The Writer's Garden

By Amy

Isn't it magnificent? It's an Asiatic lily. I discovered them two years ago when I started my flower garden in this new home of ours. I didn't think I could grow that single blossom in my humble garden, I wasn't even sure if it was a perennial or annual. It simply captivated me. It was beyond my ability as a gardener, I thought, but over two years it's thrived and spread, my ambitions exceeding my skills with stunning results.

From the first day we looked at the house, I saw a cacophony of flowers where only grass grew. The landscape was bereft of color, of passion and life. So I tilled the earth, shoveled in yard after yard of loam, planted seeds and adolescent plants, scattered fertilizer, and, of course, watered daily. Watering was a grind; I didn't always feel like doing it, but it was necessary to go to the hose each day, even in the beginning when I wasn't certain anything would grow.

There were mistakes along the way. Sometimes I placed a flower that preferred partial shade in full sun. They died, it was hard to let them go. Other times, events beyond my control -- a caterpillar infestation last summer -- nearly destroyed everything I'd worked so hard to create. I had to pluck them one-by-one from each petal and spathe, every leaf of my Weeping cherry. It was laborious to be sure, but such attention to detail saved my garden. Still I weed each day, pulling out both the plants no gardener wants (grass) and some of my own flowers I didn't notice had infiltrated nearly the entire length of the garden. Ah, the hardy B-bomb.

And there were surprises, starting with the mulleins that appeared out of nowhere. I first noticed the downy leaves running along a section of border, scattered in the rugged lawn rather than the relative ease of churned soil. I trusted my instincts and invited them into my garden, not sure how they would blossom. My, they're beautiful. The astor and variety of lavender I'm not familiar with have found their way there, too. A burst of willful surprises. Or serendipity.

By now you probably understand where this is going. My garden, something that was conceived first in my imagination and then committed to reality through uncertain labor, constant tending, with pitfalls and glorious surprises along the way is much like my book. When I first started writing it, my ambition outweighed my skill tenfold. I sat down each day and wrote, never certain the words would come. I made mistakes, characters whose POV died. How I mourned them. The events beyond my control were all the nuisances of reality that infiltrated my writing life, or nuisances I created on the page that simply killed the narrative. Oh and the weeds, the commas and words we use far too frequently; mine is moment. I'm still weeding those. The surprises were plentiful, not the least of which were the flowers. Perhaps someday you'll understand what I mean by the flowers.

I don't know yet if I've succeeded with my literary garden. What I do know is that I've enjoyed every shovel full of dirt, every grub and every bud, even the daily grind of sitting here when I didn't necessarily feel like it.

When I look now at that Asiatic lily, I can't quite believe I had the daring to try to grow something magnificent. But I did, and I do. My hope now is that it has a chance to fully blossom.

Literary Happenings: If you live in or near the South Shore of Massachusetts, please come by Grub Street South at Buttonwood Books tonight at 7:00 pm. The Writers' Group is hosting a workshop on finding members that work for you.

Falling

Posted by Lisa

Claire Cook, author of bestselling novel Must Love Dogs, had plenty of inspiring thoughts to share with the packed room at the Public Library in Duxbury, Massachusetts last Wednesday. Not the least of which was a belief she shared three times in the course of the evening. She said, "If writing a novel were easy, then everyone would do it."

I know writing a book is a challenge. I've completed one novel which is on submission with editors as we speak (feel welcome to cross your fingers for me and do an editor dance, too). I've completed a second draft of another. A good friend and wonderfully inspiring woman in my writer's group once said upon reflection: "Writing a novel is hard work, who knew?"

The writing is hard. But now I know the waiting is worse. For agents, for editors. It forces me to dig deeper than I ever did when searching for a better word, or thinking a character through further.

My writers' group helps me improve my writing skill; I wouldn't be the writer I am becoming without them. But now I know their support and encouragement is huge at this point in the process of becoming a published author.

I am not a quitter, but I wonder at times if I would have the courage to push forth without their support. When I have had setbacks, and I've fallen to the ground, Amy, Hannah, and Lynne have picked me up. They seem to have a magical ability to find kind and thoughtful words to help me on my way. They get me to take a few deep breaths. They brush the dirt off my knees and guide me on my path again.

Tomorrow my writers' group and I will be speaking at Buttonwood Books in Cohasset, MA. I hope we will help others to find their way into a writers' group that works, that we will help others learn how to make it work. So they, too, will have someone to pick them up when they trip. Because in this business you can't help but fall hard from time to time.

Making A Literary Life Friday: Origins

A lot of thinking this week about where we've been and where we come from, maybe grounding ourselves for the next push forward -- with submissions, revisions, new projects. Maybe it is not merely coincidence that yesterday was the first day of summer; all the seeds have been planted and now it is time for good things to grow!

Lisa
How is it the woman working in the children's section at Barnes & Noble knew how to help me with my next project. I was asking her about the Magic Treehouse series for my son. After she gave me some advice on that, she led me to a new paperback non-fiction for kids. Coincidence that this subject area has been haunting me? Or a sign? I'll take it as a sign - I bought the book.

Amy
Today, to celebrate my children's report cards, I'm taking them to Buttonwood Books so they may each choose a favorite book as a reward. Isn't that exciting, the prospect of walking into a bookstore and taking home any book you want? While I'm there, I'll get one for myself. Any suggestions?

Hannah
I've been reading Ruth Reichl, and what struck me most about the first chapter of her memoir was her conviction that she found her calling. Her editor said, "You are a natural to be a food critic; I am giving you the job." Ruth announced the news to her artist husband, her commune housemates, and her traditional parents; everyone was dismayed. For the first time, she was faced with universal disapproval, and for the first time, despite her long, proud history as a people-pleaser, she went against the expectations of everyone around her. She found her calling, and she knew it. To perseverance!

Lynne
I have the same last day of school ritual with my children that Amy does. This year Caitlin chose Suite Francaise and Stephen chose Lord of the Flies. I picked up Elinor Lipman's, My Latest Grievance . Each summer, each member of the family establishes a reading goal. We include books we've been dying to read and a few classics. One night a week we discuss books over dinner. On Labor Day weekend, we have a marathon book discussion about our favorites, the ones that moved us most, and the ones we'd most recommend. The Griffin summer reading challenge is on!

Literary Happenings: The Writers' Group will be hosting a workshop at Grub Street South at Buttonwood Books this Tuesday, June 26 at 7:00 pm. We'd love it if you came out to fill the seats and say hello.

Need a laugh? This is hilarious, so click here and be sure to vote for Tish!

Seconds Anyone?

Posted by Lynne

I know my protagonist's name, her job and her immutable truth. I know what her son looks like; I know his struggle and how he moves the plot forward. Yet there is so much more I need to know. Most importantly, I know it won't help to rush it. It will come in it's own time, in it's own way.

The second novel. Certainly, it will be compared to the first by you, your friends and family, and of course readers and reviewers, but that won't change how you care for it.

I'm beginning to gestate my second novel. I've done some reading about time periods I plan to use, several characters' occupations, and my chosen setting. This upfront reading is fun, and it will inform my writing once I get enmeshed in it. I don't think I'll plot my novel until I get toward the middle, I like the nebulous beginning, where characters evolve and story lines surprise me. Though I'm open to seeing how things develop this time around, since I expect writing my second novel will be a completely unique experience.

Like having a second child.

When I became pregnant with my second child, I was over the moon. I'd always wanted two children and felt since I knew what I was about to experience having gone through it before, I would savor every blessed minute of it. I even bought a book called, Your Second Child by Joan Solomon Weiss.

I wasn't content with our hand-me-down crib, I marched right over to Boston Baby and bought the white cradle and companion rocking chair I was hesitant to purchase on my first go around. The setting my baby was born into needed the perfect details.

At the first ultrasound, we asked the sex of our baby. I loved knowing we were having our boy. I got a jump start on naming this character of mine; each kick and pregnancy symptom helped me to bond with him.

Going through the experience a second time, had its pluses and minuses. On the bright side, I knew the early exhaustion would give way to renewed energy in the middle and complete joy at the end; each twinge, each pain would pass, with time. No need for anxious calls to others who'd already gone through it. I knew what to expect. On the darker side, I knew carrying this child was in some ways the easy part. Like his sister before him, he would have to come into the light and endure the fickle aspects of living in the world. A world where he wouldn't always be protected by me.

If you have more than one child--or more than one book--you know no two are alike. This is as it should be. I don't want to have two identical children, nor do I want to write the same book. I want the process to have a life of its own. I know I have enough love in me for both.

As I begin to develop the life of my second novel, I'm open to how the process might be different. I'd love to hear from the friends of our blog who are writing their second novels, especially those further along than I am, who have published before.

Tell me, which labor pains are the same? Which different?

Books at the Center

By Hannah

This year's annual First Parish Church Fair coincided with the church’s own anniversary of more than 350 years. It’s a wide, whitewashed, steepled wood-frame New England icon, the front lawn flowing down to the main street, graveyard to the left, low-profiled and white town office buildings to the right, all modestly landscaped.

