"Iyanla, Fix My Life, Too...(Please)"

As of this post, the first of my McGuinness / Pedregon series JERSEY DOGS is done with my round of edits, and awaiting the scrutiny of another author who wrote an e-book about the scourge the American school system has become. I'm excited; I've never had a beta reader before, and an editing one at that apart from a critique group (Considering my checkered history with critique groups, this might be a good thing. I don't know, I just might be too much a maverick to work that well with others. :)).

Life did its thing with me. Illnesses, finding time to get primal with sex, pay bills, raise kids and nurture pets, sleep, schedule in workouts. And fit in music practice. Yep, bringing back clarinetting--if it's not a word, it is now, LOL!--and working on better vocals. Both might help when I tour book clubs and need to speak before my audiences. Still plan on learning acoustic; I'm a lefty and I won't pay outrageous prices for the privilege of owning a left-handed sunburst. Plus I'm intrigued at Casper's joy and love of acoustic as much as I have for writing, music and singing.

It's interesting, this writing life. We get to play God, but sometimes not know our characters' reasons and motives why they do what they do. While channel surfing, I happened on Oprah's network show, "Iyanla, Fix My Life," hosted by Iyanla Vanzant. This broadcast featured a group of women bloggers from Chicago, dubbed "The Six Black Chicks," and in a nutshell, helps broken souls understand in layman's terms how to work through emotional minefields. She resonates with me as does the Bible; like Jesus came to the masses and had a following he loved, believed in, and broke down facts as they were regarding God's standards, she breaks down things in smart, (yes, emotional; this is Oprah, remember?!), resonating facts. No, there's no revival or come to Jesus moments in this series, but if it gets people open to other avenues to forgiveness . . . hey, well, God can use anybody.

This got me thinking: like Iyanla's fixed me in some spots I'm emotionally cracked in--and you are, too, don't front--so I do for my cast. I'm my characters' version of "Iyanla, fix my life, too . . . please."

Sounds hokey doesn't it? Maybe not. Part of writing is releasing something inside you the world might otherwise ridicule, misconstrue, misunderstand and turn against you. And unfortunately, they will, as insecurity and fear does that. But through your characters and my characters, we all have something to say and heal from. In this case, when one releases their imaginations in their otherwise voided minds, something beautiful might transform. It's a blast knowing I get to help a reader or another somebody move into the positive--or conversely, I'll feel heartbreak if something in my reads prompt a life to do something tragic. I know it's not personal, but the downside of playing a fictional God.

We all have stories, real and fictionalized. And whether or not you know it, you're your own "Iyanla." I think I just made my characters smile a little bit more broadly at this, in the Hell I'll out them through in the series.

Because the Creator of the Cosmos knows I can handle certain types of Hell, too.

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200 Miles

iTune Jam: "Show You The Love," by PTX andAlanis Morrissette's "'til you."

I freely admit not being around for eight months, if you're noting the dates accordingly. I let my mojo, my game, my fire, my dream, my steam, my love of the written word get away from me via haters, naysayers, points-of-view, and dream-thieves. Spinning my wheels. Running from the haters' shadows, my own ghosts ready to consume me. Pick your adage, chances are, I did it.

Not anymore.

It's hard enough for us writers not doubt our work, ourselves, be derided for what we do, mocked, scoffed at, wondering what your spouse, mother or friends would say. Or the mechanics need work, the plot, make a friendlier dog here, cut this part there out of need or someone else's vanity. Whatever the case, the opposition to your pinning down your imagination for another's literary enjoyment is frighteningly, criminally strong. You think you can fight it, but how do you fight general praise, specific negatives? Backhanded compliments? Covert insecurity disguised as helpful advice in an Erma Bombeck style? Hell, rejections are bad enough; you're weathering this?

