The Difference a Conference Makes: Writing for the Market?

The short answer is, don’t do it.

I just got back from the Solstice Summer Writers’ Conference in Massachusetts, and boy did it help me get back on the writing track. Well, the truth is, the conference was the start. I have to credit Betsy Lerner as well. The first chapter in her book The Forest for the Trees: An Editor’s Advice to Writers is “The Ambivalent Writer.” I never used to be ambivalent about writing; I didn’t have time. Lately, though, I’ve been spinning my wheels, and after finishing two novels, started three others. The one I decided to finish writing was the most market-driven. After half a dozen chapters, I bogged down. The subject (nuclear waste) was overwhelming and the genre (suspense) stifling. What was the problem? Mostly, that I was writing for the market.

While at the conference, I asked writers whether they wrote for the market. Essentially, the answer was no. Everybody’s aware of the market, and everybody knows there’s no room for schlock. But none of these writers was sitting there saying, hey, what can I write that will sell? There’s a word for that. When I got home and sat down to decide which of the three novels I would commit to, I recalled the chapter from Lerner’s book. When I reread it, here’s what struck me: “People who try to figure out what’s hot and recreate it are as close to delusional as you can get.” I recall laughing when I first read that. I wasn’t laughing now.

There’s no way to really apply this logic, except maybe to bear in mind that writing a novel is a long-term relationship. Integrity is key; so is involving yourself only if you can commit. If you don’t, it won’t work.

How’s it going with you?

A Tale of Two Stories: Alternate Realities

I just read Life of Pi and found it interesting on many levels, not the least of which is the two-story concept—if you don't like how one life story goes, make up another.

It struck me that we all live two lives—the one we actually live and the one we tell ourselves we're living. Of course, this translates to the writing life. If we didn't believe we'd be published, few of us would keep writing. Through the vehicle of our imagination, we tell ourselves how life will go and what its outcome will be.

Also in the writing life is the concept of creative duality, especially in endings. Charles Dickens originally wrote a different ending for Great Expectations but changed it on the advice of a friend to make it more satisfying to readers. In Life of Pi, the writer intentionally provides a second story for readers to consider. Why? Maybe so that we’ll see something of ourselves, as in a mirror darkly. It’s an interesting writing technique—this concept of duality, and one we can employ for contrast like a Rembrandt where light and dark are so clearly what they are because they’re presented side by side.

At one point, Pi, the overarching narrator in Life of Pi, asks the two men whom he has told his story which is better. Both say the more palatable story is better, the one easier on the heart. Pi responds, “And so it goes with God,” as if God has created two stories of our lives, one easier to take because it’s not real and one harder to take because it is. I, too, found Pi’s easier story better, maybe in part because it was the story I was told all along. Only in the end does suspicion arise that this was not what really happened.

One thing, however, is clear—duality makes for a powerful creative tool. The author used it to convey a truth that was evidenced in a paragraph on fear midway through the novel. “real fear … seeks to rot everything … so you must fight hard to express it … to shine the light of words upon it … if you don’t … you open yourself to further attacks of fear because you never truly fought the opponent who defeated you.”

So, instead of being afraid to create, let’s shine the light of words on the next blank page.

For a way to put today's musing into action, check out the writing tip at the top of the list. As always, let us know how it goes.

Escape: Oh, to Fly Away

This has been a tough week, as weeks go, with deadlines and drama at every turn, and I continually found myself thinking — oh, that I had the wings of a dove, I would fly away and be at rest, far from the tempest and storm.

The words aren’t mine, though in a way I own them; they’re from the Psalms, 55 to be exact, and they capture that sense of angst that comes from being caught between a place one has to be and a place one longs to be. This week I longed to be almost anywhere besides in my own life.

The gut-wrenching emotional tug of war at times like this is that life doesn’t stop — it actually has the nerve to keep going. Now I know why my uncle kept murmuring, “Stop the world, I want to get off,” while he was getting a divorce. The words are from a 1960s musical, and a lot of people in those days wanted to get off the word, one way or another.

Normally, around this time of year I’d be visiting family in Italy. Instead I’m preparing for a writer’s conference where I’ll be working. I’m not sure it was the wisest choice, but at least I’m not presenting at this one.

