Anniversary

No, not my wedding anniversary. Not the anniversary of anything writing-related. Not even the anniversary of when we got Shakespeare the Bitey Cat.

No, tomorrow is what I call the Dispatchiversary. Four years ago tomorrow, I traveled to Boston with my brother and about 15 of his closest friends to see our favorite band, Dispatch, play their very last (at the time) show. It was a crazy, crazy weekend, with no less than three near death experiences, some exhaustion-related hallucinations, balloon animals, a water bottle war, and a lovely, 2 a.m. visit to the Mass. General Psych Ward.

Yes. It was crazy in more ways than one.

And one of these days I'll get around to telling the story in some permanent form, like I've been meaning to do for years. Not today, though, and most likely not tomorrow. Busy, busy, busy!

So instead, here is a video from the aforementioned bottle war, during a gorgeous song called "Past the Falls". Being in the middle of that was a fairly insane, wondrous experience--and sometimes a bit scary, too. At about 1:06, the craziness begins. Enjoy!

A Writer's Story, Part III

Listening to: Birds. If you couldn't guess that by now, you're a bit slow.

Get caught up: Part I, Part II

So, after the inspired flurry of my first "novel" over ten years before, and a decade of wandering and wondering...I had a job interview. A little less than three years ago today, in fact.

It was for a tech writing position in Altoona. I wouldn't relish the commute, or the job, but I needed to fund my grad school plans somehow.

I'm not certain how we got on the topic of that first book during the interview. The interviewer--a headhunter, not my possibly-future-boss--seemed impressed that I'd written a book so young. I gave him the short version of the story: I wrote it, took all the character names from my family history, it got lost, etc. He promised he'd let me know when my second interview, with the actual company, would be scheduled.

On the drive home, I didn't think about the interview. I thought about that novel. I thought about how it felt to write it, that rush of creativity whenever I sat down at the computer, the amazing, bittersweet feeling of ending it, the pain when it was lost. I thought about all that as I trekked through the Pennsylvania hills toward home.

Later that night, it was still on my mind when I went up to Denny's to see some friends. When only one friend was left, I started talking about Whispers of the Past, and how it had been mentioned at the interview and been on my mind since.

I made a decision, right then. I decided that I should try one more time. If I couldn't do it this time, I would give up the ghost. For good. For my own sanity.

And as I was still a writer at heart, if not in action, I carried a notebook and pens with me. So, at around 11 p.m. in a nearly empty restaurant, I began. Since Whispers was the book that had haunted me all those years, I had to finally get it out of my system. I would change all the characters' names except the protagonist--still Julia Greene--in order to make a fresh start. I didn't need to keep all the idiotic, self-indulgent trappings of the last one, either, but the themes would remain the same: family, and how they shape our lives, even when it's unknown on our part or theirs. With a little magic thrown in for good measure, of course.

If that didn't work, then it was time to give up, at least for the moment. I was killing myself, otherwise.

Twenty-five handwritten pages later, I drove home, exhausted and exhilarated.

I don't know how it happened. I don't know why. But that night was the first of many, many feverish nights of writing, plotting, brainstorming. I would hand-write at night (afraid to break the spell), then type it up at home the next day (this was the impetus for my laptop purchase).

Three moments, during that first month, stick out in my mind.

The first occurred only a day or two after that rebirth of my little opus. I was driving to Denny's, ready for more writing, when a few lines of dialog ran through my head. I got so lost in that moment, the like of which I hadn't experienced for over a decade, that I emerged on the other side very confused. And I honestly had a moment where I thought, "Oh my God, I'm twelve years old. Why am I driving?!"

And then I cried a little bit. No, I'm not kidding. It's both stupid and sweet, I know.

Then, not long afterward, I drove to Warren to visit my dad. We were talking about family stuff, and I think my writing, and that famed genealogical history of our family came up. He mentioned the hardback copy he had.

