circulation and nerve-endings, but you don't know that when you're a kid . . . probably). After the minute passed, the fist-clencher was advised to AsSlowlyAsPossibleOpenYourFingers! and then the other kid would pinch each of the clencher's fingertips, finally pinching a little skin in the center of the former fist. It was supposed to feel like he or she was drawing a spiderweb--connected to each of your fingers--away from your palm. As a side note, if you're planning on trying it, I suggest cutting your nails first, because, um, ow.

I know me. I know I will passive-aggressively hide from something like there's no tomorrow if I'm afraid of failing at it. I know that's a bigger hurdle to my writing than anything else. It's not the many, many time-consuming needs of my small children, or my slightly taller husband. It's not a lack of knowing what should happen (trust me on this one, my characters are all about blabbing, and giving me WHAT FOR if I fail to write them the way they'd like). Okay, sometimes it's that, a little, but not often. Nope, my biggest creative juice evaporator is fear of failure.

I am a pro at failure, and I specialize in the Half Off variety. As in, I get a project halfway done, and then I'm off it. And I'm flighty like you would not believe. Just a few minutes ago I angrily whispered a four-letter word because I somehow read my eldest kid's basketball form wrong and missed the evaluations (don't worry, he'll still play) this morning. Because I am just that talented. I'm familiar enough with failure to have learned every once in a while you just have to salvage what you can and move on from there.

But what do you do when your failure becomes paralytic? When your fear makes you too scared to move? What combats the fear?

When I was about nine our pastor, a tiny German man named John Lamb who I'm pretty sure endured some rather heinous things, preached a sermon about fear. He asked the congregation, "What do you think the opposite of fear is?" As is my usual answer, I said "love". I'm big on love, if you didn't know. He said good answer, but not the one he was looking for.

The answer was, the opposite of fear is faith. Fear is the power that whispers in our ear of consequences we're not sure we can survive, while faith is the belief we can always get back up again. Faith conquers fear because it takes away fear's power to end us. Or our dreams.

My Sunday school teacher likes to quote John Ortberg when we talk about fear. Here's a Biblical fact, and even if you're more scared of Christians than you are of the bogeyman (or maybe to you we ARE the bogeyman, whichever), it's still kind of cool. There are 366 mentions of fear (and suggestions for combating it) in the Bible, one for every day of the year, and then an extra, for that really bad day . . . like when the very first Full request you ever got comes back as a No.

Don't ask me why none of the formatting will work in this blog post. I don't have a clue.

Personal Notes: When I went to Baldwin there was math professor there who was very cool, in a almost suburban beatnik kind of way. I thought he looked very much like Tim Curry, and didn't hesitate to tell him so. My father's name was also Tim. That's how Joss's uncle Tim got his name and his profession.

Time Warp!

I've been thinking about things like generations and progress. My thinking sort of involved The Breakfast Club, for no other reason than Judd Nelson was so pretty to look at in it.

I think a lot of what makes something from one generation (slang, fashion, pop culture) has less to do with what year the reference comes from so much as how confident you (or your characters) use it. Okay, so 'cool' is probably going to be around until the next Ice Age, when it will become too ironic to endure, but aside from that there are definitely things out there today's teens would look at you blankly for mentioning.

Except, saying something unknown in a way that says, "I assume you are as cool as I am, and therefore know exactly what I mean." Because then you confidence those readers/listeners into agreeing with you that the thing you just said was totally the way it should have been said.

I was still in the single digits when most of John Hughes' flicks came out, not a teenager, not his intended audience. Still, his movie Pretty in Pink remains tied with Henson's Labyrinth as my all-time favorite. Both movies influence my writing. Both make at least cameos in my first, then second, novel, respectively.

If you're unsure if a reference will work, the way to play it is put it out there in such a way that makes the reader want to know what you're talking about. You have to make them willing to Google it.

I like the "Twenty-Five Years" rule, myself. If it was cool forty years ago, it's probably cool again now. You want proof? Visit a high school (stop by the office first, though. They frown on random, unknown elements wandering around). Look around. See anything familiar? If you're 30-35 like me, you're gonna. Side ponytails, gelly slippers, shirt dresses. The styles are screaming, "The Eighties called and they want their stuff back!" I've noticed things tend to re-trend every twenty-five years like that. I forward-thinker will save all her clothes during adolescence because her grandaughter could save a lot of cash that way.

So, really, the point is, nothing really goes out of style, so go out and experiment. Except with blue eye-shadow. I can pull it off, but you can't. I'm sorry, what's that you're saying? Really? Are you sure? Oh, well, okay.

*heads for her Neutragena facial cleanser*

Personal Note: As you may imagine, I am a serious lover of words. I've got so many of them crammed into my head-even some in other languages-I have no room in there for numbers. Numbers make me cry, and words make my soul sit up and take notice. So, it's really, really odd to me with all this wordage in my system I totally, totally suck at Scrabble. I can kick butt at Balderdash and no one has EVER taken me in Scattergories, but put the most classic, most famous, possibly simplest-form word board game in front of me and I can't win to save my soul. No kidding.

Now, about that slogan business . . .

The other day while I shopped for a few things for my oldest's birthday party (Go eight, baby!) I came across a tee-shirt printed with the admonition, Inspire Those You Love, which I find to be a lovely sentiment.

However, I feel it's rather easy to inspire those you love. You love them and therefore you are naturally inclined to want to be the best person you can for them. Wanting to inspire those you love isn't something you think about. Don't mistake me, I got what the tee-shirt meant. Yes, yes, be the kind of person your loved ones aspire to be like, the kind of person they are bursting with pride for. Certainly a beautiful goal and one we should all hope to reach. I'm all for it. I practice it myself. I've got an amazing, sometimes-jerk-but-always-just-what-I-need husband, and three indescribably cool sons, all totally individual to inspire. My oldest little beauty, Gabriel, is old enough and adult-in-a-child's-body enough to understand what it means that Mom is a 'writer', how it's important. He knows how much I like to read, and while he's a math person and reading comes slowly to him he still pushes on with it because he wants to make me proud and to be like me. Dear heaven, you don't know how much that swallows my heart whole.

So, understand I'm not downplaying inspiring those YOU love.

But I think it's just as important, neck and neck, with loving those you inspire.

I am more honored than I can ever describe to have people who test read for me, read my blog and get something helpful from it, to have young women (and yes, even a couple of young men), peers, others in this 'writer wannabe' boat, feel encouraged and take hope from my thoughts and scribblings. When my own faith falls short it's their hope for me that brings me back. I can't give up because what a horrible misuse of their belief in me would that be? Somehow, in ways too mind-blowing and obscure to understand I, stupid, boring, scared me, inspired them so how could I justify letting that inexplicable blessing fade away?

Nope. Can't. Because, you see, something in the transfer of hopes between us has done more than bond us as advisor and students. It has given me the most genuine of love for them. Like the love I have for my own children, who were born of my body, I have love for them, born of my passions.

Sometimes I forget why I wish on stars. They remind me.