The bustling center of the Fair is an auction of donated items. A 1920’s mahogany bed rail and headboard set went for $20; a framed print of our town sold for $40. A second tent sells antiques – lace tablecloths, glass decanters – and a third has miscellaneous tag sale items. A small area offers children’s activities for fifty cents: face painting, rock painting, magnetic fishing. The food tent makes a fabulous sausage sandwich with peppers and onions, and there is of course strawberry shortcake and a bake sale. Hundreds of people stand, mill, stride and jostle around the front lawn from nine until three. Cars line the streets in every direction.

My family doesn't need more coffee mugs or lamps, we don’t like the crush of people, and we stand around the food tent for far too long, so as a rule, I usually avoid the Fair. This year we promised my in-laws, who manage said food tent (and enjoyed record sales this year!) we would go. There we were, standing with our plates, when a friend passed.

She said she brings her children to the Fair specifically for the books; it's a family tradition. Books? Nobody ever mentioned books; I never saw any before. A small hand-lettered sign pointed us around back to the entrance of the church hall, to tables and tables of books. One quarter, two quarters, maybe a dollar each for the really big ones. The room was full of people, a crowd with which we happily jostled.

I bought John Irving’s A Widow for One Year, and Ruth Reichl’s Comfort Me with Apples. My children bought a joke book, So You Want to Be an Inventor, and My Side of the Mountain. How did we not own that one already? Even when you are someone who appreciates the importance of list price, a bag full of books ready to be loved is a beautiful thing. It is addictive, not just for oneself, but to those around you. The more we read, the more we want to read, whether or not we are writers.

How to center a life on books? Write, even if you are not a writer, in letters, in a journal. Buy books – and gift certificates for others – at the local, independent book store. Listen to an author, live, at the library, bookstore, or auditorium. Get to the library just once, no matter how crazy your life, because you have to go back to make those returns and it jumpstarts a happy cycle. Bring a book or notebook when you have to wait. Ask, everywhere, where the books are kept; don't assume there aren't any, or not think to ask at all. They are out there, as are the readers. How many more new traditions and memories can I center around books? There must be hundreds of small ways, and I want suggestions!

Write, Listen, Buy, Read

By Amy

I was speaking with a bookseller yesterday about the state of fiction. She's not terribly hopeful.

A well-known author, a great storyteller who made his name selling memoir, recently published his first novel. By all accounts it's good, but the bookseller who had standing-room-only events for the author when he toured to promote his non-fiction, is having trouble generating the same kind of interest for the man's novel.

An author I know has written an extraordinary novel, painstakingly researched, each word consciously chosen to suit the whole body of work. It's a near perfect book in the tradition of Memoirs of a Geisha. Yet I haven't seen this novel on a single bestseller list.

The writing business is littered with a thousand clever ways to rip your heart from your chest -- none more so than the sense of freefall after your book has been published to a deafening silence. Imagine? Finally finishing a decent draft of that novel you've been working on for three years; getting an agent who actually likes your book and returns your phone calls; oh, sunny day, an editor wants to give you money (sure, it's not much, it works out to a pennies an hour, but still) to publish your book; and then...nothing. Your first print run is 10,000 and stores are not clamoring for more. Only a few hardy souls show up for your reading because the weather is snowy/rainy/sunny and the local papers ended up killing the review/profile/announcement because they needed space to run the next Paris Hilton rehab rehash.

Oh dear God.

So the next time an author comes to your local bookstore, clutching her heart in her hands wanting to share it with you, take a moment from your busy schedule to sit and listen. If you're too broke to buy a book (writers, this is a tax write-off; check with your CPA), know that your mere presence is comfort enough. But try to budget at least 5 newly published books into each year.

Writers need to support other writers. Go to readings, buy books, buzz the good ones to friends, join your local literary organization, volunteer there. I promise, it will all come back to you tenfold.

Inspire hope. Booksellers and other writers are counting on you.

My Safety Net?

Posted by Lisa

I'm naive. A safety net is open beneath me - sometimes I truly believe that. I know it was there when I learned to stand. Of course, I don't remember teetering with my mother's hands poised an inch on either side of me. Must I remember details to know exactly how it happened?

I was seven when I learned to ride a bike without training wheels. My hair was loose - half an hour earlier I had pulled out the pompom hair bands my grandmother had painstakingly fixed onto my ponytails. It was my father, this time, who guarded me, running alongside my bicycle as I mastered my balance, until could make it the full way along the sidewalk - all the way to the Kosta's split level on the corner - and back.

Much of the time my world is a setting where characters are predictable - and safe. Husbands pour tea for their wives. Children are safe, tucked in at night in a world without tsunamis or earthquakes; no bombs explode at midnight. Even dogs live to a ripe old age, dying in their sleep, with dignity.

But sometimes, my world isn't, exactly, safe.

In my work as an occupational therapist I see parents face a child's disability and wonder why. That question haunts me long after I meet with them. Days after I work with a little girl with autism, her bright eyes are still fresh in my mind - how can her eyes be so blue?

I have never been drawn to more serious fiction. "Heavy" subjects terrify me. I've been reading Scott Heim's Mysterious Skin. It's brilliant and beautifully written. I am partway through it. As a writer, Scott makes me care about his characters. Care so so much. Only eight years old, Brian, the main character, is too like small boys I have known. You know the boys, the ones who needs baths at the end of every summer day since dirt is a second skin that coats them. The ones who toss a couple of Webkinz in the backseat of their Subarus, as their mothers check the seatbelt is tight over their carseats. Each night at their household, there are rules about eating vegetables and brushing teeth.

This is my reality. But it is not reality. Too many boys live a life, like Brian, where bad things happen to innocent small people.

I'm naive, but I'm not blind; my safety net could unravel. Perhaps a strong wind could send it flying, a tumbleweed across a Kansas plain. That security I feel each day is false. There is no safety net. I know that.

From a writing perspective, I love that Mysterious Skin is told from a first person point of view. In the spirit of the number one writing rule, show don't tell, Scott Heim, has taught me the effect the choice POV has on a work of fiction. The lesson? First person point of view brings you in, pulls you tight into a caring that takes firm hold before you knowingly allowed it to happen.

Writing is facing a subconcious haunting that has taken hold and has forced you to think. Reading is caring about characters, oftentimes in circumstances I can barely imagine. I don't liker darker fiction, but I do like falling in love with a child, a grandparent, a teenager who lives a life I can't imagine. Maybe reading about circumctances I can barely fathom will help me to see the real world, not block out issues that frighten me, but face them, address and deal with them, even.

Maybe.

Making a Literary Life Friday: Out & About

If you're a writer, make sure to frequent your local independently-owned bookstore where you're sure to find all kinds of exciting happenings. Our very own Buttonwood Books in Cohasset hosts many authors who write in a variety of genres. Here's Amy at a recent event where Hank Phillippi Ryan read from her mystery Prime Time, Claire Cook (author of the international bestseller Must Love Dogs) read from her latest commercial fiction Life's a Beach, and memoirist David Gessner read a passage of Soaring with Fidel.

Lisa
Chocolate and strawberries and almond pear torte, laughter, reflections, and suggestions, dinner with writers Scott Heim and Michael Lowenthal was lovely. Scott spent his childhood in Kansas, in a rural town, or barely a town is how he described it, I think. Michael grew up in DC though he dreamed one day of living in Boston, a magical place he visited as a child. Thank you, both, for sharing your stories, struggles, and approaches to task within this world of writing. We so enjoyed reading your work and loved spending time with you.

Amy
Thanks to all of you who sent along your best wishes and included my family in your prayers. I never expected to be so utterly touched by this online community of ours; it's comforting to have each of you there. And thanks to Lynne for hosting Michael Lowenthal and Scott Heim, and for the two of them for dropping in on our Writers' Group. Each are extraordinarily gifted writers, the kind Francise Prose wants you to read like a writer. Michael's Charity Girl (Houghton Mifflin 2007) is so perfectly crafted, so painstakingly plotted, you'll need to read it twice: once for pure pleasure, a second time to wonder at his precision. Though Scott's third book, We Disappear (Harper 2008) is due out in January, I urge you to start with his debut Mysterious Skin. On the first read, be prepared to have your heart ripped from your chest. On the second, pay attention to his craft. The words, pace, and beauty of it all is an important lesson for all writers.


Hannah
Dinner with Scott and Michael was wonderful. In addition to being hugely talented, they are funny, wise, relaxed and gracious; we talked about the revision process, the mystery of titles, high school reading lists and the ever-shifting landscape of agents and publishers, plus listened to stories from the book tour road, what comes next. Definitely keep your eyes open for We Disappear; it will be hard to put down even on re-reads! An evening like that helps refill that precious jar of energy several times over. A thousand thank you's to them for making the trip, and to Lynne and her entire lovely family for hosting us!


Lynne
This has been an exciting week for connecting with other writers. My husband and I went to Hank Phillippi Ryan’s book launch party in Boston and then last night Michael Lowenthal and Scott Heim joined us for writers’ group. The discussion was so thoughtful and insightful, I'll be reenergized for weeks, I'm sure. I have a writing weekend planned and I can’t wait to hit the keys.