"Wait, what? Hardback?" The only copies I'd ever seen were bound in thick blue paper and typed in courier font.

"The original one," he explained. Then he got it out to show me. I was flabbergasted.

Not only was it one of 30 copies printed in 1913, it also had pictures. Oh, only a dozen or so, most of them reproductions of family or individual portraits. But one in particular made my heart stop for a good five seconds and sent shivers running up my spine.

Julia Greene.

Of all the people whose portraits could have been in that book...I don't even know how to finish that sentence. Still now, I'm amazed. It was the first moment when I fully realized the meaning of "kismet".

The last of those three moments came when I called up that best friend from middle school--who is still my best friend to this day--and told her just what I was writing.

"I have to thank you," I said, "for losing that one copy of Whispers. If you hadn't, maybe I wouldn't be doing this now. And I'm loving every second of it, so...thanks."

I know for a fact she never expected to hear that.

Over six months, I wrote the second version of Whispers of the Past. It wasn't great--wasn't even good--but it was written, and I learned a lot from it. Almost immediately afterward, I began my next novel. And almost immediately after that, my next. No angst, no desperation, no tears in sight.

That's my path, so far. I know--I hope--I have a lot more steps to take, a lot more forks to choose from. Right now, I'm perpetually waffling between five different novels, unsure which is the best to write, which is best for me now. And I'm working toward publication, just as I've been since I finished that first--no, second--novel, which is a journey all its own.

And today--which is two days ago, for you--is the second anniversary of my first rejection letter. So if you're wondering what inspired this verbose little bit of nostalgia, there you go.

That's my story. That's how I came to be here. Now...how about you? We all have a different story, and since you've listened so patiently to mine, I want to hear yours.

If you blog about it, leave the link in the comments and I'll link to it in a later post. Or, if you want to hijack the comments thread with a short version, have at it.

Every writer has a story.

What's yours?

A Writer's Story, Part II

Listening to: More birds chirping. It's still today for me, which is yesterday for you. Ah, the magic of the internet and blog drafts.

For Part I in the story of how I became a writer, click here.

In the grand tradition of all trilogies, the middle is where it gets dark. Just warning you.

So my book, the one I'd slaved over for six months, was gone. Blame it on my stupidity, my best friend's irresponsibility, and early computer technology's unreliability. As Mr. Vonnegut would say, "So it goes."

What happened next? Nothing, really. I didn't write another book--I fixated on the lost one. My parents got divorced, we moved from the woods to downtown, high school happened. I read--a lot. I lost interest, for the time, in writing novels--although I still wanted to be a novelist "when I grew up." I still wrote, though, simply because I couldn't help myself. I wrote horrible, angsty poetry, mostly inspired by my confused teenage emotions and the twisted, cruel dramas of high school. Lots, and lots...and lots of angsty poetry. I even wrote less angsty, more trite and schmaltzy poems for my friends, on request, to give to their boyfriends. And several of my little creations were published--in my friend's 'zine. Ah, yes...I was the bard of Warren Area High School.

I may have written a short story or two for contests, none of which ever won. Aside from that, I was as uninspired as possible. I blame the hormones.

Don't think for a second it was easy. To return to normal, dull life after that first solar flare of obsession hurt badly. As did my own questions about my abilities, my creativity, and my identity. If I wasn't a writer anymore, then what was I? I recall a few teary nights in bed, torn and confused by that very question.

Then came college. I majored in English Literature, since it combined my two great passions: reading and writing. As for my future career, that changed frequently over the semesters. Maybe I would be an editor. Or teach college. Or, failing that, teach high school. I tried out journalism during two summers, as an intern at the local paper. I enjoyed it somewhat, and felt that I had a knack for it, but journalism is a beast of its own making, sucking the soul and innocence out of all who approach it. I'm a very sensitive, innocent person, and I decided to preserve that by steering clear of the fourth estate.