The bottom line is, it’s simply not possible to live your life and stop to write, too — the age-old cake story. But it is possible to stop a moment when the sun does shine (it’s been raining for a lifetime in Connecticut). And with that pause that refreshes, I can go back to the business of living and writing, still feeling the tug of both, although a bit more bearable.

For a way to put today’s musing into motion, see the writing tip at the top of the list.
As always, let me know how it goes.

When the Writing Comes Well

I have a wonderful book called Flannery O'Connor, Images of Grace that never fails to encourage. It's clear that O'Connor's struggle with writing, lupus and matters of faith were intertwined, that cord of three strands not easily broken. Her honesty about illness ("I'm sick and tired of being sick and tired") and the hardship of writing ("Sometimes I work for months and have to throw everything away") have a purgative effect.

I guess I wasn't surprised to hear her attitude toward writing as a discipline (she wrote daily). It's not unusual to hear the word "discipline" attributed to a bygone era — but hearing someone who left a writing legacy say the obvious — that writing is work, is like hearing someone finally say, "Hey, you know what, the king has no clothes on." Everybody takes a cleansing breath.

So, writing is work. And so is editing. All art is work. And sometimes the only reward for work seems to be more of it. Still, O'Connor emphasized the importance of rigor when it comes to writing. The rest of the quote for June is that talent "… is simply something that has to be assisted all the time by physical and mental habits or it dries up and blows away." Habits like reading and writing continually. O'Connor wrote daily and was honest about how hard it was. "I write only about two hours every day because that's all the energy I have, but I don't let anything interfere with those two hours." She was right about the discipline — when I go more than two days without having written, I lose the thread of the story and the skill in weaving it.

Yet, O'Connor found it important to keep up the habit of writing, even amid the sense of futility, ultimately because she didn't believe the effort was futile. Even after working for months and still having to throw everything away. "I don't think any of that was time wasted. Something goes on that makes it easier when [the writing] does come well." And that's the sense of satisfaction — when the writing comes well.

"Champagne and Strawberries," by Chuck Scott

We were drinking champagne and losing our shirts. Well, technically we were loosening our shirts button by button, but it was obvious to all around us that ultimately the shirts were on their way to becoming untethered to our bodies as we sat pool side in Puerto Vallarta drinking Veuve Clicquot champagne flavored with fresh strawberries.

Once upon a time, Veuve Clicquot was a premium champagne but then they sold out to a big conglomerate. Thus that once famous orange bottle, previously known as the best buy for carefully cultivated bubbly, is now known in the beverage trade as "agent orange" given how said conglomerate buys any-old grapes from any-old vineyard. Regardless, our bubblies were mildly chilled and a delight to sip on that hot afternoon.

Sharon actually liked the idea of losing her shirt as she was sporting a bright orange bikini under her gorgeously simple, white flowing shirt — one with a full column of ten handmade wooden buttons in the front. I had only three buttons on my lime green polo shirt. Obviously my torso could not compete with her perfectly sculpted curves endowed by mother nature and years of working out. But yes, one could say I too liked the idea of shirt losing provided it was mutual.

It was Sharon's idea to start a game of spin the empty Perrier water bottle while waiting for lunch. The premise started simply enough in that with each successful spin the opposing partner would loosen a button and when all buttons were open, off came the shirt. And yet each button held a mystical power that once loosened, started to reveal the increasing desires of flesh. Powerful desires that began to bubble to the surface akin to the bubbles in our fluted glasses — slowly, gently, freely, twinkling on their rise to the surface.

Luck was on my side that afternoon as Sharon had lost eight of her ten buttons while I still had two of mine. This luck might have had something to do with my right knee propped under the table in such a way that I was able to tilt the table a hair, thereby influencing the bottle spins ever so gently. So even though Sharon had started with a button head start, there we sat even with two buttons each to go when lunch arrived.

We ate our food, laughed with the oceans breezes, toasted our new record deal, then ordered another bottle of agent orange to go. We paid our bill, grabbed the new bottle and headed back to our private bungalow. Once there, we kept our focus for the next 20 minutes and penned our new song, then we lost our shirts and gave into desire.