I thought I was strong enough to do this, that I "had this, got this, everything was cool" when my hits came a week from my birthday past (and the last blog post) until roughly, well . . . now. It was anything but cool. What was I doing, trying to impose my imagination onto the landscape where Elmore Leonard, Mickey Spillane, Twain, Poe, C.S. Lewis, L'Engle, Grafton, Westlake, Baldacci graced? Really? You fool, breathing life into a cheeky, yet frightened teenager, scarred, but gifted jazz guitarist named Casper McGuinness in some dopey coming-of-age mystery? Yeah, right. Hang it up, it's not good enough--too verbose, too much IM or this wrong mechanic or questionable execution. Too, too, too, always that damned too. Go do something else.

This was my melancholy as I drove 200 miles from York PA to NYC. Multiple Edgar® Award winner Lawrence Block invited me to his book-signing of HIT ME via an e-mail subscriber roster, and said, "Can y'all come to my party?" in it. Hey, it was an implied "please" in the title, and an unusual gift from my guy to me for our 23rd wedding anniversary. Sure. Let's go. Never been to a signing with someone this industry famous, let's see what happens, I said skeptically, praying the grim evil disguised as lighting didn't strike twice.
I also didn't know a thing about Block but his story "And Miles I Go To Die" in an Ellery Queen Mysterymagazine monthly I'd read 2010. I loved it (go find it. No spoilers here, kids, sorry. *grin*) and his e-mails. Whatever. I died already, my "Casper McGuinness" side brooded, may as well begin spading fresh earth over me. Miles I go to . . . what, I didn't know. But I didn't want a repeater of a Saturday workshop I'd attended in April, 2012, that was sure. And I really was expecting a party; the e-mail was decked out for one. There'd better be a party; on the drive over, my husband more or less informed me to schmooze, since we're not paying gas, tolls, and time for nothing. I didn't schmooze when I'd visited the Salmagundi Club in January, and that was the longest four hour drive home in life.

Yes, ladies, even husbands can sound like your mother . . . or his. :)

But The Mysterious Bookshop on 58 Warren Street, in a word, was: Wow. Not the step-down cellar Brian Koppelman had visited in 1980, but a cozy place filled with nothing but mysteries, suspense, true crime, and helpful, friendly staff. Me? A scared, wide-eyed kid on the first day of a new school, not knowing what to expect. But something clicked within me there . . . like the shop waited for someone like me, tentative, unsure, and scarred to walk in its doors to a place of help, wonder, and imaginations on the level of twisted logic bordering illegal.

I took in the cozy wonders, but I'm still guarded.

I asked afterOtto Penzler; he was on vacation, a sales staffer informed me. Bummer. I wanted to see if the shop owner looked like Stephen King, according to Brain's foreward in Block's Scudder storiesThe Night And The Music. Next time.

Book browsing, chairs were set within the store. Having seen similar arrangements in Barnes & Nobles venues, the guard comes down a bit more, and I think on a corkscrew skein, if they busted out finger-paints and ColorForms® right about then, they would've won over a skeptic.

Picked up four reads, took a seat, then began a conversation with a young Brooklyn yuppie who teaches by day, and helps kids play classical pieces in an orchestra at night. Just as sweet as she can be, Louise tells me, from a reader's standpoint, we need you writers' imaginations, so keep the stories coming. She's a big fan of Keller, the same Keller who's a hit man and a philatelist. Block's character also owns an Australian cattle dog named Nelson. I have an Aussie cattle dog. Cassie. Pretty sweet. She and Nelson met. They're going out. *grin*

So my inner-skeptic slides away when Block reads an excerpt from his newest release. The stamp-collector knows his treasures, its precision, that's for sure. And the ending hook in the open of that book said, "But first, he had to kill somebody." Talk about a punch in the belly or a smack upside the head. By Jove, hooks don't have to begin at the beginning! Okay, you'd argue, Block's been around since his first stories were in Playboy. And I'd argue back everyone's not the same . . . and I *might* begin my next (first) short read with, "It was a dark and kinky night."