I tried several times, throughout college, to recreate the magic of Whispers of the Past. I tried both rewriting it and writing other stories, but I never got more than a page or two before the flame died. I wrote one well-received short story for a writing class, and it was published in an acquaintance's literary journal.* But I rarely wrote for myself, just for the sheer joy of it, and the questions nagged ever more. My own identity grew increasingly uncertain.

I got married and moved permanently to Johnstown. At that point, I had decided to get my MFA in Creative Non-fiction, as I'd taken a liking to that area in college and been pushed toward it by several professors. I'd get a job tech writing in order to pay the bills. As I searched for a job and worked at my grad school applications--including an essay on "why I became a writer"--I grew rather despondent. I had fits of depression, crying jags, moments of absolute torment. I'm not being over-dramatic, just honest. I didn't even write any more creative non-fiction, as without professors assigning it in college, it no longer needed to be written.

I wasn't writing, and therefore I wasn't a writer...and therefore I was a wreck.

You can see how my path forked and changed, twisted and turned over the years. I thought I'd nearly come to the end, the moment when I'd give it all up for good. The moment when I'd release the writer in me into the void, and find something else to do with my life.

And then I got a call about a tech writing interview. Strangely enough, that interview would send me off in a whole new direction, the one I'm still heading in today. How did it happen?

You'll find out tomorrow.


*I was going to wait until my article came out in Toasted Cheese for the big unveiling of my writing name and the end of my pseudo-anonymity. But this seems like a good moment, so there you go. Consider it a gift from me for getting this far.

A Writer's Story, Part I

Listening to: the birds chirping in the trees. I'm relaxing on the front porch after a busy weekend with the in-laws. Pictures of my pretty, pretty flowers to come sometime this week.

Every writer has a story.

I'm not necessarily talking about the stories we slave over, dream about, and furiously brainstorm as we drive and shower and go about our daily lives. Those are a part of our larger story, though--each shaping who we become as a writer.

I'm talking about the path we took to get here. The journey we've taken that won't end until we either stop writing or die. Our "how I became a writer" story.

For me, the term "writer" is the first thing that would come to mind if someone asks me what I am. I'm also a woman, a wife, a daughter, a sister to many, a friend to more. Maybe an enemy to a few. An employee. A gardener, a reader. A violinist. But the one word that defines me is "writer".

I've mentioned before how someone had to say, "You're good at this," before I realized, hey, I kinda was, and it might be a good idea to pursue it. For many years after that fateful incident in my eighth year, there was only one career path I cared about. Of course, I had a backup plan. In my younger days, I figured if I couldn't become a novelist, then I would be either a librarian or work at a bookstore. I think no more needs to be said about that.

Naturally, the first step was to really write something. Something more than just the usual essays and short stories assigned at school. So, when I was about twelve, I embarked on my first novel.

Yes, I know. How adorable. But I didn't think it was adorable then. It was all I cared about, that thing. Every spare second was devoted to it. I crafted scenes and dialog in my head at school and on the bus, and then I'd rush to the computer the second I got home, boot it up, and let my fingers fly. I sneaked upstairs to the computer after my family was asleep--to write. My mom once told me to stop writing and go outside, for heaven's sake. It was my first taste of the singular obsession that is writing a novel.

I remember one specific moment, while I talked on the phone with a friend about the book. I was approaching the climax but wasn't quite sure how to set it all in motion.

"I just don't know how to make it all happen, how to bring them all together and put them in danger," I said to my friend as I lay on the dining room floor, the phone cord stretched across the adjacent kitchen. I can still clearly remember the texture of that carpet.

We chatted about it for a few minutes, and then it hit me.

"Fire!" I yelled--much to my friend's alarm, I'm sure. "There's going to be a fire!"

After reassuring her that no flaming conflagration was engulfing my house, I hung up and dashed to the computer.