Truth and Revision

Posted by Lynne

He is cliches of beauty. Tall, dark and handsome. My soulmate; he understands me or least he's always willing to try. But those are not the reasons I adore my husband. It's because I can count on him to always tell the truth. In the beginning his truthfulness was applied to skirts that accentuated post-pregnancy hips. Or first attempts at complicated recipes gone wrong. Now he tells it like it is about my writing.

I would be blessed beyond measure if I only had Tom's honesty when it comes to my work, but I'm fortunate enough to have a cadre of trusted readers. Amy, Lisa and Hannah are the most generous--and forthright--writers I know. No sugar coating, no gratuitous compliments, though no critique for the sake of boosting their own egos, either. For them, it's all about making the work better, encouraging each of us to grow as a writer.

Along with Tom, Amy, Lisa and Hannah, I have another special reader, let's call her E.

Back in January, thrilled I'd been capable of polishing a first draft of my novel, I sent it off to E. I was naively hopeful. Her first words to me after reading it were, "You asked me to be honest, so I am going to be. It isn't there yet."

Yes, I'd asked for honesty. I honestly wanted you to love it, I thought. What in goodness name do I do with, it isn't there yet. Couldn't this person I trusted tell me where it was supposed to go; I would willingly take it there if only I knew. She gave minimal suggestions, some that felt true to the story, some that did not. With the support of my other trusted readers--chiefly Tom and my writers' group--I shouldered the blow, and got to the job of revising.

I submerged myself in classes, books on revision, and the chair I sit in to write. I'd often ask Tom if he was okay with me, going to that place. If you're a writer, you know the one I'm talking about. The place where you're connected to people you adore who don't exist, to places you love but can't touch. Whether I spent an hour there or twelve, Tom kept saying, "I believe you have to tell this story."

I'd love to end this post by telling you my revisions are complete and my manuscript will be published. The news I received this week was good, but not that good. The truth is I finished a third draft and sent it to my trusted reader E. Her first words to me this time were, "Revision is a wonderful thing." She said my story has come alive.

Her earlier honesty was hard to hear, though truly her words were a gift. My story wouldn't be the story it is now if she hadn't had the courage to tell me the truth. I wouldn't have pushed the story, or myself.

Like a ball of yarn, truth and revision are intertwined. Pull at the knot with honesty, free the tangle with revision, only to come upon a new knot. Anyone who's tackled it knows, it's by no means an easy thing to do--you need the truth to do it.

Fables of Determination and Love

By Hannah

Moments in a day are ours to interpret. Every one of us writes his or her own story.

A baby bird fell from its nest in our backyard while my husband and children played catch. My son watched it flutter-fall to the other side of our split-rail fence. The children wanted to pick it up, put it back in the nest; my husband explained that to touch it would mean the mother likely would no longer care for it. So we watched, worried about hawks from a stand of oaks across the street. The mother bird flew to a low-hanging branch, chattering at her wayward offspring. The baby bird hopped on the lawn, then in a burst, flew a brief arc toward her; he came so close. After encouraging him for several minutes, the mama drew him toward a large bush in our neighbor’s yard under which he would be safe. We waited, but they stayed quiet.

My children walked away talking of how the baby bird would soon fly, maybe within the hour. He came so close, surely with a few more attempts, he would make it to a low branch, then a middle branch, then home. He would try again, the mother would be there, he would make it.

My husband walked away with a meaningful look at me. The baby is too young. Will the mother be able to protect it and still guard any others in her nest? A lesson in Nature, her whims, that what happens is a practical matter.

I believe in my heart the baby was close to being able to fly. I hope that with some measure of determination within himself and with encouragement, he made it back.

For my children, this was an animal fable about determination and love. For my husband, a lesson postponed in the facts of nature. My first thought was of a parenting analogy, then an analogy for anyone with a dream.

Every person sees stories in the everyday world. Most people do share stories, chatting with a friend, keeping a journal. Why do writers go a step -- hundreds of steps -- beyond? Why are we compelled to take the time and energy to distill a moment's essence and recapture it within a perfect framework? Maybe it is our attempt to look beyond what is known and safe and expected. We want to experience what comes next, to see things from a new perspective, and carry it back in such a way that others can see, too.

Maybe we, as storytellers, are more acutely aware that each of us experiences our own fables of determination and love, that the facts of nature are indeed simultaneously cruel and beautiful, that we all have to leave the nest and help others to do it, as well. Maybe we are the among the lucky ones who get to show others that you cannot really live life until you are not afraid to fly.

Second Stall to the Right

By Amy

I go to the bathroom to cry, second stall to the right.

My mother had a “significant stroke” six days ago and all of my waking time has been spent with her at the hospital. The first three days, she lay mostly unconscious, her right side seized by a continuous spasm that left her blankets askew and IV lines vulnerable. One of the doctors said it was to compensate for the paralysis on the left. I’m not sure which doctor, though, there’ve been so many. When she did finally open her eyes, it was reassuring by degrees. Since then, she often doesn’t know where she is or even what stage of her life she’s living – childhood, young motherhood, a random tea party where she pours – other moments are bittersweet pockets of lucidity. To have her again, for only a few moments or even hours will have to do. When she’s aware, I want to burrow myself under her mound of blankets, have her tell me this too shall pass, but that’s my job now -- that and believing she will recover. I have to believe for my father, too, he needs that. Her team of doctors can’t say how much she’ll improve, but most are hopeful.

My father and I arrive early and leave late, meet with doctors on their early morning rounds, check her vitals with the night nurse, call the neighbors and family members throughout the day, reassure my brothers she’s making progress, no matter how small, remind them it’s a marathon, not a sprint. It’s killing them. I wait until my mother’s safely asleep before nudging my Dad to the cafeteria for a hot meal. He hates to leave her side. He’s relying on me now to help him navigate this uncharted course. It’s a terrible thing for a father to depend so much on his little girl, I know this. So I don’t let him see me cry.

A friend called me last night and asked what I was doing to help myself. I know someone you can talk to, she said. She is a lovely friend, one of the first people I called. But she knows I don’t talk, not to therapists anyway. Instead, what has seen me through this period has been writing this essay.

The first line came to me in the middle of the night while I sat in a chair watching the rise and fall of my mother’s chest. The rest has come in bits and pieces since. When I finally found the time – this precious time – to write, I flew to my desk. Thoughts of these moments, putting words to page have been my touchstone. I’ve always loved writing and each of you knows by now how important it is to me. But I suppose I didn’t realize that it's my essence; I am a writer. So many of us have wrestled with the notion of calling ourselves writers before publishing something, as if that title can be bestowed only by public acknowledgement. What I’ve learned this past week is that a writer isn’t a title at all, it’s who we are, what moves and sustains us. Writing is what we turn to in crisis, in joy, when we need to make right a world so fatally flawed with wrong. It’s our catharsis and euphoria and the marrow of our core. We are writers.

I don’t expect I’ll have much time to write in the weeks ahead. I’ll probably go days without it. When I can manage, it will help me through.

When I can’t, you can find me in the bathroom, second stall to the right.

Aching, Writing, and Life

Posted by Lisa

Stoic, or trying to be, I held in my tears until they were an ache that threatened to close my throat. I held a smile, closed-lipped, on my face. I told myself to breathe. I left the pre-school classroom where I worked this past year. I closed the door a final time.

This past Friday I said goodbye.

I work with children with autism. I have for years. I am an occupational therapist. Because I am moving, I had to leave my job.

"Why," I asked my husband that evening. "Why can I say goodbye so easily to teachers I work with, close friends I cherish. Yet saying goodbye to a three-year-old girl, a four-year-old boy, makes me feel like a part of me is dying."

The answer to him is simple. "Because they are children." And he's right. This is a snapshot of their lives that will fade in time. Sometime next winter, I can call my friend Holly. We can meet for lunch. My best friend at school, Kim, a fantastic teacher, made me promise to e-mail, and I will.

I write about loss, about emotional struggle. Late evenings, early mornings, I yearn to find the words to describe the way my current protagonist, Rose, feels when she faces her grandfather's physical failings. But do I truly understand Rose's pain? Have I adequately related the horrible emotional lows I make my characters face?

Today I picked up Scott Heim's novel, Mysterious Skin. I hear it is a bold work, beautifully written, with a challenging subject material. How, I wonder, did Scott manage to write this? Did he go to that awful place where his character finds himself?

Each day, I know, is precious. Here today, gone tomorrow. Cliche, but true. In last Friday's blog entry, I questioned what came first for me, the writing or the need to write. Writing, in part, is my way to process that which confuses me, to frame and make sense of the things that confound me, frustrate me, torment me. If writing helps me to make it through my days and to negotiate this world with some semblance of mastery, then I must write. If writing helps me to be calm and centered and focused on understanding myself and, in turn, achieving my own potential as a human being, then I should write.

