A Pause on the Journey

by Hannah Roveto

The journey becomes so encompassing, we sometimes forget to pause and look around. Today, stop. Look around and breathe it in.

Five years ago I was known as "the writer" at work, the first to be assigned press releases and speeches and reports and executive correspondence. I walked the aisles of bookstores and libraries and ran my finger along the spines of novels I loved and ones yet to be discovered. Once I was old enough to spell, I wrote short stories, snippets of long stories. I even had friends who'd been published. Still, theirs was another world.

Then comes the moment. Enough. I cannot live another day without releasing that part of my insides that insists on taking this writing thing seriously. The notice is up on the library bulletin board: a writers' group, hosting an author. A writers' group; are you a writer, or not, Hannah? A phone call, and I am part of the group -- a dysfunctional one, but it is a declaration of intent, a physical and mental step forward. Every year, more steps, tentative and yet increasingly certain.

Five years later, I am picking up my child at that same library. A large poster promoting an author's appearance is behind us, and my daughter points with a big smile on her face as she turns to her friend's mother. "She's in the mall, too, and there's another picture downstairs with the book." This is true. The long glass-fronted bulletin board in the lower entrance features a fall author series. Amy is there, leading the way, and nearby is Hallie Ephron, whom I had the honor of interviewing for this blog.

"You know her?" asks the woman.

"She's my friend." This is not enough. Amy's gorgeous black-and-white photo nudges me. "She's in my writers' group."

A neighbor passes by at that precise moment, overhears. "Really? How's your book going?"

"I've started to query agents," I tell her. "And I'm starting a second one."

"Anita Shreve and Hannah Roveto. Quite the neighborhood." She smiles and gives me a thumbs-up. The low-slung, brown shingled house was the home of the senior Shreves, but I won't quibble.

I get home and open my child's backpack. This is the same day, I kid you not. A notice falls out; a writer and parenting expert is coming to the school complex's massive Performing Arts Center to speak. The story was in the weekly newspaper, as well, Lynne's name in bold type, her Web site -- her beautiful sea-glass site -- listed for more details on her parenting work and her fiction, coming out in April.

On my computer is a recent email, promising that a full revision of a lyrical, stunning story coming soon for my reading pleasure -- before the agent sees it. How cool is that? (That's not how Lisa described it, but her voice is so distinctive, this character and situation so compelling, it will be that!) Before I switch to my PR email, I check blogs I love, your blogs about writing and life, all names I know and voices I hear in my head from the words on a screen. I glance at the list on my desk, too. Agents names. Real agents with real offices, with notes on whom they represent, their contact information not only jotted down, but in a few cases now, used.

This is my real world, five years later. This is a journey for all of us, a unique individual journey; mine certainly has been made clearer because of Amy and Lynne and Lisa, but there is still the do-ing of it all that has unfolded within me. While it feels unreal some days, yesterday it felt crystalline solid. Where this journey will lead, I don't know, but I am moving every day deeper into that territory. When my boss says, "You're the writer, you take this," I smile. Today that has a whole different meaning. Today I really am the writer, evolving as the writer I wished I could be years ago, step by step.

And Again

by Hannah Roveto

There is something in the air this week. The mysteries behind what drives some people to not simply put thoughts on paper, but to stretch them like taffy, fill in about them like soil around a seedling, spend hours and days and years listening to voices and cutting beautiful phrases in search of a way to communicate something... somehow... have been uppermost in my mind as well. Amy said most poignantly yesterday that her work is driven by a need to "give people comfort in a world of my making," which is the most perfect description indeed for the outcome of her labors.

Why and how we write is how we make sense of the world. I see absurdity everywhere, and the sharp edge intrigues me. The devoted mother known for lobbying on expensive school programs, who drives around town in her SUV, on her cellphone, at speeds in excess of posted signs along roads where other children walk. The new resident who talks loudly about how excited he is at moving to a small town, yet he puts up a fence and hedge that walls him away from the community he seeks. There are layers to these people I find compelling, in whom I find elements of the humor I so love.

Tragedy informs my writing, in a different way. Private conversations around the most horrific of experiences make me wonder at the human capacity for strength, at how people get up and live their lives the day after, and the day after that. Yet they do. The spirit is an incredible thing, bruised and torn and damaged and yet loving and laughing and hopeful. I may not write about sorrows -- some I simply cannot -- but the idea of this force of life hovers over me.

In the end, I process the world best through humor. It may seem Pollyanna-ish to some, but I would argue that humor is a protective weapon. I admire writers who take the most vital emotions and experiences and create those moments in which we see a bit of ourselves, and that prompt a smile against all that is rational. Mark Haddon's father in A Spot of Bother thinks he has cancer, has an adulterous wife, and is but one of the characters brought together in the slow progress toward a wedding that creates much discomfort. Nick Hornby's A Long Way Down has those four strangers who decide, independently, to end their lives. How can these stories be funny? They are about unbearable things, written with great sympathy, yet it is how they are written that takes us by surprise, against our will, and -- whether or not the character does -- makes us see possibilities.

This is why I write and how I hope and try to write. Capturing moments in which the odd quirk becomes not only a possible downfall, but also the thing that drives us forward. Naming the fears we hide that show themselves despite our best efforts in ways strangers then cannot possibly undertand. Revealing moments of recognition and against all odds, creating a smile of understanding as to where the hope lies.