Okay, the song title is still a work in progress but you get the idea, "We lost our shirts to set our minds free so our bodies could surf souls intoxicated with agent orange."

"A Subtle Good-Bye," by Lalitha Jonnal

Then I stopped in front of him for a moment, not being able to say anything. He sat on the cement bench that circled a shade tree, pondering, sitting in a lotus position, eyes gazing far away. Most of the people around me were teary eyed and sniffling away their sadness as the farewell music piped through all the loudspeakers in the yard. I looked up at his face…into his eyes…

"I will be back Babu," I said softly as my sorrow shut my voice. Tears that were hiding behind my eyes poured out, drop by drop. A brief nod was his only answer…no tears or words. But as I turned away, the corner of my eye caught his wink, just a glimpse. That was our secret for many years when I was growing up. Whenever I expressed fear or sadness, he would wave his palm over my head in a wide arc and murmur, "Shoo, shoo, go away. Never come another day."

The music made everyone cry…the song was about saying goodbye to a daughter as she went to her mother-in-law's house for the first time after her wedding. My husband stood by my side…part of him feeling the melancholy and the other part feeling angry about my crying, maybe. So many complicated emotions held in that moment. My mother stood aside…happily smiling that finally I got married, but crying too.

Father's nod had so many meanings, I understand today. He had to give his oldest daughter away and send her to a place ten thousand miles away, with a stranger. Somewhere in his heart he knew this stranger would take good care of his first-born.

I listened to this assurance and trusted him, to be taken away to America not knowing anything about America or my new husband!

Father's nod…such a subtle good bye! He knew that we maybe distancing ourselves but he would always be close to me. Maybe in his silence, many promises were held. Today after thirty years of that goodbye and twenty years of his passing away, I recognize his promises in hundreds of moments. "I will always be with you"… "Think of me when you pray and I will be there giving you answers" … "I will explain the universe to you so you will feel close to god"… "Tell me what makes you sad…I will help to ease it away"

I have physically felt his comforting assurance around me. His spiritual, philosophical words ring in my ears and bring a knowing smile in my heart. Sometimes I hear him laugh at my childish thoughts.

Now I understand why his goodbye was very subtle and simple…he never intended to say it…he could not say it… his love for me was too much for that…he was always going to be close to me. Yes, that was definitely a wink.

A Year Later

Kris suggested that we go celebrate...drink, dine and dance. I was new to all of this...never drank or ever danced. As tears filled my eyes with hesitation, he hugged me and whispered, "Sweet heart, this is a new country...a new way of life." A gentle man's gentle plea. So, I picked a red saree with little black flowers. My husband 'ooh'ed and sat on the bed to watch me dress, but I walked into our huge closet as he laughed at my shyness.

I came out a few minutes later and stood in front of him.

"You are gorgeous." His eyes smiled. I looked away shyly, avoiding the sweet desire in his eyes. He looked dapper in his suit.

We drove to the restaurant and sat at a corner table, overlooking the pond.

He ordered a bottle of champagne, winking at me. We ordered our favorite South Indian Thalis. Spicy aromas wafted from many small steel bowls filled with different dishes, around a mound of fragrant basmati rice. We ate it all.

Then we shared a bowl of mango ice cream, licking our spoons and smacking our lips. After paying the bill, he led me onto the back porch and we ended up at the edge of the pond. Dropping his jacket on a small rock, he whispered, "This is where we dance, away from the others, just you and me."

I was shy, but filled with a love so sweet! Taking my hands, he twirled me around, eyes roving with desire. I just followed him. After a while, we stood together, holding hands in silent joy.

He removed his shirt and then the T-shirt underneath. Hugging me close, he whispered, "traditions' and pulled the T-shirt down over my head. Taking out the half-done bottle of Champagne from his pants' pocket, he took a few sips and handed it to my lips. I drank. Then he took my hands and twirled me around as giggles burst out into the night from a light and happy face.

We were exhausted and giddy. He removed his shirt, and holding it high above his head, he threw it into the air. I took my T-shirt off too. A giggle escaped as I lifted it up and threw it as far as I could.