Now, I am sad. I am empty. I miss my small pre-school friends, each of whom will face challenges as they try to make sense of this world. I have set them free, trusting that others will guide them.

Those children, my innocent friends, have left me with subconcious hauntings that have taken firm hold. Because I must, I will write about them some day. Their names, their faces, their circumstances will change. I will turn them into characters I love deeply. Maybe that will help me make sense of this sadness.

Making a Literary Life Friday: Raising the Bar

A few months back, we in our writers group agreed to raise the expectations we set for each other. Having established trust, we knew we were in a place where honest and very comprehensive feedback would push us to the next level. This decision has movitated each of us to double check our prose, re-think a character's motivation. In short, raise the bar for our own writing.

Lisa

Passages from favorite writers...I couldn't live without them. Reading a polished paragraph from Michael Lowenthal's Charity Girl, or a few words from Jerry Spinelli's Star Girl, is what I need to jumpstart my writing. I need that prose switch to be turned from idle to on.

Amy

This Friday, Amy won't be posting herself, but she reminds us about the Debs party at Grub Street Writers this evening (see below).

Hannah

That one can not only deplete but misplace one's precious jar of energy made total sense to me this week. (Thank you, Lynne!) I noticed yesterday that not only have I been running on fumes of frantic energy, but everyone around me seems to be as well. Somehow that was what I needed to pull back. First things first. Smile at the children. Prepare a good dinner. Curl up in the wide leather chair with one of the many Roald Dahl books that seem to be magnetically attracted to my coffee table from two school libraries and the town library as well. Remember Matilda? Work on the fiction even if it's only for a half hour before Everything Else begins, and sneak in another half hour here, another hour there. I have not slowed, but that mysterious energy source seems more substantial as I repeat these steps. And you?

Lynne
I raised the bar on revisions to my novel, and even I'm impressed. My characters had sooooo much more to say. My tip of the week is not to close off conversations with them too early in the process. The richness in my story was found when I waited and listened patiently.

Literary Events:
If traffic isn't an issue, then mark your calendars because the Debs are coming to Boston! Friday, June 8th at Grub Street world headquarters we'll toast Jennifer McMahon, Tish Cohen, and Patry Francis while they read from their debut novels. This event will also feature a fun contest: each author will pick one name from a hat, and the winner will receive a free consultation with the author on their query letter and first manuscript page. RSVP: 617.695.0075 or sonya@grubstreet.org.

Energy Crisis

Posted by Lynne

Parenting takes time, but it also takes plenty of another valuable resource— your energy. In order to be the authority your child needs, you need determination, patience, stamina, resilience and sometimes courage. Parenting takes energy.

Above is an excerpt from Negotiation Generation in which I set the stage for a discussion of what I call the precious jar of energy. Imagine your body contains a special place where the energy you need to parent is stored--picture a precious jar of energy. All day every day, you decide how to use it and how and when to replenish the energy you store in your precious jar.

Whether you're talking about parenting or writing, this precious jar analogy is apropos. And today, not only is mine empty, but I forgot where I left it. I spent the last week engrossed in an intensive edit of my novel, while trying to schedule events for my fall book tour. I started a freelance magazine writing class and I'm preparing to teach a graduate course that starts in three weeks. That's just my work life. On the home front, my son is studying for finals and (insert the sound of me weeping) my daughter graduates from high school this Friday night.

I'm in the midst of an energy crisis.

What do I usually do to refill my precious jar? I write. I read. I imagine myself writing and reading.

Since each of the twenty-four hours per day I'm allotted is filled to the brim with must-dos, I can't do what I usually do to refill my precious jar. Sure I can imagine writing and reading, but it turns out that just isn't enough to re-energize me right now. Until my schedule settles out a bit--one week ought to do it--I'm going to have to run on empty.

What do you do to refill your precious jar? Any tips you have to help me through the graduation of my best girl would be greatly appreciated.

The Muse on Line One

by Hannah

I had my head in the dryer when the answer came to me. The dryer thing was not an act of desperation, although reaching for a white sock with pink flowers that has to be worn immediately is crisis resolution of a type. There we were, the sock and I, inside the white barrel of my dryer when I knew what would make Aunt Bets pop.

As you know from the profile on the side of the blog, I have been revising my novel for some weeks. Months, technically, but we're not going to get too technical.

Some of the changes needed were screamingly loud, and as I sat down and organized the rewrite, those slid right into place. Don't be afraid. Push it. I soon had enough to start to rewrite, so was able to ignore small pieces still missing from the puzzle. For example, Aunt Bets. She was rather blah, extremely minor, and yet I was certain she couldn't be cut. This bothered me a great deal.

Margot Livesey says that even brief, two-dimensional characters should have the potential to become three-dimensional. They need not actually pop into life at any point, but the reader should have the sense they could.

I twisted Aunt Bets every which way, but she refused to tell me what about her sweet nothingness was important. She didn't want to be mean, or snippy, or competitive, all things the plot certainly would have allowed. She didn't want a vice, hard as I tried to put a smoke or a glass in her hand.

As I stretched to reach that silly sock, it occurred to me that Bets' insistence on being perfect is precisely what rounds her out. A touch of the holier than thou makes her the perfect tool, then, through which the antagonist will reveal himself publicly, much to my protagonist's delight. I held that sock high with a huge grin.

The Muse chooses strange means of communication. It's understandable that I should receive part of my answer by sitting at the feet of Margot Livesey. That the Muse should use my dryer as a telephone, well, she's more creative than I'd imagined.

Critique Me

By Amy

A lot of folks check in here each day, read what we have to say, some leave comments (thanks, we really do appreciate them), while others email their thoughts. All who stop by here have been unfailingly gracious, many have linked this blog and/or various posts.

One thing worries me, though: I’ve read the completed manuscripts of each of my writers’ group members, I’m certain of their abilities, but none of you know if I can write well. Yes, you’ve read my posts – none of which have been properly edited. Some of you may have Googled me and found a few of my op-eds available there. But fiction is something else altogether.

So today, I’m going to serve myself up for you to critique. This is a Writers' Group blog, after all. It’s a small excerpt from my manuscript, there are space constraints. The set-up is my protag , an undertaker, has arrived to remove a body. As you know, when giving feedback it’s almost more important to describe what doesn’t work than what does. Have at it, rip it apart. Go on, I’m strong. I can take it:

From the hearse, I remove two pairs of gloves, one small, the other large, along with the gurney, body bag, and my case. Walking back to the triple-decker, I see a middle-aged woman on the deck of her third floor apartment, her hair in curlers, her squat body encased in a bulky robe. Her mouth filled with clothespins. She’s hanging underthings from a makeshift line strung between her doorframe and the single dying oak in her postage-stamp yard. She sees me watching her and freezes, big white underpants billowing in her left hand. She yanks the pins from her mouth, spits twice off of the deck, and then crosses herself. When the breeze picks up, the oak’s forgotten leaves swirl around its trunk, and the woman turns her attention back to the laundry.

Steve-o keeps his back to me as I struggle up the stairs. His teeth nimbly work over his cuticles, reminding me of a man I once saw eating chicken wings; the way he splayed the tip from the drum, snapping them apart and then gnawing each bone until it gleamed white. This time Steve-o doesn’t hold the door for me.

Actually, I'm not feeling terribly strong right now, a little vulnerable if truth be told, so try not to be too harsh. Okay?

Odd Man Out

Posted by Lisa

Wearing a cast makes other people, well, annoying.

As some of you know, I broke my foot April Fool's Day (fool that I am), and I was on crutches for six weeks. During that time, there were four or five instances when I nearly injured myself again. The scenario was the same each time:

Hopping quite capably on crutches, I approach a doorway. Bracing myself solidly on my good leg, I reach forward and pull on the door. It swings open, then WOOSH. Someone, most good-meaningly, has pulled the door open the full way, helping me, of course - helping me lose my balance and nearly plummet face-first to the ground. I catch my breath because I was startled. I smile. I say, "Whoops, you surprised me there. " I hobble through the now-held door and I mutter a disgruntled "Thank you" because I know I should.

On crutches I have been the odd man out when I pick up my kids from school. At our school, moms and dads rush into the cafeteria where kids are waiting, they collect their cherubs, and hurry on their way. Each day in my cast, people stared. I'm truly not much of a person who worries or even notices what others think, but why do I feel I must smile, and explain, telling them the same soccer story, day after day when they ask me what happened.

It's oh-too-much the same when people find out I'm a writer. They ask me about my writing. I give the same old answer, the same forced smile. Truth be told, I want to talk about writing, with writers. Because they understand. I have lived with this broken foot for weeks. I live with my writing day after day, year after year. I don't want to make idle conversation about either. Each is too close to home, too all-consuming in my life. Too important to me to summarize in a smiling sentence.

So, I am the odd man out. I write. If you're reading this so do you, most likely. We live different lives. My daydreams are centered on my characters. Non-writers don't get it. It's hard to be the odd man out.