Tethered in the Crown Catalog

By Amy MacKinnon

It's on the Internet, out there for everyone to see, and yet, I feel intensely shy about sharing it with all of you. It's four pages of my novel in Random House's fall 2008 Crown Catalog (see page 118). Hmmm.

My dearest friend in the world is now reading Tethered for the second time. She said she reads a sentence, pauses, and then re-reads, trying to find me within it. She can't. This is a person who has known me over twenty years, we've shared everything of our lives --dorm rooms, first loves, true loves, children, angst -- and yet she has never been privy to the person she found contained within those pages. Who are you, she asked.

It isn't a story about me, I explained, you know that. But it is reflective of the way I process the world, a deeply intense, painful realization of the lives of others. Maybe it's my survivors guilt. I have been blessed with a loving family, good health, opportunities where so many others have not. Or maybe it's just a simple story. I don't know, I don't.

What I do know is that it is more of me than I've ever shared with another and now I'm giving it to the world. It's a terrifying prospect.

Making a Literary Life: Gaze into My Crystal Ball

So often in life, we move forward with heads bowed, not really paying attention to where it is we're going. Our goals are short term: two pages today, finish the manuscript, get an agent, sell the book. We become caught in the monotony, the drudgery of daily habits. Take a moment, think about what you want from your writing, where you want it to bring you and what you want to bring to it. Let time stretch before you, consider what you may be like ten years from now, twenty. What is your literary life?

Lisa Lowry

I would like to be an author that puts a smile on the face of that girl that sits friendless in the middle school cafeteria. I want to tell that boy with the pimples - such awful skin! - that he won't be a teenager forever. Someday he may be called Doctor. Could he graduate from Harvard Law School? I want to write books children and teens pull out from under their pillows at night, to read just one more chapter before they dream their dreams. I hope to write books with the message that kids aren't alone, even when they are so very lonely.

Amy McEwan

What I would like people to say twenty years from now is that the books I write don't fit neatly into any genre. They're almost literary -- but not. There are suspenseful elements -- and yet. They have wide commercial appeal -- still. I don't want to be labeled. Not now, not ever. Best of all, I would know my life had a purpose if somehow one of my books touched someone, reassured them when they needed it most. That would be a dream come true.

Hannah Lipman

I want people to reach for my books confident they will immerse themselves in a story that entertains them in this too-hectic world, that makes them laugh, that introduces them to people they enjoy (even if they wouldn't want to live next door to some), and that maybe slides in an observation or two about the world. I, too, seek constant improvement, so that each book is fresh, each tale a new ride that someone looks forward to taking with me, no matter where the Muse leads.

Lynne Quindlen
I want readers to reach for my books because they know they'll find fresh details and new insight into family life. When the people you love or want to love, confuse you, distance themselves from you or view the world in ways foreign to you, I want my writing to shed light on the intricacies of the human mind and heart. I want to write honest books about love, marriage, raising children and finding hope in the dark moments. To have readers say my fiction is smart, compelling and difficult to put down--that's my dream.

Is That What It's Like To Be A Writer?

by Hannah Roveto


Those words were uttered by my youngest child as the family watched Finding Neverland, a movie "inspired by fact" about J.M. Barrie's inspiration for Peter Pan. At the start, we saw Barrie watch a disgruntled audience stirring in their seats, frowning, shaking their heads as his newest play unfolded. As he peeked at them from behind the curtains, rain began to fall on them, which of course, they never noticed.

"What's happening?" she'd asked then.

"It's how he feels," I answered.

Soon Barrie is dancing with his dog in Kensington Garden, and as the camera pans around them, Barrie is dancing with a bear in a circus ring, surrounded by clowns, an audience applauding.

"He has a good imagination," came the comment, and then, yes: "Is that what it's like to be a writer?"

As you who read this know, the real answer is yes and no. Do I actually see rain falling on the heads of those who are unhappy, who dismiss me? No. Does the analogy cross my mind, do I imagine how it might be if the heavens did break open upon them? Sure. Do I live in my head instead of the world around me more often than my neighbors might? I suspect so.

The note-taking, too. Barrie writes in his notebook as he sits on the park bench, the twinkle of a bell tied to a kite, the sunlight bouncing off it as it jingles in the air, recorded for him to absorb again later. A moment captured. The bits and pieces of what you see slowly coming together into a new and unique reality.

I once asked my son to give me five adjectives or phrases that describe me, an exercise worth trying. I was not expecting much that was pleasant, based on the cycle we were in of late. He surprised me: none were negative, save that he said I need to relax more, and two of them were these: funny and weird. When asked why those words, he shrugged. "You know. You're not like other people. You do crazy stuff."

Like dancing with a bear, like watching rain fall inside. Okay, well, maybe. Yes, that is what it is like to be writer: magical. And the next time someone asks what it's like to be a writer, well, maybe you can suggest they catch a glimpse for themselves.

A New House

Posted by Lynne

I've never built a house, but I took a wonderful course on building a novel. When I was deep in to a revision of Life Without Summer, I took a course on story construction offered through Grub Street by the smart and talented Stace Budzko. It helped me then, but how was I to know that eight months later, as I delved into crafting my next novel, that things he taught me would flood into my mind with new relevancy.

The elements of our stories are not unlike those of a house. What we know about our characters--how they behave and misbehave--their desires, wants and needs are as important to the writer as the windows that allow light into the living room. Plot can be seen as the opening and closing of doors. Voice--the house's architectural style.