That first "novel"--50 pages of single-spaced, 12-point courier type, if you must know--was entitled Whispers of the Past. All the character names--except, of course, the character "Luke", whose namesake should be clear to any Star Wars fan--were taken from another book, one near and dear to my heart: my dad's family history, going back to the first members of our family who arrived in America in 1630, first written and published in 1913 (I think), and subsequently added to by each generation.* The main character's name was "Julia Greene." Remember that little detail, folks.

I cried a little bit, I'm sure, when I finished that book. Late at night, while everyone else slept, of course. And everyone else cried when they read it, since I killed off all but two of the main characters, who of course got married in the "ten-years-later" epilogue. The very kind classmate who offered to print it out for me, since we had no printer then, handed it to me on the bus the next day with the following comments:

"First of all, stop making each chapter a separate document. That thing was a pain to print out. And secondly, some of the pages toward the end might be a little damp."

"What do you mean?" I asked him.

He raised his eyebrows. "Tears, you idiot. I mean tears."

So, it was quite a critical success, at least among my friends and family. I gave that copy to everyone who asked. Whether they read it or not, I don't care. Most probably didn't...and that's a good thing, I'm sure. It was decently written for a twelve-year-old, I guess, but no one should be subjected to 5o single-spaced pages of any twelve-year-old's writing.

And very few more people would be, as it turned out. I gave the only existing hard copy to my best friend in the world, who didn't read much, and waited impatiently for probably several weeks for her opinion.

When I finally asked about it, she admitted that she'd lost it. Don't get me wrong, she was the best friend a girl could have, but she was a bit disorganized and more than a bit irresponsible. After the storm of tears and accusations, and swearing I would never forgive her for it, I searched out the disk containing that little piece of my soul...and discovered it had been utterly corrupted.

Whispers of the Past, it turned out, was lost.

What happened next? Well, I guess you'll have to wait until tomorrow. A little hint, just to keep you salivating: it involves lots of angsty poetry. Oh yes--that's right. Angsty. Poetry.


*My uncle and I will soon be embarking on this generation's addition, and I can't wait. Yes, I'm a dork. Deal with it.

Writing in the Dark

Listening to: Paul Simon, "Kodachrome"

I've been writing since I was just a little thing, when my second grade teacher told my mom I had a gift for storytelling. It was definitely that particular event that inspired me to be a writer--hey, I thought, at least I'm good at something. May as well run with it. However, writing remained a task mostly associated with school until I reached sixth or seventh grade, when I decided to write a novel.

Once I started, I couldn't stop. I had never been addicted to anything before--well, besides reading, of course--and writing that novel became my first fixation. I thought about it all day, throughout every class in school. My characters spouted off whole pages of dialogue while I learned about the cardiovascular system in health class. Entire scenes were transcribed on the blank pages of my mind while my math teacher talked about...well, who the hell knows. I hate math.

The hour-long bus ride home was pure torture every day. I couldn't wait to get home, kick off my shoes, and make a mad dash to the computer. I still maintain that I didn't write that book--it wrote me.

And so it was that I wanted to devote every waking second to it. I hogged the precious computer all evening, detaching myself from it with the greatest reluctance when bedtime came. Usually, I had to be told three or four times to get ready for bed, so enthralled was I with this world and these characters I'd created.

But those characters still wouldn't shut up, even while I lay in bed and waited for sleep. My usual routine went something like this:

1. Go to bed.
2. Read until everyone else has gone to bed--which could take a long time, since we were a family of six.
3. Sneak upstairs (we had a ranch style house--my bedroom was on the lower level, and the computer was in the kitchen, at the top of the stairs).
4. Power up the computer.
5. Write until I couldn't hold my head up anymore.

Of course, I'd never turn on the kitchen lights, as this would've made my wakefulness and activities obvious to anyone venturing into the kitchen. With the lights off, all I had to do, if I heard someone approaching, was shut off the monitor, make a run for it, and hope that they didn't notice the computer still running.