The evening was a 90 minute, much-needed salve to a year's worth of abrasions. I fell in love with Block's Matt Scudder, seeing many similarities in Block's creation as in Casper (and Scudder's buddy's last name is Grogan, Casper's cousin's named Logan . . . Coincidence? I think not, but I won't lead you to any conclusions). On my son's suggestion, I asked Block to sign "Keep Calm & Write On" in When the Ginmill Closeswhile asking about his ghost story in EQ. But Instead he wrote, "To Missye, Hang in there! Lawrence Block."

My heartbeat's still bumping like I'd kissed my crush, and I left feeling as special as if I'd won an award. After reading Spillane's Hammer and Block's Scudder, my character's on the right track before I knew he already wasonthe right path. And that is award enough.

Thanks, Mr. Block, for your creations. Think I will hang around a while.

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Leap Of Faith

"I know you've heard it a thousand times before. But it's true - hard work pays off. If you want to be good, you have to practice, practice, practice. If you don't love something, then don't do it." and
"Jump, and you will find out how to unfold your wings as you fall." --Ray Bradbury (1920 - 2012) R.I.P. You will be missed, right alongside Harry Weiss, Dr. Seuss, Madelaine L'Engle, Jan Berenstein, Robert B. Parker, et al

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Technology and the NYC subway are man-made marvels. When they work, they're a joy and assumed they'll always be there.

Enter an act of God -- or a man-made SNAFU -- in either of these wonders, makes for an inconvenient nightmare. We have lives, bills to pay, one's four-month-old son's 12-hour diaper blew up three hours before. Let the wailing begin!

Whether trapped in a near-empty "F" train during a wicked snowstorm (which made a routine two-hour commute home in Brooklyn become five) or packing out boxes as recycled while listening to tired '70's cable channel tunes because a cell tower is being fixed for the third time that month, is not fun.

So, you adapt. And have the faith and confidence you can get home, the 'Net access will return, or do other things you only considered a pipe dream.

While organizing what-goes-where in the kitchen cupboards while waiting on my online connectivity, I received Hope Clark's e-mail via cell phone about self-publishing. She'd done the same with THE SHY WRITER before landing her deal with Bell Bridge Books for the Carolina Slade Mysteries. She mentioned "self-publishing is an investment in yourself if you don't want to wait on professionals investing in you or royalties to arrive. Traditional publishing, while you get the perks involved, do limit your freedoms regarding rights, how big your earnings will be and when and / or if you'll have a series or continued contract in the future." paraphrasing mine.

When I began JERSEY DOGS in 2005, I'd always known I'd self publish, the idea from Michael Baisden's MEN CRY IN THE DARK he'd self-published at the time. I knew I'd promote like mad, ask for local interviews, speaking engagements, and especially, talk with junior high and high school teachers, students their parents, and school and neighborhood librarians, and halfway house attendees for troubled kids about this book's importance.

But, I got scared. Huge.

"Self-publish?!? What?!?"

“You’re a Brown Marshmallow!:” Albinos Do Tan & You Can Edit!

You wrote the novel, the narrative nonfiction, the children’s book. Now you’re ready to celebrate for a job well done; not many finish that long a writing project and live to tell about it.

But . . . the work begins.

The folks who brought you National Novel Writing Month (www.nanowrimo.org) have a yearly challenge every March, interestingly titled National Novel Editing month. Like with NaNo, it’s a marathon of butt-in-chair-and-edit-your-novel for one solid month. I haven’t tried it (I have done NaNo) and honestly, I don’t plan to.

Unfortunately, tanning – especially those with albinism – isn’t quite the speed sport (?) they and others think it is. Depending on the severity of that albinism, some can and do tan very nicely, if done with proper care, courage and following the right advice (I do, and become the color of a brown egg or a lightly-toasted marshmallow). Go off on your own tangent, the latter makes this venture a sunburned-stinging failure (and trust me, where you’re your own night-light for a few days after too much sun, it isn’t pretty and makes life damn miserable) in editing and in the early, deadly stages of skin cancer and irreversible sun damage.