Having built and sold one novel already, I know that building a good foundation is critical to the novel's ability to stand out in the marketplace. For me, settling on point of view is an important first step in creating the right structure, telling the right story. Whose story is it? Which character(s) have the most to gain and the most to lose given the situations and complications I've chosen to write about? When I find the heart of the story, I know it. I love writing in two voices, so for me there is often more than one heart to consider.

At every stage of novel building it's important to use quality goods. For a writer, the raw materials are words. This time I'm finding it even easier to lay down the structure with care, partly because the more I write the more I fall in love with words. Though in truth, I'm confident, because I trust that even when a house is done, there is nothing wrong with moving a little furniture or hanging new curtains. Even brothers and sisters have been known to change rooms, and parents know when it's time to add a room over the garage.

Perhaps the single most valuable lesson I learned from Stace during that weekend in April relates to setting. I will be forever grateful to him for opening my eyes to the idea that setting can be compelling, not merely a backdrop "where characters do their thing". Whether you imagine the places in your novel as pleasing, forbidding or somewhere in between, setting embodies all the places that influence the way your characters see the world and how they respond to it.

Andre Dubus once said, "We enter the fictional world through memory". During my weekend course, Stace urged me to take every opportunity to pry, eavesdrop, stare, and otherwise gather the material I'd need to build a story. Little did he know that the perspectives he offered, I would remember, serving me well in my building projects down the road.

Staying True

By Amy

After I finish writing this, I intend to print it out and tuck it away in my Tethered binder. Hannah gave me the idea for the binder about a year ago as a way to organize both my thoughts and voluminous amounts of paper. Contained within the plastic covers are: various drafts of the manuscript; all correspondence having to do with what I hoped would someday become a book; and a title page slipped through the plastic cover with a black and white photo of daisies. I indulged myself with that one.

Next, I'll place this in it. It's a promise to myself to stay true to my writing. Not to let external pressures influence what should be an internal experience. How many times have we said to ourselves and each other, his earlier work was so much better. I think what happens with a lot of authors is they begin writing with an eye toward the market, and the passion, what initally compelled the reader to fall in love, falls by the wayside.

So here are my goals for my future self:

- I will always trust my gut. This applies to all areas of my life and has so far served me well in both my writing life and beyond. Unless you've proven otherwise, this is good advice for each of us.

- I will not write for a deadline. Though this is something others can do with aplomb, I know myself well enough not to try. The moment I write with a date in mind, I will write for it instead of for the story.

- I will allow the story as much time as it needs. I sometimes grow frustrated with myself because I don't write quickly. Some days, just a good paragraph, others an entire page and a half. Though twice I've written entire chapters in just a single morning -- chapters that remain largely untouched -- I must be patient with myself and the story. It will come in time.

- I will listen to all who voice an opinion, but no voice will be louder than my own. It is ultimately my story, one I need to stand behind with vigor and confidence. I must believe in it and shape it honestly. Yes, I will listen and take what rings true, but I must remain faithful at all times to the story.

- I will write the best book I can at this point in my life. Years from now, I'm sure I'll look back on Tethered and think of ways to improve upon it. No point in that, is there? I haven't yet become that person. All I can do is the best I can do today.

- I won't read my reviews. Many will disagree with me on this point, but hear me out. To what end? If they're horrible, it will devastate me and if they're glowing, it might paralyze me. Could I learn from a terrible review? It depends. There are few book editors whose opinions I know and trust. I can name them on three fingers. If one of them hated my book, I would be crushed to bits and then how to pick-up the pieces? If it were a reviewer I'm not familiar with, then there's no established trust. Worse would be a fabulous review. It's a fool's folly to believe one's own press. And save me from the middle-of-the-road reviews; mediocrity is the bane of my existence and to be labelled as such would plunge me into an existential funk. Understand now?

- I will work with the best editor available. Having had the opportunity to be edited by a variety of newspaper editors, I know how invaluable a good editor is -- not only to the work itself, but to the psyche. A good editor pushes and pulls forth the very best from a writer, all the while giving encouragement. It's fun and the work is so much better for it. A poor editor dictates and bullies, undermining the writer's confidence in the work. This scenario leaves the author embarassed by the work once it's in print. I allowed that to happen once, years ago. Never again.

- It's not about the money. No matter how much is on the table, if you don't respect the people offering, if the editorial suggestions don't ring true, if the enthusiasm is geared more toward sales than it is toward a passion for the work, then walk away. The price is too high. I've been poor most of my life, I can live with it. I'm pretty sure I can't live with bankrupting my literary aspirations.

- The only competition is my best self. About a month ago, a book in my genre with a striking hook sold at auction in a major deal and then some. Worse, it's due out the same month as my novel. I'll be honest, for a few days I was obsessed with it. And then I realized, not only was I powerless over it, but it didn't make me any less pleased with my own situation. There's nothing I would trade with that author: not my agent, not my editor, definitely not my book. Though others may see our novels as competing titles, I don't. As Lynne always says, each will have its own journey. I wish that author the best of luck.

- Be kind. It's a small world, as is my place in it. Be gracious to everyone, thankful to those who help, and helpful to those who need it.

Hopefully I will remain faithful to these goals, though I imagine I will stumble along the way. Some will be harder to aspire to, others will remain easy. Will I stay true? We shall see.

A little bit of magic

Posted by Lisa


Last week I posted an interview with Gregory Maguire I conducted in the spring of last year. Gregory is hyper-intelligent and delightful; a very inspiring writer to learn from. He recommended a novel: The Diamond in the Window by Jane Langton, another Massachusetts native. It’s the story of two impoverished children who travel at night to a dreamland that is very real.

