Most of my family and friends have stopped asking me the “P” question.  They know and trust that if I have news to share about the status of my books, they’ll be the first to know.
 
Not so, Shirley Shark.
 
Shirley Shark – as I like to think of her – enters my social sea about twice a year. Every time she locates me during a party, my heart hitches, my belly tenses and my breath turns to sludge in my chest.  Short of full-blown eye-twitches and seizures, I’m a physical and mental wreck. My dread of her approach pools around me as clearly as blood in the water. Shirley Shark likes to circle in with a wide schadenfreude smile. My middle name turns to “Chum.”

A few weeks ago our exchange went something like this:
Murmur, murmur, weather, weather, nicety, nicety, and …
S.S.:  “So, any publishing news? Sold anything yet?” Twenty-two rows of teeth gleamed.
M.M.: “Oh, you know …”
I’m not proud about what happened next. I swear to God, I meant to tell her what I’ve told her 31 times before, but to my mortification, I stuttered the one word I shouldn’t have: “P-P-Published.”
 
The “P” word left my mouth like a verbal fart. I couldn’t call it back. A dear friend standing at my side looked as surprised and horrified as I felt.  She knew this was a lie and she understood how much I dreaded talking to Shirley Shark about my writing.

 Shirley Shark’s smile dipped. Her shoulders dropped. The predatory gleam in her eye dimmed.  “Really? You did get published? When? How?”

Whatever nano-second of self-satisfaction I enjoyed was snuffed out as I back-stroked and retracted the statement – badly, awkwardly, but as quickly as possible. Shirley Shark then brightened and spoke a few condescending words of encouragement before she swam off while I tried to figure out what in the world had possessed me.

The mystery of this whole scenario is that I’ve fielded this same question from countless people over the years and I can answer with truth, grace and goodwill.
For me though, Shirley Shark is “The One.” She’s the one person in my wider social circle who consistently unseats my self-confidence and reduces me to worm status.

So. What’s the point of this story?

​Writing + Time = Insight

I had a sudden epiphany after I finished my second novel. Both books had the same underlying theme, even though I thought they were wildly different stories. Both narratives had something to teach me about forgiveness. Not just forgiveness in a general sense, but specifically in regards to a child forgiving an adult. Writing those books and getting to know those characters opened up a path to compassion and revealed a place inside me that needed to be healed.

In the movie “Jaws,” Roy Scheider’s character, upon seeing the size of the man-eating shark for the first time, says, “You’re gonna need a bigger boat.”  As writers, we get to build that “bigger boat” for ourselves.   Be it sharks, monsters, bullies, neuroses, self-doubt – we can craft the vessel or fort or castle or hot-air balloon we need to find a safe vantage point to explore what haunts or hunts us.

I don’t have a profound insight on my ongoing issue with Shirley Shark quite yet.  My hunch is that something inside her touches upon an unresolved or unenlightened piece of my own psyche. I could try to psychoanalyze the issue, but I’d rather keep writing. I may not understand Shirley Shark, but I bet there’s a future character inside me who does.

Whether we will it or not, know it or not, intend it or not, our characters often appear to show us what lurks in our personal shadows. Sometimes, our characters come to light for our own benefit. Sometimes, they show up carrying tender blueprints.
 

Two weeks ago, I walked in Hayward, Wisconsin and photographed the change of seasons. I spied an interesting stump and snapped away. It wasn’t until I looked at the photo that I saw the horse. My brain had only registered “twisted dead tree trunk.” It was the camera that “saw” and revealed the gift in the woods. Now I wonder how many other wonderful, magical, whimsical surprises surround us each day, except we only ever see what we expect to see. My wish is that we all start “seeing” hidden horses. Maybe dragons won't be far behind. Or angels.

Perhaps, Rumi said it best:

God's joy moves from unmarked box to unmarked box,
from cell to cell. As rainwater, down into flowerbed.
As roses, up from the ground.
Now it looks like a plate of rice and fish,
now a cliff covered with vines,
now a horse being saddled.
It hides within these,
till one day it cracks them open.
​

This sounds a wee bit pretentious, but two weeks ago I was in Florence. Yes, that Florence.  My sister-in-law Terri and I took a break from our tour and went off to see the Medici private home. Unlike many of the other tourist sites we'd visited in previous days, we practically had the place to ourselves.

As always, at the back of my mind, I was musing about what the future held for me as a writer and my two middle-grade novels still waiting for a home.  I'd started to ask The Universe in earnest for a sign as to whether I should just let this dream go. The question popped into my head again just as I turned my head and saw a large hour glass on a shelf.

​The sand had run out.  

Oh, dear.

Since returning home, I've chosen to "reinterpret" that sign.  I don't think my dream of being a published writer is dead, or past it's appointed hour, but I do think the end of something is around the corner. A part of life has run its full course. There is an ending in my future. But, like all endings, this will open the door to a new beginning. 

After all, when an hour glass runs out, you turn it over.
​

Elizabeth Sims has a terrific blog on craft. I like almost everything she writes, but there are some true-blue keepers.  One of my favorites from earlier this year is, "Generous Writing: What is it?" March 27th, 2014.

Here, with two contrasting sentences,  she illustrates generosity in writing:

"He was a pale guy, not just ordinary pale, but really extremely pale."

versus

"There Jerome hung, skinny, sunken-chested, as white as a saltine, his face scrunched up and one hand clutching his nuts." (Jeffrey Eugenides, Middlesex)

How can each of us, on every page, give our readers MORE? How can we express the ordinary in new ways?  Or, surprise with unlikely couplings of images and sensory details? How do we dig deeper, then further, then onward still? 

Can we empty our pockets, turn them out, fish out every pill of lint, tarnished bauble, folded paper, knotted string and sleeping frog?

