Author: Lisa

1975

/ Lisa / 6 Comments

In 1975 I was fifteen. Watergate was current news. The Weather Underground was also making news. Charlie Chaplin was knighted. It was the time of the Convoy of Tears, for those familiar with Vietnam. In music, Glen Campbell was singing Rhinestone Cowboy and I sang When Will I Be Loved along with Linda Ronstadt. My husband, out there in the world unbeknownst to me, was thirteen, which is just really weird to think about. I think I had a crush on a senior at the time. Definitely was not interested in thirteen year old boys.

And I bought a new release book for seventy-five cents. Crocodile on the Sandbank.

That book started a love affair with mysteries, and is probably why I write mysteries. For thirty-eight years I have been reading books by Elizabeth Peters. And books written under her pseudonym, Barbara Michaels. And books under her real name, Barbara Mertz.

Thirty-eight years. Think about that a moment.

Can you imagine the amount of paper she, as a writer, accumulated? You writers will know exactly what I’m referring to. We collect scraps. Scribbled dialog overheard at the laundromat, bits of news that might make a good story some day, notes on writing craft, deleted scenes from drafts that might work in a different tale, and so on. And we always swear some day we’re going to organize all those pieces of paper.

What does that have to do with Elizabeth Peters? Well, she died recently, and it feels like losing a close friend. I have lived thirty-eight years within her imagination. Her words have sent me to places I have never physically been. She has inspired me and made me laugh. And I can’t imagine a future without the anticipation of a new Amelia Peabody or Vickie Bliss.  And that made me wonder how her family  was doing, and that got me thinking they are probably going through years and years of scraps of paper.

To her family, those scraps will be incomprehensible. I can hear them saying to each other ‘why did she keep that?’. I bet those scraps will make them shake their heads, cry, laugh, and grieve together. But only the writer who saved the snippet will understand the reason.

Someday my son will probably be found kneeling by boxes trying to figure out why in the world his mother kept a list of true things police officers have said to people they pull over (I might have a character in that situation some day), or a very tattered book called 2000 Baby Names (character names). Or maybe the book on how people lived in the 1800s (I think I have a western story in me some where).

I am willing to bet Elizabeth Peter’s family decides to hold on to some of those scraps.

Because even if the reason is unknown, they will still understand that words were of value to the writer.

Rest in Peace, Elizabeth, surrounded by stories.

The Peace of Wild Things

/ Lisa / 5 Comments

I’m currently working on a couple of projects, and feel a third one rumbling around inside.

In the middle of that productivity though, I pulled out a story I started around fifteen years ago. It was my very first complete manuscript, the very first one I wrote a synopsis for, the very first one I marketed. Of course it went nowhere. But there are some specific fellow writers, who periodically bring that story up and talk about how much they liked it. So this past weekend, I retrieved it.

You know, the premise is pretty good. I still like the characters. I love the setting. There are significant problems with it though. Not enough subplots (as in, none), not enough characters to carry a mystery, and a few scenes completely implausible. In spite of that, there’s a glowing center, like a gem, waiting to be polished.

I’ve done plenty of editing, for myself and for others. But that seems like tweaking and fine tuning. Some of my stuff has needed more editing than others, but the underlying structure was sound. This story is more like a major overhaul. Where, if it was a car, you’d be debating about the repair bill becoming a down payment instead.

I started in on it, thinking it wouldn’t be so bad, but…well…it is. Added to that, I find myself forgetting that I’m editing, and end up reading as if I’ve just found an old friend I need to catch up with. It’s a lot of fun reading, but not much work gets done.

Which makes me wonder what the best way is, to do such a significant rewrite. This will be way beyond editing. I imagine some would simply set it back in its dark box and start all over. I’d prefer not to do that though. There are some good stretches amid the problems.

Reading may be a good idea at this point after all. Settling in and going through it beginning to end, just to remember the story. And then, I think I may need to print it out so I can see the grand overall view rather than a single page at a time on the laptop. That way I may be able to shift around, move chapters, insert new stuff, cut out old. Wow. That’s going to be so much work.

And of course there’s the question, why bother when I have new stories starting? It’s almost like friendship. Why hang around with old friends when new ones are more exciting and still to be discovered? I learned the error of that many, many years ago. There is a priceless value in our old friends.

So what would your process be in such a major restructuring?

The title I chose for this one, so many years ago, was The Peace of Wild Things, taken from the poem of the same name by Wendell Berry. I still love that poem and I still love the title.

Below is a link to a song that I listened to often while writing The Peace of Wild Things. The tune is quite old, but when I hear it, I fall back into the words of this familiar story friend.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zTa0AM6-GCw

Tension?

/ Lisa / 3 Comments

I’ve mentioned before how I usually know the ending of a story before I know anything else about it. I end up writing my way to the very last line, which is always there during the process.

I’ve also mentioned before what my theory is on stories. That they are all around me, and really, really want to be told and don’t care how they’re told. So if I outline, or talk about a story before I’ve finished writing it, then it’s been told. The story is happy and it goes away and I’ll never finish it. Which is why I’m careful not to talk a lot about a work in progress.

So this week, while visiting with my friend Jenni, we got to talking about the writing process and I realized that my two comments above are connected in a way. If I don’t know the ending, there’s no tension. If I talk about a story, basically tell it instead of writing it, there’s no tension. And without that tension, I won’t write.

That got me wondering if ‘tension’ is the right word. Could it be anticipation? Is it the mystery of the unknown? Not knowing the story, discovering it as I write it?

Well, what’s the definition of ‘tension’? Skipping over to an online dictionary I find the expected definitions of stretching and tightening. But then I also find this: ‘a balance maintained in an artistic work between opposing forces or elements’ and ‘an inner striving, unrest, or imbalance…’.

For all you artistic types out there (not just writers), isn’t that what it feels like before the project is finished? A simmering sense of anticipation, inner striving toward something unknown, and a lack of balance? These things, I think, are what drives someone to create. Would I take the time out of my busy life to write 100,000 words if I wasn’t striving toward fulfilling the anticipation, toward finding that balance? Think of the huge, heavy mental sigh you give when your creativity is captured on paper or canvas or even in your job.  I know I usually am overwhelmingly relieved that I made it to that very last line before the story escaped.

So I guess ‘tension’ is a good word. However, I read a blog post a week or so ago about how, when you’re struggling to find just the perfect word in your story, and nothing seems to work, to use the definition instead. I agree with that because the phrase ‘an inner striving or unrest’ explains the writing process, for me at least, much better than ‘tension’.

How does it feel for you, before you pick up the pen, the paint brush, the crochet hook, the garden trowel, the hammer?