Making A Literary Life Friday: Waxing Philosophic

This week merged the practical and the philosophical, preparing for summer's distractions and rationalizing them away in favor of writing. There are many wonderful reasons to stay focused as Mother Nature (sister of the Muse?) turns up the heat.

Grub Street is posting photos from the Muse and the Marketplace conference soon, and announcing new seasonal offerings. Parties are scheduled to support debuts (Hank Phillippi Ryan, writers from the Debs, Patry Francis, and the list goes on -- anything from those of you beyond our New England borders?).

Amy and Lynne had the pleasure of hearing Hank Phillippi Ryan speak about her experiences with editing her soon-to-be released novel, Prime Time. She nipped, tucked, tweaked and polished--and she showed other writers how to do the same.

For those who wonder if all these new reads and events are distractions, we say a good book and banter serve to inspire!

Lisa
The nourishment for my creative side is my job. Spend a day with me and I'm sure you'd agree that employment in an elementary school is the most valuable class in character; teachers and parents are never dull. But it's the day to day emotion of dealing with people's lives, frustrations, longings, worries that builds my pent up craving to write: watching a parent come to terms with a child's diagnosis of autism, hearing that a wonderful third grade teacher lost her battle with cancer two days ago. What came first? The writing or the need to write?

Amy
Speaking of Camus, do you writers out there ever wonder if the world you've created on the page is somehow more real than one you inhabit? If your characters live more fully than you? For me, I think it's safe to say even the corpses in my novel don't have quite the stunted social life I've had lately. Cooped in my office, intent on revisions, I'm losing track of the world around me, too focused on the one within. I think it's time for a little fresh air.

Hannah
Revisions proceed at their own pace, plus I got Margot Livesey's The Missing World out of the library. My daughter has a new homework sheet to mark off two assignments each week for math and literacy. One is simply to "take a book out of the library." Her eyes lit up as she decided she had taken out enough books the last visit to check off her homework for the rest of the year.

Lynne
I spent hours and days revising my novel. I took a well-deserved day off to shop for my daughter's graduation gift. The bag contained a few good summer reads for her and I to share. On my list--The Things They Carried by Tim O'Brien and The Keep by Jennifer Egan.

Literary Events:
Tuesday, June 5 Buttonwood Books Coffee with the Authors featuring Claire Cook, David Gessner, and Hank Phillippi Ryan. Contact Buttonwood for tickets and reservations.

If Boston traffic makes you dizzy, come to Buttonwood Books on Thursday, June 7 at 7:00 pm to hear Books and Bloggers at Buttonwood Books featuring Patry Francis, Tish Cohen, and Jennifer McMahon.

If traffic isn't an issue, then mark your calendars because the Debs are coming to Boston! Friday, June 8th at Grub Street world headquarters we'll toast Jennifer McMahon, Tish Cohen, and Patry Francis while they read from their debut novels. This event will also feature a fun contest: each author will pick one name from a hat, and the winner will receive a free consultation with the author on their query letter and first manuscript page. RSVP: 617.695.0075 or sonya@grubstreet.org.

The Mountain

Posted by Lynne

Amy's reference to The Myth of Sisyphus is the inspiration for my post this morning. I've loved and leaned on Albert Camus's famous essay all my life. For those unfamiliar with it, or in need of a refresher, the essay is about a man's search for meaning, his struggle to understand absurdity. It's a primer on existentialism.

It's rich on many levels, so I do suggest reading it in it's entirety. The most known portion of it involves a man pushing a boulder up a hill, only to have it roll down again. His fate is to continue to do this forever without ever seeing different results.

After spending several days deep in revision three of my novel, I can relate to Sisyphus. Without changing a single character or plotline, I have expanded and fine-tuned my story. I changed some scene locations, added deeper motives for certain characters' actions, and included more backstory. Unlike Sisyphus, in this attempt to move my efforts up the mountain, I'm getting somewhere.

From the outside looking in, the process of writing a novel is absurd. Read about writers and their process and you'll find these universal truths. A writer spends incalculable hours thinking about the story, writing the story, revising the story, editing the story. To say nothing of what's required to gain representation for the story, or find a home and readers for the story.

I have spent more time with my characters than with some real people I truly enjoy spending time with. I've forfeited beach time, shopping trips and lunches, in favor of hanging out on an imaginary dock and in a child's bedroom. I've written, rewritten and rewritten again a scene on a boat, in a police station, and in a garage. If my little darling ever sells to a publisher and I take my advance and divide it by the hours I've spent writing, I'm certain to be in the red.

Examining writing a novel from the inside out, is a different matter. What some see as absurdity is full of meaning to the writer. For me, each revision strengthens my faith. I'm more certain than ever that I have an important story to tell. I'm the person to tell it, and someday a reader or two will enjoy the concrete reality of my sisyphusian efforts.

At the end of Camus's essay, he sums up the search for meaning beautifully. He concludes that the struggle itself is enough to fill a man's heart. One must imagine Sisyphus happy.

When I'm writing, I'm happy. Though I admit, getting to the top of the mountain would be nice.

A Sign From Above

by Hannah

Our group is nothing if not practical. We set rules, meet regularly, maintain constant contact. We are serious students of this craft and business. Yet we all openly admit to a belief in the otherwordly when it comes to writing. There are days when the Muse is scarce, and those when she zaps us with what Therese Fowler calls writing magic.

Our practical little group believes in signs with all our hearts. Lisa, Amy and Lynne all have received tangible encouragement from the powers that be, the most amazing of which was a letter found in an antique shop inscribed with a character's name. For the longest time, I was disappointed. No signs for me. Oh, sure, the Muse would appear with a blast of (much appreciated!) writing magic, but there was nothing I could hold onto as a talisman of hope. Then, overwhelmed for several days by paying work and family schedules and not writing, I received this at the end of a Chinese restaurant meal:

"Take the chance while you still have the choice."

I started to make time, here and there, dribs and drabs. A week or so later, I received this:

"Chance favors those in motion."

More writing, every day, and I earned this:

"You're transforming yourself into someone who is certain to succeed."

I taped the three fortunes on the plastic bookmark in my schedule book, the one I look at every day when figuring out where the kids have to be and what my boss needs. I started to touch the story again -- think, write, edit -- every day, and that excitement began to bubble, when you know, just know, you're doing something well. The Muse took notice.

I had finagled my daughter out the door for a second time after much drama. I had cleared my morning to write. I knew what I wanted to do, how the words would flow. As I stood at the end of the driveway, watching the approach of the yellow bus with eager anticipation, ready to Be A Writer, a bird pooped on my head.

So here's one last thought on signs. They exist, and you can make of them what you wish. Amy, Lisa and Lynne say that it's good luck to be pooped upon, especially if you haven't yet taken your morning shower. I choose to believe them. Next time, though, I'd rather get a message in a cookie.

We Shall See

By Amy

We shall see.

It’s a phrase I repeat ad nauseum to my writer friends. Any time one of us is convinced a situation is hopeless – the words won’t come, the agent doesn’t respond, an editor hasn’t yet read the material – I encourage her with the one true hope: we shall see.

When a friend is convinced, absolutely certain, that the tide has turned and Fate is clutching her to Her bosom, whenever an agent is excited by the prospect of reading her work or an editor expresses interest in an exclusive, I warn my friend: we shall see.

It’s not that I’ve undertaken a Quixotic journey (more Sisyphean, I think) when I encourage my writer friends -- or that I doubt their talents when I heed caution, we shall see. It’s simply that this business is capricious by nature, with stunted attention spans and an insatiable hunger for the latest darling. It’s true of any business, I suppose.

As writers, we have control over just so much: the stories we choose to write, whom we choose to share it with, how -- if at all -- we promote it. Beyond that, it doesn’t matter. Timing, luck, politics, kismet all come into play. There are thousands of talented writers who may never see their words published, midlist authors whose names you’ll never know, all of whose writing is far superior to many of the bestsellers. I don’t know why.

We shall see tempers everything. It brings into focus my responsibility to write the best I can because that’s the purpose here, to write well, to prove myself to myself by telling an honest story. There are no deadlines for that, no bar by which to measure it. It’s incredibly reassuring to know I can’t manage everything, only the words.

Anytime the doubt creeps or the euphoria threatens to overtake reason, reassure yourself that nothing in life is ever certain. A book deal isn’t a guarantee. I know a man whose book landed in the draw, the term used for when the advance is paid, but the book is never published based on the publisher’s discretion. I know of several people who continued to work on their books for near a decade even when all of their beta readers gave up on them after critiquing the umpteenth draft. Each created award-winning novels, backlist successes. I know a woman who advised many, many writer friends with their novels, watched as they got published, hit the New York Times’ bestseller list while she wrote book after unpublished book. How it must have pained her. But she did what she could, she faced the page each day and created her own truth. I read her deal on Publishers Marketplace recently.

For all of you out there wondering about your place, do what you can to create it and in time we shall all see.

Grub Street South at Buttonwood Books: Join us tonight at Buttonwood Books in Cohasset at 7:00 pm for Hank Phillippi Ryan's workshop, "Nip, Tuck, Tweak and Polish-the Joys of Editing." Hank’s debut book, Prime Time will publish in early June.