Yes, dear readers, I worried about getting caught writing. It wasn't that my parents disapproved, or that they disliked it in any way--it was just that it was midnight, and I was twelve years old. As much as my mom encouraged me to write, she also encouraged me to sleep more than six hours each night.

So, I frequently wrote in the dark. I'm almost certain that I wrote the final chapters at night, while everyone else in the house slept. I have a clear memory of finishing that particular novel, and in that memory, it's pitch dark but for the white glow of the monitor, and I'm grateful for the solitude, because the ending was quite emotional.*

That book was far from perfect, or even logical--most of the deaths occurred from a bolt of lightning that set a house afire on a beautiful, blue-skied summer day--but it was mine, dammit. I'd worked slavishly on it, devoted myself to it, sacrificing sleep and playtime and maybe a little bit of learning.

The sad fate of that particular book is another topic for another day, but its effect is still felt. When I'm writing at the computer--which I'm doing more and more these days, having finally almost abandoned the notebook--I prefer relative darkness. During the day, I only turn on the lights at lunchtime. After lunch, they go off again. For some reason, that darkness facilitates composition like nothing else.

Spend six months of your childhood sneaking around to write, and you might prefer the darkness, too.


*I killed off everyone but the protagonist and one of her friends, who, of course, got married in the "ten years later" epilogue. Of course.

One Year

Listening to: Me First & The Gimme Gimmes, "Save the Best for Last" (Anyone else think it's awesome that a band is able to make a living and a name from being, essentially, a cover band?)

Hey! Today's the one year anniversary of my very first blog post. It's a Blogiversary! And my very second blog post was that very same day, and included pictures of cows! Not to mention my gorgeous rose. So pretty. *Sigh*...I miss my rose.

So, year in review, in case anyone cares...or is very, very bored:

In July, after posting about who I am and blessing the world with pictures of cows tramping up my street, I waxed sentimental about hometowns. In August, I told a story about getting lost in the woods, then went traipsing through them once again (and posted a slideshow of it!).

In September, I talked about writing and self-doubt. And not much else, since I faltered a bit with the blog that month--a whopping FOUR POSTS!

But in October....I posted the exact same amount. Whoops. When I did post, though, the topics tended to veer all over the place.

Came back with a vengeance in November, when my dentist said funny things and I finished my second novel and began editing it.

I had a lot of fun in December, from getting stuck in a dress to coming up with my next book idea (working on that now) to getting Crapometered to nearly getting killed by my cat. Looking back, it's a miracle I survived to ring in 2007.

In January, I accepted that I should write what I enjoy, no matter what my friends and family think.

February was busy, what with considering the permanent move to Virginia and then deciding against it, which was full of its own little ironies. Funny to look back on that, now.

I started the third novel for the third time in March, and that one stuck. I also heard voices and fell in love with my protagonist's love interest (trust me, it didn't last). Then I went bowling and enjoyed some "local color". Then I went to the premiere of a movie I was in and cursed Canada, all in one post. Oh, and FLOWERS AGAIN!

April was a roller coaster ride--I got a gorgeous bike for my birthday, then hurt my back on my first ride..mourned the loss of one of America's greatest literary voices...decided to move to Virginia temporarily...wrote about cat games...and ran in circles trying to perfect my query letter.

What was May like, you ask? Well, there's not much from May to link to, because I was too busy moving to blog. Oh, and I won not one, but TWO awards for my writing, but I took down the post about them so that potential agents can't connect my query letter with this blog. Hurray, pseudo-anonymity!

Despite the sweltering temperatures in June, I managed to send out my first queries for book two, bake birthday cookies, have some Virginia adventures, and post cat pictures.

July's been interesting--oh yes, it certainly has--but I think I'll review this July on my two year blogiversary.

Wonder where I'll be then, and what I'll be doing? I certainly didn't expect many of the things that have happened since I started this blog--Virginia, writing awards, my bike--so who knows what might happen between now and July 26, 2008?

I guess I'll just have to wait and find out.