He lifted my chin. I thought, for a kiss. He lifted it higher and pointed to the bright full moon, showering us in cool splendor. As I turned back to his face, out of the corner of my eye, I saw the moon wink. Yes, I am sure of it. Just like a year ago, my father winked, telling me to be happy with a good man. How did the moon know that? Probably my father told the moon ten hours ago, that it was our special night and to look out for us.

That special wink! Could I ever forget?

A Few Years Later

When she thought no one was looking, little Maya softly toddled to my open purse and emptied it all over the kitchen floor. She took out the lipstick and marked all over her face… a hit and miss game at her lips. Vermilion squiggles and dots galore, she grabbed the soft Kleenex, wiped it around. Her face now looked like the sunset in sky. She dipped her fingers deeper into the purse and pulled them up high,

brought up nickels, pennies and dimes as her pudgy little fingers counted again and again, "One," "Two'", "Seven'," "Ten," and a jubilant "Hundred."

Pride, fear, joy and hope could be seen, possibly some dreams of turning the candy machine.

Picking up my key bunch, she ran to the door and jiggled and jaggled, cheeks puffed with such will. The door did not budge, so she came back to her till and picked a few hair things and played with her curls.

Then she opened my compact and looked at her face and the stranger in there scared the hell out of her. Tiny screams filled the air and tears ran down her cheeks.

"Mommee…" She ran blindly all over the house. I could not stop laughing and hearing my voice, my giggles and "Ohs," she ran to the curtain behind which I was hiding. I picked her up, hugging and kissing, her makeup and all.
We sat next to the window, rocking till her screams subsided and slowly smiles ran across her chubby mouth. I did not notice when she had fallen asleep and I too lazily leaned on the armrest of the couch and joined in her dreams.

The door opened and woke me up. My husband stood in front of us, looking down with much love and joy in his eyes. As a loud laugh escaped his lips, I put my finger on mine and hushed him. He bent over and kissed my lips and asked, "Mmm, which one is this?"

I pointed to my purse, where different lipsticks lay open with their creamy insides all flattened. Then I nudged my daughter's face that was hiding in my heart, toward him. He sat down and brought his arms around us.

Time passed and my daughter wiggled in my lap. Feeling daddy's hairy arms around her, she leaned over and gave a big smooch on his lips. He winked, the new thing he had been teaching her, to tease me together. She winked back with glee. I ran my tongue over my lips and 'Oooh'…the taste of all that lipstick…how could I ever forget?

And the winks! They remind me of the day I left my dad's home… of the night I threw away my shirt and danced in the moonlight as the moon winked back at me with the blessings of my father. And today's winks, of my daughter and my husband…they continue to remind me of the love that has filled my life.

Twenty Years Later

My little baby is all grown up and in her white wedding sari. My husband and I stand in front of her and my new son-in-law…ready for the big hug of the biggest moment in her life. She is happy and brimming with laughter. But her eyes are misted. The old mental image of the young me leaving my father's house, as he seat at the foot of the big banyan tree…came back to me, swift and sad.

What is it that makes this universe continue the way it does? Men and women…coming together…bringing more souls onto this earth to do the same things that they have done! I am happy too…but only for her. My sorrow is for myself…from now on, our conversations will not be only about the three of us that have been a family for the last two decades. Her husband will be the center of her heart, soul, conversations…everything. Just like it should be…for eternal love to grow into the strongest tie that will keep them together till the end of life.

I look at my husband and I see in his eyes, the pain of saying good-bye. I hold his hand tight, enough to hurt, to forget the pain.

He squeezes it back and his eyes tell me something more. They tell me that he now understands what my father felt for me…finally…his 'Aha moment'. It is funny how, all the lecturing I might have tried to do, to make him understand that I was not sad to go with him…that it was only for leaving my family of decades till then…was never enough. Only this moment was. I should have just waited. But I did not think of this till now. We all imagine only the sweet moments we all want to experience. Who really imagines the sorrows of life?

The newly weds stand in front of us and bend down to touch our feet for a blessing. The ancient Indian custom is filled with respect and love from both the giver and receiver of a blessing. My son-in-law is not from India, but somewhere deep inside in him, there is a reverence for all that is good and beautiful in this universe. He surrendered to that and to a happy future that would bring more blessings…of love, peace and joy.