How many of us, I wonder, have a book that touched some corner of our souls in a way that made writing a possibility for vocation.

Mine was Ginny’s Babysitting Business. I’m ashamed to say I don’t know the author and an internet search gave me zero results. Another was Night of the Red Horse (terrifying magical realism I long to emulate) by Patricia Leitch.

At my son’s hockey game yesterday, I let my imagination wander. I came up with questions about his coaches, their families, the circumstances that led them to live in California; each of them is from far away. Not knowing the answers to many of these questions, I came up with my own answers. I can’t say I’ve ever done this before: look at people and make up their lives for them. It was engrossing; when my son later asked me if I saw his shot hit the post of the net, I had to say “Sorry, I missed it.”

It led me, last night, this morning, to think about the authors who wrote favorite books we have read and loved. Where were they when they thought of their stories. What were their circumstances as they banged on their typewriters or wrote long hand in that days before our blessed word processing programs. They were people, like you and me, creating stories, as you and I do.

Maybe writing is magic, thinking of stories, developing them fully in our minds. Maybe it’s magic that inspires us to persevere through the hundreds of hours, the revisions, the moments when we realize a plot point clearly isn’t working.

The holidays are coming, a time of magic. Find a piece of magic hidden inside you. Close your eyes and think of that book you loved as a child. The novel that told you writing is a cool thing!

Identity and Mushrooms

Posted by Lynne

It took me a long time to assert my identity as a writer. Parenting articles placed in magazines or online, even a monthly column in a regional parenting paper, didn't quite hold enough weight to stake my claim.

Believe it or not, in the early months after Negotiation Generation sold to Penguin, I still felt others would perceive me more as an expert with a book than a writer. Eighteen days after my parenting book hit the shelves, my novel sold to St Martin's. And within minutes my definition of myself included writer.

As holiday gatherings begin to litter the calendar--with some having already taken place--I realize I'm a novice at declaring myself a writer, an author. My social repartee is stilted, my responses to the predictable questions and remarks weak and unpracticed.

At a recent party, I went on for ten minutes, giving a detailed retort to the comment: "You should get on Oprah." I explained the way it happens and how many people each year jockey for a coveted book pick. I lightly offered that getting on Oprah was as likely as getting struck by lightning.

Muse of this blog, the dear Carolyn See writes in her marvelous book, Making a Literary Life that writers must become adept at saying thank you for compliments and no kidding for anything else he or she doesn't choose to discuss at length.

While I've used both phrases a lot in the last few months, I still enjoy conversations about writing and publishing and do choose to have them in social situations. But I'm here to warn you about the trap you might fall into if you too wade into discussions unprepared.

What in the world would you say to the following--

I have an idea for a book. Maybe you could write it for me.

I've written a chapter of my book. Will you read it and tell me if it's good?

I only read happy books. Is yours a happy book?

Can you give me your agent's/editor's phone number? If she likes your work, she'll love mine.

Who will play the lead when your book is turned into a movie?

I know a writer who self-published. She's making a ton of money--why would you want an agent?

Lengthy explanations and oodles of education don't cut it in the face of these faulty perceptions, these comments that show a limited understanding of the muse and the marketplace. My answers are getting better day-by-day, because I don't feel an obligation to set things straight. I chat, I smile and I commit to nothing. I choose instead to offer resources. I recommend this blog and the ones listed in our links section to the right. I tell the emerging writer about books that changed my writing life, those that nurture equal parts inspiration and perspiration.

If the person I'm chatting with is truly at the beginning stages of the journey toward a writing life, he or she will do the necessary homework, put in the time. I'd be humbled to part of the process that encourages this writer to walk further down the road. Yet if the conversation is as important to the person as the ingredients in stuffed mushrooms, I've made it nothing more than it is--party conversation.

I've worked hard to be able to say I'm a writer. While I'm committed to showing other writers the way, I know it must be earned. Each writer must walk her own path--no kidding.

Care to share how you claim your identity as a writer, while at the same time chit chat about the writing life?

A Breath of Fresh Air

By Amy

Many of you may already listen to Fresh Air, but for those of you who don't, tune in. It's because of an interview Terry Gross did with Jonathan Franzen that I started writing fiction.

One rainy afternoon about six years ago, while home with the children, wondering who I was, who I'd become, I heard this interview. In it (at some point that's since been edited), she asked about the angst of the writing life. His response completely changed the course of my life. To paraphrase (and if you listen to the interview you'll understand he's far more erudite than I could hope to be), Jonathan Franzen said writing The Corrections was fun. Yes, fun.

Once the show was over, I headed straight for my computer and began writing a novel. Immediately. Nearly six hours later, I emerged from my room soaring. My goodness, he was right. I owe so much to the two of them. Inspiration is a potent gift to bestow, especially to a hopeless stranger.

I'm not alone in my adoration of Terry Gross. Two weeks ago she was presented with the Literarian Award by the National Book Award Foundation. It happened to be the same night I was in New York. That alone thrilled me. Ms. Gross is one of the few members of the media who cares, who devotes whole shows to literature. Even more staggering, she actually reads the books before conducting an interview. I know some of you who've been interviewed about your writing will appreciate that. In a time when book sections are shrinking, book tours are disappearing, and independent booksellers are shuttering up shop, Terry Gross stimulates the minds and souls of her listeners. She is a national treasure.

