Imagination Fail

oncologist bunny

Eight days until surgery.

I’ve got my post-op shirts and even two small post-op pillows. One pillow is recommended for the drive home from the hospital. It will go between the seatbelt strap and me. I’ve seen post-op pictures of others to give me an idea what to expect. I’m getting my house in order, people are arranging to cook and to pick my son up for skate practice, and fundraisers have been set up.

And still I can’t quite believe this is happening.

Like when you’re a kid and you know that one day you’re going to be a grownup, but you can’t really believe it. Or your childless and decide to have a kid, having no clue as to what you’re in for. Or you get a publisher for your first book, but the book isn’t out yet and you can’t hold the book in your hands.

My imagination fails me so often. At least, it is easy to imagine these things happening to someone else, like a character in a book.

What events in your life did you find impossible to fully imagine until you got there?

Learning

When I first wanted to be a writer (back when I was eight, I think), I knew nothing about the publishing industry. I didn’t understand how agents worked or what it took to get a book to readers.

A few years ago a young man told me he wanted to write a book so that he could make money. I didn’t know whether to laugh or pat him on the head.

Learning about cancer treatments has been much the same way. I had no idea about the medical industry. I didn’t understand how surgeons worked or what it took to get a mastectomy. I didn’t know about post-op shirts, drains, expanders, or being estrogen positive. I didn’t know terms like her2/neu, sentinel nodes, or lymphedema.

Well, live and learn.

I’m going to have a novel published soon. I’ll get this through this too.

Bloody Days

trying to relax

I’ve almost forgotten I blog.

Heading toward the Christmas season things took an unexpected turn. A routine mammogram ended in a biopsy and two surgeries, and I can’t say it’s all done yet. The main distraction is the incision that has continued to bleed for over a week.

There are plenty more serious health issues in the world, and I’m trying to keep this in perspective. But as far as annoyances go, seeing bandage after bandage fill with blood whether at work, hanging with the kiddo, or sleeping is maddening. Who wants to leave blood on sheets and pillows, bathrobes, towels, and bras?

Perhaps that is too much information. I might be beyond caring. Besides, I don’t know about you, but I knowledge of things like breast cancer was very limited. I had some understanding of chemo (No verdict yet on whether I’ll need radiation. Might not.) and like most of us I’ve seen all those pink ribbon campaigns, but it might have been helpful to have heard specifics. Have you ever had those moments when you look at a cut or a bruise or something not right on your body and you wonder, “Is it supposed to look like that?!”

It’s been a distraction.

With any luck, the worst of this is over and I can think. MOst of the time I don’t feel like I’m thinking. I just feel like I’m moving on to the next thing that needs to get done. Do you ever feel that way?

But I am still working on the line edits for my novel. That isn’t going to come out when I originally thought. Things have fallen behind. But my publisher and I are getting there, and that’s what matters.

Is that the best you can do?

In high school I spent one year on the yearbook staff. I started the class really excited, and I ended the class hoping never to speak of it again. When my mother saw the section I’d worked on–the advertising section, which I hated but did work hard on–she said, “That doesn’t look very good. That’s the best you can do?”

Or maybe she said, “That’s terrible.”

It’s hard to remember exactly because what I remember best was the pain that went through my chest. My mother wasn’t a mother of false praise.

The ads weren’t good though. I’d struggled with designing the ads. My relationship with the teacher was a disaster since I realized I wasn’t pretty enough to warrant his attention.

Maybe that wasn’t the problem. But I knew the popular boys and girls invited him to their parties and that sometimes he went.

You probably don’t need to be told I wasn’t ever invited to these parties. But I didn’t want to go to their parties. I wanted my mother to tell me I’d done a great job, that I had talent, that I should be an artist when I grew up.

She said (and this I remember), “I wouldn’t show that work to anyone if I were you.”

Twenty-five years later and I still haven’t.

So, last night I sent my “final” draft of my novel to my publisher. (Final until I get edits backs, that is.) All I have to do is wait for her to read the rewrites and tell me what she thinks.

It’s funny how something said to you years ago can stay lodged in your brain for decades. I wouldn’t show that work to anyone.

And here’s me trying to send my novel out for the world to see. (Although, the world isn’t going to see it. A tiny group of friends and some random strangers.)

We’ll see how it goes.

Why is it dark in here?

my art + photoshop elements

Recently I joked, “I could’ve written a light comedy.” And my husband replied, “I don’t think you have light comedy in you.”