Recently, I finished reading, "All the Light We Cannot See," by Anthony Doerr. His writing slayed me. I can't remember when I've been so moved by both story and prose.  Doerr is a writer who is ridiculously generous with the reader. He gifts us with ways of looking and seeing that suggest we all could do better in seeing and knowing, and then, in turn, gift our readers with the same. 

Here is one of his sentences about two people walking.

"They clomp together through the narrow streets, Marie-Laure's hand on the back of Madame's apron, following the odors of stews and cakes; in such moments Madame seems like a great moving wall of rosebushes, thorny and fragrant and crackling with bees."  p. 242

Crackling with bees.


Oh.
My.
God.


Words really are our coin and currency.  Let's be generous. 

Here is a link to Elizabeth Sim's blog:
http://esimsauthor.blogspot.com/search?updated-max=2014-04-10T13:01:00-04:00&max-results=7&start=21&by-date=false

And rounding out today's threesome - a photo of a generous sky:

Several years ago, torrential rainfall flooded the walking paths in our local park. Since walking our regular route was less than ideal, my husband and I took a bike ride instead.  As we entered the ever-deepening water, I happened to glance down and beheld a small school of fish swimming alongside us.  

We were biking with fish.

Writing can be organic and surprising when we stay open to synchronicity and juxtaposition . It's the brave writer indeed who treads into unchartered waters and allows their characters and stories to show them the unexpected and unforeseen. What about your characters sets them apart?  (Despereaux was a mouse with "obscenely large ears." Matilda had extraordinary mental powers. Harry Potter ... well, you know.) Maybe they have a suppressed dream, or - most illuminating of all - a secret kept ... There are many, many ways that characters can come alive on the page for writer and reader. Our task is to search out the unexpected, and welcome it onto the page.

Here's a link to the Explore Minnesota bike trail information site.  You know, in case you need a fish fix.

http://www.exploreminnesota.com/things-to-do/biking/?keywords=&pageIndex=0&radius=0&mapTab=false&sortOrder=asc&sort=randomdaily&locationid=&startDate=false&class_id=139&lat=&lon=&city=&pageSize=20&type=reitlistings&attrFieldsOr=

As writers there is no end to our fears:  
Fear of not being good enough. 
Fear of never being published.
Or if we're published, then fear of not being read. 
Or if our stories are read, then they're not read enough to warrant another book sale. Ever.
Fear of never having another idea for a story ...

There is no end to the dread, anxieties, fears and worries that assail us every day. It's a wonder - dare I say, "a miracle?" - that any of us have the wherewithal to write at all.  Except that THAT is precisely the only possible response in our arsenal - to trust, believe and own that, "Everything we want is on the other side of fear." Fear is our Looking Glass, our portal, our gateway ... we have to go through it to reach what we want.  

Although, as writers, we will never be "Fear Free," I wish you fear-less writing. 

Here's a link to Elizabeth Gilbert's most recent post about fear.
http://www.elizabethgilbert.com/dear-ones-the-other-day-a-brilliant-friend-of-mine-let-me-read-the-first-dra/

For most writers, running out of a coffee is also a soul sucking dread.

I grew up surrounded by woods and learned early on how to spot where the wild things stalked, climbed, scampered, flew, perched and hid - in the trees, upon the ground, or within the dark murkiness of hole and crevice. 

Writing offers up all sorts of wild things, too:  unexpected characters, odd plot twists, strange sidetracks ... But these wild things are far more cunning than any living creature.  Sometimes you need to follow them. Sometimes you need to let them be. And sometimes, the only way to KNOW if a wild thing should be captured iis to follow them first, watch what happens when they live in your story, and then decide.

A two-nosed villain showed up in my recent novel.  She turned out to be a most interesting and vital wild thing. Even though I was sure Revenue Cognescenti had no business in my story, I followed her and let her show me where she lived, and how and why.  I ended up loving her best of all.

Don't be afraid of your wild things. Always be ready and willing for a rumpus.

                                                                         *   *   *

Christopher Walken reads "Where the Wild Things Are."
http://www.openculture.com/2014/09/christopher-walken-reads-where-the-wild-things-are.html


This is a painting by my aunt, Edie Abnet.  She loves wild things, too.

One of my favorite movie moments occurs in "Miracle on 34th Street," when a young Natalie Wood is in the back seat of the car, muttering to herself - with forced enthusiasm - "I believe, I believe," in hopes that Santa Claus really can give her the gift of the house she dreams of.

Many a time -especially over the past several years - I have channeled my inner Natalie as I persevered.

I believe the more you write, the better you get.
I believe that some worthy stories are destined to be in the world, no matter the obstacles.
I believe it's never too late to follow your dream.

Here's what Elizabeth Gilbert has to say about "Wishing vs. Believing." She must have an inner Natalie Wood, too.

http://www.elizabethgilbert.com/you-dont-get-what-you-wish-for-you-get-what-you-believe-heres-a-photo-fro/

And lastly, Stella would like you to believe that her wish to have one day without getting scolded can come true, too.

"If you build it, they will come."  It may be presumptuous to build an author page before selling a book, but since my debut novel, "Make a Wish, Zellie Greene," is about heartfelt wishes and the belief in things we cannot see, or even know for sure, then why not take this leap of faith as well?

Plus, it takes this most-procrastinated-tool off my "To Do" list. And no one can procrastinate quite 
like a writer.  Case in point, this recent article from The Atlantic: http://m.theatlantic.com/business/archive/2014/02/the-psychological-roots-of-procrastination/283773/#ad-jump-ad-mobile-instream-1

More importantly, Libby assures me that as I work today, she'll take care of the napping portion of our schedule.