So, Ms. Gross, I salute you and I thank you for the gift of hope.


Please note:
Grub Street South Workshop Tonight at 7:00 pm
Instructor: Suzette Martinez Standring author of The Art of Column Writing: Insider Secrets from Art Buchwald, Dave Barry, Arianna Huffington, Pete Hamill and Other Great Columnists.
Topic: Learn How to Write with Brevity and Impact

The Stories

By Amy

My agent asked what I was working on next. When I told her it's another dark, wrenching novel, she kind of laughed and wondered why I was interested in telling such stories.

Readers expect a writer's characters to be autobiographical, that the protagonist's experiences are the writer's own. I suppose for many people that's true, but not for me. My life has been blessed. I've never had a lot of money, never belonged to the popular clique or was considered a beauty, but I was born into a large family with loving parents. I've had good health more or less, and all of the rights and opportunites afforded an American. For that, I've always felt I was a forunate one. But that's not true for everyone.

I am a news hound. Each day I read 3-5 newspapers with NPR streaming in the background. Neither vampires nor anti-christs, dinosaurs nor aliens terrify me. People do. We humans inflict great horror upon one another. I am haunted by visions of what befell Nick Berg, Erica Green, Charles Falkenberg, an unidentified Hutu mother -- too many more to name. People are capable of incalcuable evil, maybe we all are, I hope not. I write what I do because I need to find a way to -- if not make sense of it, how can anyone do that? -- rewrite another's fate.

A friend of mine is struggling with the direction of her WIP. She knows the dark corners she needs to explore, but it can be a challenge to one's psyche to forge on. As writers, we must expose our rawest nerves to find the honesty. Still, we do it to be true to the story. And while life doesn't always have a satisfying resolution, at least we can give that to our beloved protagonists if we want. We can find comfort knowing we get to control the ending.

If only we could in life, too.

Personalities on Parade

by Hannah

A stop by Maud Newton's blog brought me to an essay on author personality by Stephen Elliott. We fascinated by what authors are like, so quick to categorize -- self-obsessed or self-effacing? -- yet does it really matter what an author is like? As long as the work speaks to us, the writing and the writer should be allowed to exist in completely different spheres.

On one hand, that makes total sense. While our work comes from the unique people we are, fiction is supposed to be, well, fiction. Made-up stuff. So could an egomaniac write a brilliant novel on the importance of community? Could a shy writer capture a rowdy, bawdy character to perfection? Can women write men, and men write women? Of course.

On the other hand, we wonder, how does that author capture those qualities, if he or she doesn't have them or experience them vicariously? How did she come up with perfect details? Maybe we are quick to slap labels on those in the public eye, and to dissect them, because we want to find something teachable. Perhaps, for some of us, we are curious because we hope or know that we, too, will someday be in our own little spotlight.

So, fun question for those pounding out word after word, day after day: who are you, or would you be when on tour? What will the interviewer write after meeting you, and will that personality be in sync with what you write or drastically different?

I've been interviewed as a corporate spokesperson, never as myself. How will the experience differ, if at all? I would hope, of course, to be engaging and thought-provoking, quick with a one-liner or two. Then again, after a cheap red-eye and a ride straight from the airport Hertz to a radio station or bookstore, what are my chances? Will I be too quiet or talk too much? Will I recognize the personality they claim I am as myself?

What are your hopes for that moment, or stories from the road? What is your real personality, and do you think in that moment, when everyone was looking, were you or will you be most yourself?

I Want the Money, Honey

By Amy

After my first child was born, my husband and I decided (well, I decided) that we would take a vow of poverty so I could stay home with her. Life was ethereal, all kittens and sunshine. *Sigh* Fast forward a few years, two more babies, and I found myself in the umpteenth dawn-of-the-dead feeding wondering how we were going to pay the credit card bill.

Over coffee the next morning, I told my husband, a reporter, my brilliant idea to make $millions$: I would write a book. My plan was to start as a freelance writer, get myself a column, and then use that as a springboard to write a book. I'd always liked writing. In college, I would churn out my weekly 30 page history paper the night before. It would be a cinch. Oh, and I didn't want to use any of his contacts, I'd do it on my own. To his credit, he took it well.

"Okay," he said, "but don't write for the money. Write because you love it."

Obviously he had not seen the credit card bill.

Of course he was right. I realized this after I started freelancing, about the time I somehow convinced my editor at the Boston Globe to give me a Sunday column. I loved it. No, it was more than that, it filled all of the empty places within me -- voids I hadn't known existed. I was nearly there.

Soon thereafter I started that book, a fictionalized version of my column about the drama of suburbia. I craved my writing time; a few hours among my characters left me euphoric. Nothing had ever made me feel as complete as when I typed the words The End. It wasn't a particularly good book -- it lacked high stakes, a truly sympathetic protagonist, adherence to craft -- but it proved to me that I had found my passion. I'd forgotten all about the money.

Now that I've completed a second, I live, eat and breathe what my husband told me all those years ago. When I was querying and one of the hottest agents offered representation, conditional on my changing a major plot point, I thanked him for his time and interest -- I was truly honored --but declined. He might have sold my manuscript within days, movie rights, too, but I didn't want that. I needed to maintain the integrity of my story. Whatever happens, I'll never regret my decision.

These days my dreams are more sanguine. I'll never earn an extravagant lifestyle from my writing; it would be enough if it were self-supporting. It would be enough to receive letters from readers telling me I'd touched them, that they had taken time from their lives to inhabit my worlds. That would be inestimable.