A friend said, “It’s odd because you’re a funny person.”

Hey, I didn’t set out to write a dark, emotional novel. I started with an image and went from there. But I don’t sit down with an agenda. I always start with an image.

The novel that is to be published this winter began with the sound of marbles hitting a wood floor. Just that. No characters. No plot. But I asked, why would the marbles be spilled on the ground like that? And all these words later there is a tale of abuse and violence and survival and friendship.

Another novel started with an image I’ve had since childhood–a girl with a paintbrush that can change whatever she wants. That became a story of murder and jealousy.

And another novel started with the image of a young man who loses the ability to sleep–which is about jealousy too, and secrets, curses, and death.

And another with a young woman putting on red lipstick–which became a story about falling in love with the wrong person and going through hell for them.

But for all I know I could write a comedy. You never know.

As I edit my novel, I’m having to think about some of the things I’ve put a character through, and I think, she may be too damaged to come out all right in the end. Then again, I know people in the real world who’ve been through very real hell, and on the surface anyway, they seem to be doing fine. It’s hard to know though, isn’t it?

You have to find a way to do justice to a character’s suffering. I don’t mean that the bad guy will end up in jail or realize the error of his ways. If you put a character through trauma, that character can’t just shrug it off and be fine.

Something JK Rowling said recently about how Harry Potter would function after all he’d been through–not very well. Don’t you imagine he suffers from bad dreams that wake Ginny up in the middle of the night? Or that sometimes he’s a morose and remote father–loving, and generally good, but a man who needs time alone to brood. Wouldn’t his children sense his sadness at all his losses?

JK Rowling doesn’t put that in the books, but she doesn’t make it an impossibility either.

My character is going through a dark time, and I’m not sure how she’s going to be.

I’m not sure what it is about me that compels me to write stories of loss and trauma, and I can’t afford the therapy to find out.

You? Are your stories mostly happy? Sad? Funny? Why is that do you think?

A Plum Heart

my art

Today a new friend in my life puts her heart out into the world. Her heart should be lifted up and celebrated.

Well, perhaps every heart should be.

Forgive the potential sappiness. But sometimes sappiness is okay. We don’t have to be all edges and armor every day of the week.

(Anyway, I don’t know why black holes exist in space any more than I know why black holes exist in some human hearts, but those lost souls–the ones that suck in and destroy everything that comes too close are a problem for another day.)

As I was saying, the determined and caring Niamh Clune, author and founder of Plum Tree Books, is putting out a very heart-filled project today. Niamh has a great deal of personal experience with the drought and troubles in the Sahel in Africa.

You can find out more about events here and even more about the work Niamh is doing on The Plum Tree Blog.

Art is part of the solution too. Plum Tree is hosting an art auction–and one piece of mine is included along with several other beautiful pieces (I’d buy the Geisha right now if I could). The auction is the 16th.

And then there is music. A live radio show by the talented Claudio Fiore will be (is) in progress to support the auction and the book. Music is available to buy as well.

Oh. And the book. The book!! A book of poetry, stories, essays, and art is for sale. Song of Sahel. My art is in the book and a poem. Well, a sort of poem. A few tiny words to go with the art.

The proceeds go to help the people of the Sahel. Niamh has written more movingly (and knowledgeably) than I can, so if you go to the blog or the Plum Tree site, you can read the history and about the organizations that are helping in the region. Or if you have any questions, please ask.

Niamh has put heart and effort into this project. It’s an important cause and maybe you could do something to help. At the very least, share the word. The more people that know, the better.

Wow. I hope I covered everything.

Thank you!

Editing Rehab

my work

Hello. My name is Marta, and I’m an editaholic.
I’ve spent hours editing, gotten lost editing, and been unable to remember what I just wrote after editing. After a long night of editing, I’ve woken up with strange characters in my head. During my breaks at work, I’d be eating my lunch and sneaking in some editing. When I’m away from my editing, editing is all I can think about. And even when I get some editing done, I think I could handle a little more editing. I knew I’d hit editing bottom when I edited my story to death.

Plum Monday: Perspective

The troubles in the world overwhelm some days. My own troubles take enough energy, don’t you think?

Well, not really. I mean, they take lots of energy, but I don’t have to worry about if I will eat. Perspective. Perspective may be one of the most commonly lost things.

It’s late. Do you know where your perspective is?

Well, someone I know who seems to have a great perspective on important things is Niamh Clune. She is organizing a book for a cause–Songs of Sahel. Here is a cause. Yes, causes flood the world and where to begin? Well, begin here.