Summer Resolutions

Posted by Lisa

On this lovely Memorial Day Monday, it's an ideal time to make Summer Resolutions. I know I need to impose some structure on these three upcoming hot and hazy months.

Maybe looking at my resolutions will help you draft yours. Here they are:

My Resolutions:

1- Schedule writing time for writing each day.

2- Sit down with hubby and schedule longer writing sessions on one weekend day each and every weekend.

3- Finish revising YA novel and send it to my writer's group for review by June 26 (when, incidentally, we will be presenting at 7:00 PM at Buttonwoods Books in Cohasset, MA).

4- Start researching the historical elements of my next novel on June 27 (we must simply embrace the obsessive aspects of our personalities that drive us).

5- Exercise each day (unwrap that Yoga video and get on that spin bike).

6- Accept that vacation IS vacation and don't bring laptop (but bringing a good book is encouraged).

7- Write sitting under a tree.

8- Read sitting under a tree.

9- Take a Grub Street course or seminar.

10- Continue to weekly network with writers.

Happy Summer! AND Happy Writing!

Making a Literary Life Friday: Plethora

Plethora is one of those words that spills pleasantly from the tongue. Plethora. This week, we have a plethora of happenings in and around literary circles, something for everyone -- no matter your interests. And if you know of any we missed, share it with us in the comments.

Lisa
How wonderful to discover a new writer! Shannon Hale's novel Princess Academy is a delight. I noticed this Newbury Honor book at a local bookstore, read the first page, read the second page, bought it, and love it.

Amy
Did you happen to notice the new link to Grub Street's blog? All of their posts have been great, as expected, but I think best title goes to Sonya. Congratulations to Mameve Medwed on the Massachusetts Book Award Honor and Claire Messud for receiving the award. Both are accomplished writers who are generous with their time. I like it when good people and their work are recognized. Also, my daughter and I wrote a note to Lauren Barnholdt, author of The Secret Identity of Devon Delaney. Guess how excited my little girl was when she received a note back? I can't stress it enough, charming notes work both ways and now my daughter is looking forward to reading all of Lauren's books.

Hannah
Could there be any silver lining for devoted column readers in the news from Gail Konop Baker that she will no longer be writing for - ed Mama, given her forthcoming memoir from Da Capo Press, Cancer is a Bitch? Well, not only can we hold Gail's work in our hands and read it whenever and wherever we wish, but Ona Gritz, Jennifer Margulis, Libby Gruner and all the others are still there with their own words of wisdom and insights!

Lynne
This week my publicist and I sent out a galley mailing. Now, once again I wait; this time to hear if there are any media bites for coverage of Negotiation Generation. I spent the rest of the week querying for magazine assignments and reading Michael Lowenthal's amazing book, Avoidance.

Literary Happenings:
This Tuesday, May 29, our own Emmy award-winning investigative reporter and now author Hank Phillippi Ryan will be at Grub Street South hosting a workshop ""Nip, Tuck, Tweak and Polish-the Joys of Editing." Hank’s debut book, Prime Time will publish in early June. This labor of love took her two years to “write, nip, tuck, tweak and polish.”

If you're anywhere near San Jose, Carolyn See wants you to know that Book Group Expo is June 8 - 10 at San Jose Convention Center. Is it too late to get a cheap airfare?

And who's going to Book Expo America? If you'll be there, let us know so we can let our readers know to stop by and say hello. Email us and tell all!

Managing Expectations

Posted by Lynne

If you think planting a rose bush will take thirty minutes, plan on at least an hour. If you think writing a research paper about the heart will take four hours, plan on eight. Managing expectations is a theme in the Griffin household this week, and I most certainly could have added in a sentence or two about my hopes and dreams for my forthcoming book.

Whether you're optimistic, full of hope or you simply wish to dream big, being positive is a critical ingredient to living a literary life. Believing good things are around the corner, or that you can write the great American novel or a bestselling parenting book is at times all you've got to sustain you amidst all the waiting, to say nothing of all the rejection. You wait for your revised novel to sing; to know you are done. You wait for an agent to read your manuscript, an editor to make an offer. Rejection slips come in the form of impersonal sentences, complimentary no-thank-yous and blatant encouragement--though just as a kiss is still a kiss, a no is still a no. The job description for writer should include a line in bold letters: Pessimists need not apply.

For some writers, the emotional work involved in maintaining a healthy outlook involves the daily exercise of pulling negative self-talk from the brain and dumping it in the recycle bin. I can't do it must be replaced with, yes I can. This is impossible, must become all things are possible.

While I've had my share of gloomy moments and faithless days, I'm a positive person by nature. I do feel blessed in this way, since I've had to pick myself up, dust myself off and keep persevering in the face of my share of obstacles. The trick for me, when it comes to managing my expectations though, is to sprinkle my dreams with a dash of reality and a pinch of practicality.

Maybe you're a writer who's too hard on your abilities and accomplishments, struggling with being positive enough to stay the course. Or perhaps like me, you dream big and hope large leaving yourself in the path of disappointment. For example, I know my book will gain the attention of some media, but if I envision myself situated on a comfy couch at Harpo Studios, I'm likely to think Good Morning Chicago is a let down. When in fact I would love to shout out, good morning Chicago.

The impressionist painter Henry Matisse said, "What I dream of is an art of balance."

If this is true--and I believe it is--then managing expectations is holding on to enough positivity so that you can persevere, and love the process, and be energized by all the possibilities. And yet, with enough realism to protect your heart, so you can get up another day to face the page.

What do you do to fear less and hope more, to doubt less and believe more? How do you manage expectations?

A Perfect Gift

by Hannah

I stared at my book shelves, inspired by Martha Southgate’s Muse and the Marketplace talk on Guardian Angel novels we turn to for guidance as we improve craft. Noticing a non-fiction title hiding in my fiction section, and ever the librarian’s daughter, I removed it: Frederick Busch’s Letters to a Fiction Writer. Hadn’t read it for years. I paged through and before long was cross-legged on the floor, laughing and nodding.

Busch’s introduction wraps around a single line letter he received from an agent: “Ah, if only you wrote fiction as well as you write letters of inquiry.” This book was his eventual response: letters of encouragement from writers to writers. Beattie, Bradbury, Carver, Oates, Updike, O’Connor, Delbanco. Malcolm Cowley’s letter to John Cheever.

Given his connection to the Muse as its keynote speaker, I started with a letter by Charles Baxter. It is bittersweet and funny, titled Full of It, addressing the self-indulgence, misery and obsession that is writing and the search for acknowledgement. A self-described slow starter, Baxter remembers the reaction to his first novel by his first agent. He notes this agent was obtained by “a bizarre set of circumstances,” and Baxter secretly expected her to identify him as a genius.

“'I hate it,' she said with what seemed to be an odd satisfaction… 'Tell me why I hate your novel… Give a try. Help me out here… I just don’t get it. I don’t get any of it.'”

Baxter went into shock. Having churned out a second novel already, he started and finished a third. All never published. Still he wrote. Finally, in a fit of desperation, he produced “one last piece,” which was picked up by the Michigan Quarterly Review. In his letter, Baxter then talks of ongoing apprenticeship to the craft. He ends with this:

“I have been watching the words, each letter and phrase, as they appeared on the screen, and I’ve been changing them and correcting them minute by minute, hour by hour, day by day, because that is who I am, and that is what I do.”

That’s what it comes down to, isn’t it? To read it on the page is self-affirming, and every letter in Busch's book is a similar gift to a writer seeking encouragement, sympathy and inspiration. Whether you're on a roll or stuck in the mire, I encourage you to find Letters to a Fiction Writer on a shelf somewhere, dust it off if you need to, and enjoy!

Astonishing

By Amy

Karen Fisher is an astonishing writer. It wasn’t always that way -- at least it didn’t appear so.

Shortly after marrying, Karen quit her teaching job to write a book, a novel based on a journal one of her forebears kept while crossing the Oregon Trail. Karen wrote a first draft, a second, a third, fourth, fifth. Along the way, she and her husband had three children, settled in Puget Sound and she continued to write. Life wasn’t easy, though Karen said she loved her family and her modest one-room home, agents weren’t interested in her manuscript. Money was tight, of course, with three children and a single income. One Christmas, Karen went to the mall with her kids and saw Charles Frazier’s “Cold Mountain” in the bookstore window, a book so much like her own, only his was published and hers not. She said she cried then.

It wasn’t long after that Karen's husband sat her down at their kitchen table and told her it might be time to give up. It was years after she’d started writing the book, and she needed to move on. Just then the phone rang. It was an agent, Kit Ward of the Christina Ward Literary Agency, wanting to represent Karen’s manuscript. Together they worked on revisions and some months later, Kit submitted Karen’s novel. Every editor turned it done, every editor but Laura Ford at Random House. More revisions and then – 10 years after its inception -- “A Sudden Country” was released in August 2005. It received a starred review from Publishers Weekly, glowing reviews from the New York Times, Washington Post, on all the pages a writer dreams of while laboring over each and every sentence.