Still, I'd like to pay off that credit card bill.

Honesty is in the Details

Posted by Lynne

Honesty is in the details. The women of the writers' group, without question, have the purest of intentions when providing critique to a novelist. As I've mentioned in previous posts, there is no negative feedback to be found during our discussions. Surely there is constructive feedback, but never criticism; of our writing or of any other writers, for that matter. We discuss, examine, comment on, and dissect-- to learn. Our collective aim is to become better writers and to help every member of the group on the path to a literary life.

I was asked recently by a woman working on her first novel if I ever foresee a time when I won't need The Writers' Group anymore. My answer was plain and simple. No.

What writer wouldn't treasure three people taking her manuscript, reading it line by line and then spending two hours talking about it with compassion and precision. Without the writers' group it would take months longer to see any or all of the following:

• The need to up the stakes and tension. This has become first and foremost our strongest test of each other's writing. We know the marketplace is relentless when it comes to this assessment; we save each other time and the hardship of hearing this from editors and agents.
  
• An inconsistent timeline. Hannah's got an amazing eye for this.
• Weak verb choices in key scenes, and overuse of a word or words. Who hasn't fought the but, just, that problem? And the more unusual the word choice, the less you can use it, says Amy.
• Lack of authenticity of character motives and uniqueness of voice. As a temperament and behavior expert, this is my thing.
• Setting or absence of setting to ground the reader. Lisa is our setting guru.
• Believability of plot. Amy holds us to a high standard here.

It's been two years since fate brought four women living in suburbia, with children ranging in age from 2-16, together. Our work lives have similarities and differences, but that's always added dimension to our discussions. No doubt life will try to get in the way of what we have. One of us may move, or struggle with changes in her family, or travel for work, but nothing can change the fact that gifts have already been given. And I don't foresee a time when they won't be given freely still.

Some writers see having a writers' group as a crutch. They believe if you are a true and master writer, you wouldn't need a writers group. This is utter nonsense. In my opinion, it's as naive as saying you don't need an agent or an editor. I don't know a writer who wouldn't cherish support, encouragement and of course, honest feedback.

If you don't have the kind of support we're blessed to have, don't despair. You have options. You can stop by here any day you like and share in what we're learning. You can find yourself a writers' group, and if at first you don't succeed--try, try again. Finally, you can find an online support network. Though I'm new to the Backspace community, I've garnered a lot from it already.

Making a literary life is a journey, not a race. It's better to walk it with friends.

Who Are You?

by Hannah

Every parent searches for signs, even as we joke about it. Argumentative? She’ll be a lawyer. Strong arm? Decorate with NFL wallpaper! My daughter glows when singing, dancing and reciting lines. My son, meanwhile, finds himself in a quandary.

His lifelong ambition has been pro baseball. Lately he suspects he might not take Jason Varitek’s place behind home plate one day. It is possible he could end up there, but there have long been signs his life could well take a different path.

He doesn't play against the backstop every day. His friends are not the ones whose worlds center on sports; they play instruments, do magic tricks, make up games, read books, play Risk and play on computers. This summer he chose to sail instead of extending the baseball season. He loves baseball, deeply, but it does not gnaw at him until he cannot ignore it.

What does gnaw at him, whether he knows it or not? He art-directs casual photographs: “Take the picture of me in my catcher’s gear from the other side of the fence at the field. I’ll push up the mask, hold the chain link, look into the distance.” Best photo I ever took of him. He happily dished out long-hoarded cash to co-purchase a digital movie camera and editing software with me. He plays drums. He may not dedicate daily practice to syncopation, but he quickly figured out how to play “Who Are You” like Keith Moon, and he got up on stage with a real band once to jam. There is more, but you get the idea.

When I was his age, I wanted to play Carnegie Hall. My piano teacher smiled, in private telling my father my love of music would be lifelong and my talents lay elsewhere, an insight shared with me only after I quit lessons. In high school, I wanted to be a veterinarian. I studied biology, chemistry and trig, and did a fascinating, bittersweet internship at an animal hospital.

Decades later, as I write this post, a red binder sits near my feet in a milk crate shelf against the wall. The oldest piece in it is a two-act Easter play I wrote at seven. There is an elementary school fiction competition entry, and a fairy tale I wrote at thirteen. Pages and pages, handwritten and typewritten, long before computers. Sometimes, perhaps, it is clearer from the start than we know.

Making A Literary Life Friday: MeMe

Yes, Larramie, meme'd us and while we've always chosen not to post memes, this one was just quirky enough to intrigue. Besides, we adore the enigma that is Larramie. Instead of tagging 8 people, as it suggests, we've decided that those who leave a comment are thus tagged. Purely voluntary. So in the lull that is July, here are the meme rules and our responses:

1. These rules have to be posted before giving your facts.2. Players start with eight random facts/habits about themselves.3. People who are tagged need to write their own blog about their eight things and post these rules.4. At the end of the blog post, it's necessary to choose eight people to get tagged and list their names. 5. Leave these eight people a comment on their blog, telling them they’re tagged, and to read your post for these directions.

Lisa
1. My dog isn't fat, but chubby might describe her. In my effort to keep her from packing on more pounds, I've wrestled pizza crusts, and more, from her mouth, risking crocodile-like bites.

2. The song, I hope you'll dance, by Lee Anne Womack, convinced me to have a second child three years ago (and I'm not even a big country music fan).