Sahel. You could submit a piece (story,poem, art, photography) or maybe later buy the book. Share the title when the book is released. It wouldn’t take much to matter to someone. How important it is is a matter of perspective.

Anyway, once I get my laptop back (from an unfortunate fall), I’ll submit something too.

What’s your cause?

Investaphobia

All my eggs in one basket?

No one in the history of the universe invests money in a company knowing they’re going to lose all said money. Oh, some people may invest in losers because they know how to actually get more money later–yeah, real estate nightmare, anyone–but the plan is to make money eventually.

People lose money of course. Plans go awry. Hopes are dashed. Dreams are deferred.

I don’t really understand any of it. I confess a deep suspicion that making money without actually making anything in return feels wrong. This sort of thinking gets me nowhere and I’ll probably be a hair’s breath from living in a box and eating beans out of a tin when I’m old. Well, I’ll draw pictures on my box, so there.

Anyway, I want to be a writer. I guess I am a writer? (How does one even know? It’s not like I got a certificate saying so.)

And this has required the craziest kind of investment. Do you want to be a writer? Well, here is Book Street. How much are you going to invest?

How much time? I’ve written 8 novels and at least 80 short stories. That’s taken years. How much money have I made with my writing? $10. That’s less than a dollar per year.

(Thankfully, I like baked beans.)

Well, if you count the cost paper, ink, and postage, I think that $10. is, well, not going to cover it.

But I’m finally, FINALLY!!, going to have my first novel, The Blue Jar published. I am happy. Happy about this fact. Make no mistake. The feeling that I’m dragging my battered carcass over a finish line is nothing compared to the feeling of knowing I have reached that finish line.

Although, it isn’t a finish line, is it?

I’ve got all those other manuscripts, and more I want to write. And I’ll write even if they move the finish line across an ocean on fire and on the other side of a mountain of knives.

But it’s a lot to ask my family. Hey, sacrifice all this money and time on my dream! But else does a person say? Don’t mind me. I’ll give up my dream because you’re here.

No. Not going to do that.

There are no guarantees. No one can predict how a book will sell. My book could sell thousands of copies or next to none. All this work, time, and money and I could still be left with an unread book. And several never-going to be read books.

What kind of investment is the writing life and why do we do it?

I think Wall Street is too risky, and yet I do this.

Hope springs eternal. And foolishly. Gloriously.

“The point is that writing, for lack of a better occupation, is good. Writing is right, writing works. Writing clarifies, cuts through, and captures the essence of the evolutionary spirit. Writing, in all of its forms; writing for life, for money, for love, knowledge has marked the upward surge of mankind. And writing, you mark my words, will not only save my life, but that other malfunctioning part of me called my soul. Thank you very much.”*

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*Totally lifted from the Gordon Gekko speech in the movie Wall Street. (Though I’ve never actually seen the movie.)

Bad Stories and Good Fans

The other night I watch a documentary about a movie I haven’t seen. Well, the title Best Worst Movie caught my attention. And I had, at least, heard of Troll 2.

Have you seen Troll 2? Even if you haven’t, watch the documentary.

At one point, people in the film talk about how something badly done is still great if done with passion, love. Though they also say that is true of a film, not of a book.

I’ve heard people say a movie is so bad it’s good.

Does anyone ever say that about a book?

Do you love a movie that is so bad it’s good? A book? Anything?

Another moment from the documentary I could discuss–if someone were hear to listen to me!–was George Hardy’s reaction to the horror film fans. (Hardy is a dentist who starred in Troll 2.) Now, I don’t like horror films, but I love those crazy fans. Sci-fi fans, horror fans, fans who wait in lines, fans who collect insane amounts of memorabilia. They have passion. I don’t like apathy, and these folks are not apathetic. Even if I don’t get what they love, at least they love.

Good for them.

The other day someone on facebook–good ol’ facebook–posted about how he thought people who write fanfic are wasting their time. Well, okay. That’s his opinion. But he said he spent a lot of time trying to convince the fanfic writers how wrong they were to write their fan stories.

Would you try to convince these people they’re wasting their time? Is that true? Have you ever written fan fiction?

If you had (have) a novel published, and someone out there loved your characters so much, that person wrote more stories about the world you created, how would you feel? (And I don’t mean people who steal your work and call it their own. Maybe you still call it stealing, but if they’re honest about–hey, this is fan fiction–would you be bothered or flattered?

I’d be flattered.