My husband laughed through his tears as he picked them both up and hugged them together.

"Group hug, mom," my daughter gathered me inside…and winked. I think she remembered her grandfather doing it. I think his love has flowed into my heart once again.

I also felt that he conveyed one more message. No more winks from him. Now that has been passed on to my husband…he will be the one taking care of all my loving needs. Now that I have grown up, with a grown up daughter of my own, my husband will wink and that will mean his total and eternal love for me.

Aah…life is like this.

It passes as fast as a wink, but it brings fun and laughter.

Now, there is nothing to feel sad, I realized. She has brought all of us together, rather than walking away from the two who gave her life and helped her become the wonderful human being that she has.

Out My Window: Seeing Clearly

Generally, my writing space is pretty dismal. Oh, it's a nice enough room, as rooms go, but it's glacial in winter and blistering in summer. It used to be a porch, so there's no insulation. But there are windows. So, you’d think there would be light here. There is, but not in early morning.

If you're a morning person or even if you're not, you know the importance of that first hour. Especially if you're stumbling out of the bedroom (even after coffee) to sit down and write, hobbling into a cold, dark tomb of a writing space doesn't help. Because in those first hours, even with windows, my writing room is dark. My soul feels dark, too.

One advantage of this is that the inner darkness, partly inspired by, partly caused by the outer darkness, has a settling effect. It weights me, emotionally, to my writing chair. Since there's nothing else, I'm left to write, until the day opens up and the light comes, which can take hours, and in winter seems on some days not to happen at all. It makes me consider how important seeing, even when it's not with outward vision, is to writing, not to mention everything else.

In the book Writing Fiction, a Guide to Narrative Craft, Janet Burroway writes this in the chapter on showing versus telling. "The points to be made here are two, and they are both important. The first is that the writer must deal in sense detail. The second is that these must the details 'that matter.'"

At the moment, it's midday and the sun is shining, the neighbor's white dogwood is in bloom, birds are singing and the row of hemlock bushes is greening. Amazing what you can see when there's light.

How does what you see, or don't see, in your writing space, whether it's a formal office or a space in Starbucks, affect you?

For a way to put today's musing into action, check out the writing tip at the top of the list.

Let me know how it goes.

Everlasting Vision, Ever-Changing View

I’d like to thank author and teacher Jamie Cat Callan for being our guest blogger and instructor for April. We’re looking over the contest entries and will choose a winner by the end of this month.

It strikes me as I read over Jamie’s posts and think back to the days when I studied with her at Fairfield University how important those first classes were. Those were fragile, special times when a budding writer and editor could easily have been crushed. Some of us were sharing our work publicly for the first time, but Jamie made it safe. She had a way of listening not only to what we writers of varied backgrounds and talents were saying, but what we wanted to say and often had trouble expressing. By listening with the heart, she would compliment us whenever we came up with something, anything, decent, then gently steer us out into deeper waters. Those were nurturing times and essential for writers who are starting out or starting over, with second or third or fourth careers.

Those times also were preparatory for tougher days, when competition would become stiff and sharp-edged, with no time to dwell on the writing over a cup of tea. The tea gets put aside and grows cold quickly as the many responsibilities of writing as a vocation or an avocation clamor to be met. Now it’s coffee on the go, because tea isn’t strong enough anymore, and coffee seems more portable.

That’s why it’s refreshing to rediscover the tools Jamie shared with us and the right-brain-ness of her technique. She found a way to encourage the outlandish while directing it toward something workable. She could take the threads of thought from our often tangled writing and show how they could be woven into an eclectically lovely tapestry. Then she taught us to see connections in the seeming randomness. It’s a wonderfully ethereal way to think that is easily suffocated in a puzzle piece culture where things seem like they always have to fit.

With wit and wisdom, Jamie’s ability to cultivate right-brain-ness became the essence of The Writer’s Toolkit. If you didn’t get a chance to check it out during the contest, take a look at the next time you’re in Borders. You’ll find within its quirkiness a way to approach writing that allows the work form but still lets it fly.

“My life has been a tapestry of rich and royal hue, an everlasting vision of the ever-changing view.” Carole King, from the album Tapestry.

Happy writing!