3. One of my happiest memories is spending a day with my brother at the Wisconsin State Fair when visiting relatives in Milwaukee when I was 13.

4. When I first meet a person, the more acutely disgusted I feel toward his or her very being, the greater the intensity of my sheer and absolute dislike, the more likely it is that we will become life-long friends.

5. Playing Home Free (hide and seek) at twilight each summer night at Lake Winnipasaukee in New Hampshire is a magical memory, plain and simple.

6. I find the words mom, mommy, ma, and mother all annoying - I think I need my kids to call me Lisa.

7. When I ask my husband to tell me something quirky about me he asks, how much space do I have. Then continues to say..."Today it's Tuesday, of course, I don't like pizza, but, wait, it's after five, so I do like pizza, but not with pepperoni, no no no, just veggies." Okay, so I'm fickle.

8. When I go to bed, my sleeping arrangments need to be absolutely perfect - no exceptions: ink black, walls of pillows, no noise whatsoever (except for the lull of a ticking clock or dripping faucet which I find calming - call me easygoing).

Amy
1. I feel at 6's & 7's all day if I don't start my morning with a bowl of Starbucks, a wheat bagel, the newspaper, & NPR.

2. I can almost never remember adults' names, but never forget a child's.

3. I am the most uptight person I know and an even more anxious mother.

4. I once awoke from anesthesia while the doctor was still operating. He yelled to the person standing behind me, "She's waking up, she's waking up!" I didn't feel a thing.

5. Like Tish Cohen, I can find a four-leaf clover in any patch, and have been able to do so since I was 22.

6. I never avoid a confrontation.

7. A week after my first child was born, I contracted a massive infection and slipped into a coma. I was placed on a respirator and the doctors told my husband "it didn't look good." When I finally woke, the need to see my daughter overwhelmed all of my senses. She was beautiful.

8. My goal in life is to be relevant.

Hannah
1. I've eaten almost everything served to me in seven countries, except one gushy thing in a cup in a temple on a Japanese hillside, which my wonderful brother downed for me on the sly. I did eat sea cucumber; check it out on your next aquarium visit.

2. I can, with intent, find lost things. Money, keys, articles of clothing, even a child once (not mine). My husband believes in nothing beyond what he can see and this freaks him out.

3. I am afraid of falling and cannot get near drop-offs (paths down the Grand Canyon, etc.). I don't feel I will jump, I just don't think terra is all that firma.

4. I like hot or iced coffee before noon, one large cup with milk. I only drink iced after noon, rarely more than one large cup. Tea I can drink any time, any temperature.

5. Mocha chip ice cream rocks, but if I could only have one food category for the rest of my life, it would be cheese.

6. My parents taught me you can't have it all, so live life around what is most important starting with your art, and that nice people can finish first if they think things through.

7. I never assumed I would marry or have children; now I cannot imagine life without them.

8. I believe there's nothing wrong with doing a few things you're not supposed to do, as long as you're not hurting yourself or others. I have taken a puff of a Cuban cigar and sipped absinthe, and I lie on my lawn semi-regularly (yes, as a grown-up) and let my children choose my clothes once in a while, just because.

Lynne
1. In my twenties, I was a paid lounge singer and radio jingle performer. I still remember my songs and the thrill of performing in public. I even had some very bohemian skirts which I can recall in vivid detail.

2. I had my wedding reception in a castle. No, neither my husband or I are royalty, we just happened upon this lovely place on a cliff by the ocean on a date and we knew it would be the perfect place to celebrate our union.

3. The thing that drives people crazy about me is my ridiculous ability to be organized. I love organizational notebooks, to do lists and spread sheets. I credit this skill set with how many writing-related things I'm working on simultaneously.

4. I am afraid of mice. In many conversations over the years, I've implored my husband and children to never, never, never tell me if there is one in our house. One of us would have to move out. Me.

5. I think crying is therapeutic. When I was a child, I cried a lot more than I do today. But I still feel much better after I let my tears run free.

6. I make up words, especially when I am tired. My husband and children laugh hysterically when I mix words up or simply create my own. Any idea what grodiardo and chustah mean?

7. I love any restaurant with a view. The mountains, the ocean, the lake, it doesn't matter. I will endure mediocre food if the view makes up for it.

8. I wake up every morning before the rest of my family. With a large cup of a specific brand of coffee, I park myself in my window seat and think. One hour of free flowing thinking and then I start my day as wife, mother, business owner and writer.

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.

Lost

I admit to feeling a bit lost this past weekend.

On Saturday at the Muse, several friends told me of their experiences with the Manuscript Mart. Weeks in advance they’d sent in 20 pages of their manuscripts to either an agent or editor from some of the most exclusive agencies and publishing houses – 20 pages to be vetted by the best in the business. The reports back from my friends were glowing: each had a request (though not everyone does), one of whom I overheard being talked about later by editors paired off in a corner. Oh, the buzz.

Later that morning, I ran into a woman, Liz Kahrs, who’s regularly attended our Grub Street South workshops. She’s the kind of woman who makes an impression – the good kind – laid-back with an easy-going charm. She had news. An excerpt of her novel was picked up by Huffington Post. Naturally I read it once I arrived home. It’s good, something to be proud of, with clever phrasing that immediately calls to mind crisp imagery. Quite a coup.