It is without a doubt one of the most gorgeous books I’ve read.

Since then, Karen’s won several awards and was a finalist for the PEN/Faulkner 2006. Not long ago, I read on Publishers Marketplace Kit negotiated a two-book for Karen, again with Random House.

Why am I telling you all this? Perhaps because the past few weeks and months, I’ve spoken with countless authors, yes authors, who were on the brink of despair, but refused to give up on the stories they loved. Now their books are recently published, days away, or they've just sold their manuscripts.

So if you’re laboring over your sentences, somedays wondering if your manuscript is dybbuks, don’t give up. If your manuscript is out on submission now to agents or editors and it’s been what seems forever, don’t despair. If your book is about to be or is recently published and your Amazon ranking/book reviews/Bookscan numbers are not what you dreamed, chin up.

Think of Karen Fisher and take charge of your dreams.

Quirks

Posted by Lisa

If you don't happen to read Therese Fowler's blog, you should. Not only is it entertaining (American Idol prophesizing, indeed!), it's also like an online writing seminar - a nearly daily dose of what works/what doesn't.

In Thursday's blog, Therese talked about some of her own quirks, and frankly, they're pretty darn quirky. I won't repeat them - you'll have to check out her blog for yourself. But she got me thinking. About writing. About characters. About what we love about our characters. About how we fall in love with them.

Writing 101: A reader must care about a character.

Otherwise, why bother?

You, a writer, are the first reader who will ever see your story. Do you care? Why? Let's see...Think of this as a writing exercise:

Take one character from something you are working on, and say one quirk you love about that character. (If you can't think of a quirk, think of a characteristic or gesture). The character from my writing that jumps to mind is Laura, a girl from a short story I wrote last year. I love that she hates pop-tarts. Hates their smell, their taste, their cardboard consistency.

Next, ask yourself why you love that quirk. I love that Laura hates pop-tarts because her best friend's mom makes them every morning. And, Laura hates this lazy woman for many reasons.

You see, I love that Laura will hate pop-tarts the rest of her life. I love Laura. I love my quirky character.

And I wonder, Therese, if any of your characters love chasing lobsters on the beach, or mix grape jelly with various meat products, because a lobster-chasing character who's got a thing for grape jelly, now that's a character I could fall in love with. She's quirky. She's human.

Making a Literary Life Friday: Cover Girl

No, not Caridee, our very own Lynne Griffin. Isn't her book cover gorgeous? We're so proud of Lynne and all of her many varied achievements. It's an exciting day when all that you've labored over for months and years is realized in the form of pulp and cover art. Congratulations, Lynne, it's well-deserved!

Lisa
I love when I read fiction and I reach those AHA moments. When the plot comes together in a way you didn't expect, when a character acts in a way that is a surprise, but makes such sense based on what you know of her and her past actions. I like AHA moments in non-fiction too. That's why I'm so lucky to have Lynne Griffin, a parenting expert in our writers group. Parenting tips AND constructive help on my writing when we meet? What more could I ask for? Do I have to wait until September to read "Negotiation Generation?"

Amy

I've been busy finalizing readings and press for various writers who plan a Boston stop while on book tour. It's something I enjoy doing; getting a yes from a literary venue to host a writer is almost on par with writing a good page. You may have noticed Sue Williams is a new name to our blog roll. She's someone I heard at a Grub Street reading and I requested she submit the story to Post Road. I fully expect a savvy agent to pick her up very soon and then I'll get to read her WIP. Check her out. In other news, I walked into my local Borders and there, on the staff picks shelf, was Jennifer McMahon's "Promise Not to Tell." In another store, Allison Winn Scotch's "The Department of Lost & Found" on the front table (publishers have to love your book to pay for that real estate), and over to right, Tish Cohen's "Town House." When I picked it up, one of the booksellers said, "Huh, that looks good," and wandered off with her own copy. I love that. I can't wait to visit every bookstore in Massachusetts when Lynne's book is out in September. I'll be handselling them!

Hannah

The three R's: reading, 'riting and revision. Or is that research? The week was full of reading what thus far is a wonderful revision of a novel, writing to revise, and making sure small details that will fill one sentence somewhere among 75,000 words are accurate. Lynne also let us each hold Negotiation Generation in its current format this week. Yeah! This is a book to pre-order for yourself, your friends, as gifts. Like Lisa, I cannot wait!

Lynne

Well, here it is! My cover. When the final cover art was sent to me, before I opened the file, my sweet son took my hand and said, "I hope you like it, Mom." And I do. As for my wonderful friends at The Writers' Group, I can't thank you enough for all the support and encouragement. I am a very lucky woman.

Page Proof Perfect

Posted by Lynne

Deciding what is and what isn,t negotiable along with making expectations clear is the very heart of parenting. The child who doesn't learn to respect that which is not negotiable will have great difficulty behaving; first, perhaps just at home, later in the neighborhood and in the community. I can give you this guarantee: The more you shy away from creatiing clear boundaries, the more discipline issues you will face.

Typos. Errors. Mistakes. Above is an excerpt from the page proofs of my book, Negotiation Generation. I've spent the last several days reading my book word for word, comma to comma. And guess what? There are still inconsistencies in the appearance of words like non-negotiable (we settled on nonnegotiable) and skill building (we settled on skill-building). There are still sentences that stop me cold to ask, "Huh?" And this is after countless people have read it, including me. I won't even wager a guess as to how many times I've read this baby of mine.

Over coffee yesterday, I told my husband my fear. No matter how many times I go through it, I might miss a typo. The first email I get from a reader will say, "Nice book, did you know there's a mistake on page 78?"

My wise and supportive husband told me to think of my book as if it were a Persian rug. Made by hand, each rug is perfectly imperfect, precisely imprecise. Even if a rug is made and it appears perfect, the weaver takes his or her time to create a slight inconsistency or irregularity within it. These artists, in deference to God, believe only He can create something perfect. They have no desire to compete with Him, as they share the gifts He's given them.

Whether I'm writing non-fiction parenting books or working on my novel, I strive to write well. I believe in the mantra, submit only your best work to agents and editors. In writing, as is the case with all art, there is no place for perfection. It doesn't exist. It is in the imperfections of a painting or the dissonance of a song where humanity is found. And I believe strongly that when it comes to child rearing, there is no perfect child, no perfect parent.

So when you pick up a copy of my book, should you choose to scour the text, I'm certain you will find a mistake or two. You'll be left to wonder, did I place them there intentionally or is that where you found my humanity.

Sitzfleisch

by Hannah

Amy called it "chair glue." My dad called it sitzfleisch. As in, "you need to develop some sitzfleisch."

My mother is an artist and in addition to paid work and parenting and gardening, she closeted herself away weaving, then working on jewelry, learning new techniques, producing beautiful pieces. She had -- has -- sitzfleisch, which translates literally as sit-flesh, and figuratively as the ability sit for hours doing one thing when you really could be up and about doing a million others. I don't know what I was not doing at the time, but the poor man -- who himself finds spare time to make furniture and take gorgeous photographs -- got quite frustrated and told me what I needed most was, yes, sitzfleisch.

Fast forward twenty or thirty years. I did manage to accumulate sit-flesh, of both the literal and figurative varieties. The latter I discovered somewhat in college, and honed in my early professional years. I have spent decades of hours in front of my computer writing speeches, press releases, making phone calls, organizing.

What took me so long to apply the sitzfleisch to creative writing? I have written fiction and poetry since I was seven or so. I never really thought it was a career choice. Like millions of others who put away guitars, leotards, pottery wheels, baseball bats and yes, pens, when faced with the Big World, maybe I didn't give myself credit. Sure, I told myself I was good enough to pay the bills with writing, but I couldn't quite let go of the corporate safety net. I told myself the ideas that bubbled up weekends and evenings (and during long meetings) were "just for fun."

Three or so years ago, after being hounded yet again by a set of characters and plot ideas, I decided to get them all out. Really out, on paper, and most important, all of them and all of it. I found a writers' group, which helped me begin to set deadlines. I learned a great deal, the group shifted, and it got serious. So did I. I put away the drawer novel, for many good reasons, and started another story. Finished that story, am revising that story. Like my parents, I (finally!) make time, between it all, for my art, closeting myself away. I make better, conscious choices on how to spend my time, take writing seriously, work to make it part of my Big World. I proudly expand my back-end, month by month, year by year, adding layers of lovely sitzfleisch.

Mind Over Babe

By Amy

Look at this guy. His name is Babe. Wouldn't you love to wrap your fingers around his fat little belly and squish the stuffing out of him? Go for a walk and show him off to the neighbors? Sit quietly while he snores in your arms? Me, too.

We adopted him over the weekend. Completely impulsive. My family went out for a bike ride, saw him in a neighbor's yard rolling around with his litter mates, and my husband, inspired, bought a lottery ticket. When they arrived home, my husband told me we had to adopt one. Too much money, I said, but if you scratch that ticket and we win, sure. We won. If you've been reading this blog long enough, you know how I feel about signs. Just look at the little guy.