Oh, and you should have seen Lynne shine on the marketing panel! Sitting alongside author Hank Phillippi Ryan, as well as the director of publicity at Da Capo Press and PR goddess Lissa Warren, assistant director of publicity at Houghton Mifflin Taryn Roeder, and president of Newman Communications David Ratner, Lynne offered the perspective of an author’s responsibility to both her in-house publicist and to her book. It was a side of her, the masterful public persona, I’d not yet seen. Gracious and utterly impressive.

Sunday was much of the same. Scott Heim told me he’d made it over the hump with his revisions – I’d been worried since we last spoke in October. He appeared despondent then, as if he couldn’t live up to the expectations that follow an astonishing debut. But this past weekend, his face was clear, nearly serene, he was pleased with the work he’d done. “We Disappear” is due out in February. Another success, no doubt.

Along the way, everyone asked the same dreaded question of me, “How’s the book coming?” To be sure, they were simply being polite, but I had no answers for them. Worse, none for myself.

When we sat down to brunch on Sunday, despondency swelled within me. How could it not? Over there was Michael Lowenthal, right there Pauline Chen, Michael Mezzo straight ahead, and oh dear God, I’d sat at the wrong table, because across from me was the conference keynote speaker, Charles Baxter. I was indeed lost.

After a second cup of coffee, Charles Baxter took to the podium and gripping either side, announced the title of his speech, "Losers." When he began to speak, sharing his own sense of inadequacy and alienation, I realized it’s impossible to be lost when so many others are on the same journey, stumbling over the same obstacles of doubt and desire. Here was the master, and now he was reducing himself to comparisons of the likes of me.

When he finished, I waited until the others had their say and then approached. The only words that could find their way past the catch in my throat were thank you, as if I were a child who’d been separated from the hand that guided me through the crowd of unknowns and he the kind man who steered me back.

So today, and hopefully for a while yet, I’m found again.

On the Path

By Amy

As an unpublished writer, there’s the tendency to look around and mourn for other peoples’ successes.

There was a time many years ago when a woman I knew was awash in international sales, over-the-top reviews, big dollar movie deals. Everywhere I turned her face was plastered on some media. A lonely Friday at Blockbuster was made worse when an ad for her movie simultaneously screamed from each of the six televisions – such a bouncy soundtrack! -- and the video-case display took up an entire wall. There were even posters with the words, “based on the novel by…” Sigh.

I’m a better writer, I fumed. Her book is predictable, how hard could it have been to write? Mine were the thoughts of a green-eyed fool.

I remember later this woman telling me how she’d been afraid she would change with success and how utterly unprepared she was to find the people around her had changed more.
As I choked down my slice of humble pie, I began to understand that her success wasn’t my failure. It’s said that we learn more from our mistakes than our accomplishments, and it’s true. I’m glad to have had the experience of being the bad guy in my own silly drama.

Know this: We writers are not competing against one another. Even within the same genre, even while jockeying for position on the same bestseller list, it doesn’t matter how our writing compares to another’s, what his advance was and yours wasn’t. What matters is how our writing compares with our own best effort. I’m satisfied that today I wrote as well as I could. Tomorrow, I expect to do better. It doesn’t matter how poorly written or inexplicably brilliant another’s book is, how much attention it receives from the New York Times Review of Books and Oprah herself. The awards don’t much matter. Frankly, it doesn’t matter anymore how well-regarded my own work is by any critic, any where. I must first satisfy my own standards: write well, write often, write with intention and joy. Isn’t that the ultimate goal?

It’s a relief to be rid of the horrifying creep of envy. I’m ecstatic when I get a call or email from a friend telling me of her significant deal or glowing review or third printing. Their successes wholly belong to them, I understand that, but as a writer, I find myself basking along with them, knowing they’ve just scored one for the team. For me, though, I don’t expect to find an abiding sense of accomplishment once I’ve published a book, done the tour, glowed under some imagined set of klieg lights.

It’s the getting there I find dazzling.

Hey, You!

By Hannah

The blank page. Every writer seems to tackle it in a slightly different way, starting with a different story element. I love hearing about each approach. Many start with the hook or plot, an idea coming in a sudden “what if” moment. What if Donald Trump was a writing teacher, pounding down the halls at Grub Street?

For me it's not a situation. It's a character who appears out of nowhere, like a new neighbor across the fence. My last main character popped into my head, all swagger and underneath, frustration. What the heck was his problem, I wondered. He seemed to have it all. “No, no,” he’d insist. “There’s more to me.” We took a meandering path to find his story, worth it in the end because of his quirky style.

As I started to revise Mr. Swagger's tale, another character arrived, presumptuous. Brute force was required to push her back out the door. I wasn’t ready; I was busy. Part of me wanted to see if she was strong enough to come back. Oh, she was.

"Hey, you!" she said. She returned with a clear "what if," dangled it in front of me. I didn’t know if I wanted to take her on, in fact, because readers will assume Hannah-the-Writer is making a statement that Hannah-the-Person wouldn’t. “Yeah? Well, what of it?” said this character. “Hey, life hands you what it hands you, doesn’t it? Are you going get dirty, or not?”

So I’m getting dirty, trying to find the details, to recognize pieces of my character. I don’t make it up, take something and hang it on her like a new sweater. I see something and know it belongs. A VW Bug pulled up next to me a few weeks ago, driven by an angular older woman with a sharp haircut. Whomever she is in real life, I recognized her as my character’s mother. A whole backstory tumbled into place. It's coming together, and it's about time. "Hey, you," says my character, "c'mon and get to it."