So what does Babe have to do with writing? Chair glue. I wanted nothing more than to wallow in puppy heaven yesterday, but I forced myself to work on my manuscript. There are always reasons to not write. Life -- and let's be honest here, especially a woman's life -- is filled with demands on our time: family, work, volunteering, squishy puppies. If you're a writer, if you want to create something meaningful with the intent of getting it published, you had better find time each day and glue yourself in that chair. No excuses, because no one cares if you have one anyway.

Why? Few in your life expect you to finish writing that first draft and, trust me, no one cares to hear about your months-long revision process (that's nice, but did you hear about...) Your phone won't ring with friends calling to see how that query letter is coming along (write tomorrow, let's go out for a drink now). Friends outside of writing have no idea literary agents even exist (why don't you just self-publish like my friend?). When you get an agent, s/he won't badger you to finish revising that manuscript s/he was gushing about when s/he signed you (your name is? and you're calling regarding?), s/he'll just move on to the newer, more promising client. Really, no one cares if your manuscript ever becomes a book -- no one cares but you. So why do it?

I asked myself that same question over the weekend. While sitting in the bleachers at my son's baseball game, a foul ball headed for the stands. I made a joke to the other parents about the parallels between it and John Irving's "A Prayer for Owen Meany." They all stared back with blank expressions. Not one person had ever heard of the book or even John Irving. *Sigh*

That chair glue is for me, it has to be. I want to write a book, a good book. I want it bound by a publishing house in New York and held in the hands of the few readers who care about words. I want to evoke a connection with my reader. If it doesn't happen, those around me won't care particularly. They'll offer an ear, listen for a day or two, and then forget. But I'll care. I'll care for a lifetime.

I glue myself to my chair each day because I have expections of myself -- and I plan to exceed them. Not even Babe can compete with that. Well, maybe just a little.

From Point A to Point B

Posted by Lisa

I used to drive to get somewhere. To the doctor's office. To the store. To the hockey rink. I drove to get from Point A to Point B. When did driving become my vehicle for plotting?

I've got an idea. You know what that's like. I know you know. You're a writer like me.

It feels like a craving, doesn't it? Like a word you can almost taste on the tip of your tongue. But I'm taking my time. I'm letting it simmer. I'm thinking about the ingredients to add. It needs a good base of setting. Montreal. Definitely. Spoonfuls of magic realism must be stirred in. Along with longing, there has to be longing.

So I sit behind the steering wheel, and I pay attention to traffic lights, to cars changing lanes around me. But I talk, out loud. I ask questions. Generally I find the answers. I can plot in my Ford Explorer. In my husband's Toyota Tacoma. The make, the model, the year doesn't matter. Maybe it's the alone time. It could be the sense of journey.

I find that same place of discovery in a hotel room, any hotel room. I've paced and plotted in the Holiday Inn in Concord, New Hampshire, in the Hilton in New York City. Sometimes I take a field trip, down the hall, to the ice machine. When I arrive back in my room, a character suddenly has a new dimension, a sub-plot is now afforded an "AHA" moment.

It's YA, my new idea. It's promise and shame and wonder and hope. It's me when I was twenty years old, living in Montreal. It's that teenager - was she homeless? - who stared at me one day near the Berri Bus Depot in the East end of Montreal.

I drive, I plot, I plan, I think. We are writers, dreamers, hard, hard workers. Obsessive compulsive too, of course.

How was my trip to the store, my husband asks.

"Fine," I answer.

It was excellent, really. From Point A to Point B. It might be a story. It might not.

Making a Literary Life Friday: Perspective

Perspective isn't simply a matter of point-of-view, first or third, a way to tell a story within our writing, we must also carefully consider whose perspective matters when it's time to share pages. Whose opinion matters most: your writers' group, agent's, editor's, or do you listen to that voice that's been whispering to you all along? We'd like to hear.

Lisa
To me, what's most important is that voice inside me. Funny how outsiders are sometimes the ones to remind us to listen to that voice. This past weekend, I had the honor of interviewing Gregory Maguire, a truly brilliant but gentle and genuinely kind person. His body of work speaks for itself: Wicked, Son of a Witch, Lost, Mirror Mirror, True Confessions of an Ugly Stepsister. Fantastic children's books. The list goes on.
That writer's voice inside me was singing after I spoke with Gregory. It chimed out and for once I was listening. "Let go and write! Write Sad. Write Happy. Write Magic. Write Odd.
Write!"
The article will be published in the summer quarterly issue of The Grub Street Rag.

Amy
The most important lesson I've learned over these past months is to trust that inner voice. The part of the writing process I expected to be the most difficult has indeed turned out to be the most frustrating: revising. This week, however, a break through, thanks in large part to Scott Heim. His advice was - and I'm paraphrasing -- to revise around the original idea, not away from it. It may sound convulted, he probably said it better, but it makes perfect sense to me. Also, HH LeCraw had invaluable advice about POV: make sure your reader isn't skimming through one character's chapters to get to another's. Obvious, perhaps, but how many writers have fallen victim to choosing favorites? Thanks to both of them, and most of all my amazing Writers' Group who always have the answers, I'm no longer lost.

Hannah
The inner voice is most important. Other voices can be helpful; I find considered assessment useful because my inner voice also tends to have sudden, wonderful ideas that lead me astray. Jennifer Haigh prefers to work in solitude, she says, without a writers group's offerings. There are as many approaches as there are writers. Still, even when you produce a draft worth handing off to trusted readers or an agent, the question is whether you did stay true to that original vision. Is whatever prompted you to spend hours at the keyboard or with pen woven into the final pages? Only the inner voice can make that decision.

Lynne
I traveled to NY this week to meet with my publicity team at Penguin. Like a job interview, I had the task of shining a light on why my book would stand out among others on the bookstore shelves and why I’m the person to represent my ideas. Enthusiasm filled the room, and since Tuesday my head and heart. Looking back on this whole process, I’m so grateful that I believed in my book through the search for my brilliant agent and through the angst filled days I waited for word of the sale. It all came together on a sunny day in the city, where I sat around a conference table in a room that has heard the fate of many books, and I heard bright eager professionals discuss endless possibilities for mine. My perspective: that moment was worth waiting for.

Debuts: If you didn't pre-order, run to your nearest independent bookstore and get your copy of Tish Cohen's just released novel, "Town House." Don't wait for the movie. Did we mention rights were bought by Fox 2000 and Pulitzer-Tony-Golden Globe Award winner Doug Wright (Quills, Memoirs of a Geisha) wrote the screen play? Congratulations, Tish!

Upcoming Literary Events: Tickets are on sale now for Post Road Magazine's fundraiser. Join us on Thursday, May 17 at the Radcliffe Gymnasium in Cambridge as bestselling author Dennis Lehane reads from his latest book of short stories "Coronado." Hit the link for more information.

On Wednesday, May 23 Buttonwood Books in Cohasett is hosting New York Times bestselling author William Martin as he reads from his latest thriller, "The Lost Constitution" at the Hingham Public Library. Look for this, and the rest of the Buttonwood series, at their web site.

One Step Up

Posted by Lynne

The conference was wonderful for so many reasons. Like Hannah, I reveled in each sophisticated word uttered by Margot Livesey. I will treasure her response to a question I mustered the courage to ask.

I feel so lucky I had the chance to attend Michael Lowenthal's class called Astonish Me. In less than two hours, he showed the audience how writers in charge of their work can do daring things with characterization, point-of-view, setting, dialogue and even punctuation to astonish readers.

Like Amy, I unknowingly plunked myself down at the same brunch table as our illustrious keynote speaker, Charles Baxter. It wasn't until he leaned over to pour me a cup of coffee that I realized. As if he were a movie star, I said, "Thank you, but since you are the guest of honor, perhaps I should be pouring you a cup." To which he replied, "See if you feel the same way after my talk."

Days later, words absorbed over the weekend still come into sharp focus as I drive, or prepare a workshop, or make a lunch for my children. If pressed to answer the question, "What did you learn that will have the greatest impact on your writing career," it is simply this. I want and need to be surrounded by lovers of language.

If you follow this blog, you can understand why spending two consecutive days with Amy, Lisa and Hannah would be a delight under any circumstances. And I had the pleasure of spending time with my niece, Stephanie, a journalist and emerging fiction writer, too. Everywhere I turned, I saw writers whose work I treasure. Sue Miller. Suzanne Berne. Or agents or editors who represent writers I admire and read faithfully.

At the Saturday afternoon cocktail party, I realized that this room of people--novice to expert--knows what it's like to love writing above almost all other things. On a morning set aside for writing, they too, feel the cautious optimism that goes with hoping this will be a day to produce wonderful sentences, paragraphs, pages.

In his keynote, Charles Baxter told his spellbound audience that each of us is on a step. Even if we are standing on the first step, we have done something glorious. I'm a writer. I love being surrounded by writers. And after this year's Muse and the Marketplace conference, I am content to stand on my step, until it's time to lift a foot to take my place on the next one. It feels glorious.