• Don’t Be Scared To Tan – Or Edit! – So your first few tries outdoors during high sunshine time or too long in the tan bed with oil instead of sunscreen got you a wicked burn – or worse: blisters, second-and-third-degree burns or freckles – the malignant kind. You changed one typo or deleted one sentence from your much-too-long children’s book or 200K word novel. You want to cry from the rejection letters, but your face hurts too much to shed tears. Lesson learned: EDUCATE YOURSELF! Know your skin type. Talk to those who’ve burned before you, doctors, research online. Find a great editor in your local library or local school district. Find a college kid you’re willing to barter with to read your work or get in or form your own critique group to receive input. You’re too close to your work to see its flaws. Don’t be too proud to ask for help and get tips on how to GRADUALLY get the sun-kissed glow you’re after – in the same token, it takes humility to know when your work isn’t great on its first run. As previously mentioned, this does happen, as does with those who tan in a bonfire. That’s the exception. And it ain’t you.

• Editing The Mechanics – And Don’t Skimp on Tanning 101 – If your strength is in grammar, spelling and punctuation and you’ve got this, by all means, then edit that. Tanning, even for those of us with albinism who can do it, isn’t a one-day-and-done affair, either. I can sit in the sun once a day, every day, for a half hour of exposing both sides, then on goes the sunscreen. I don’t go a minute longer than that; ego kicks in, then I’ll go five minutes over my limit when I’m not used to that . . . and I sing the blues when I’m glowing like a night-light later that night. Same for what I’m good with in editing my own stuff; I don’t see my characters not acting as they should or saying something they should, and didn’t. Stick with what you know learn it well, then carefully venture past the familiar.

• We All Can’t Have “The Toasted Marshmallow” Glow – Or Can’t Edit -- Let’s be honest: if you can’t edit your work – which takes skill, patience and practice – just like if you weren’t meant to tan and burn under too strong a spotlight, by all means, DON’T DO IT! Don’t frazzle yourself if you’ll never tan or can’t edit yourself. While it’s good as a writer you should have this skill, it’s not written in stone you must have it. If you don’t, learn. If you can’t, pay someone to do it, but make sure you go into that angle of writing informed, aware and knowing what you want your product’s end result to be. The upshot in never tanning: you’ll never burn and are super-careful when outdoors. The upshot in never learning to edit: you don’t have a nagging inner editor telling you to shut up. Besides, the self-doubt critic is hogging that spot and it’s not shoving over anytime soon.

We all have limitations. If you’ve done the tanning and editing basics and still found yourself a hot, red-glowing mess and your writing project in worse shape than what you’ve created, let it go on both counts. Spend time building the strengths you have – milky-white skin the tales of romance are built around and how you design a piece of prose – and embrace this. This is the sign of a growing writer – and as a person.

Unlike peeling away burned skin, that’s not time wasted at all.

~ Missye

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Color My World
originally posted: May 2, 2012

Not the Chicago tune, but one of albinism and self-acceptance.

My mother dyed my hair when I was seven, after waiting to do it when I was three (but if she took this advice to wait until I was older, why not have taken this advice to not do it at all? The world may never know). Kids teased my sibling and me because we’re albinos. In hindsight, I think my mother made a huge mistake changing something I’d been destined with. Later in life, this coloring would affect me deeper than the best intentions justified. I’ll discuss my albinism in blog posts from time to time in relation to the writing (and on occasion) the fitness life. It’s a different spin on the writing life most wouldn't think to relate to and to be honest, it’s high time someone in the albinism community and with this condition put a positive spin on it in action for a change.

My years' long, two-to-four week hair-do ritual forced a choice: do I leave the color in and go natural —- not easy, since I lived in an AZ town with less than 10K in populace during the 1980s and I didn’t dare do “ethnic” with cornrows, dreads or twists —- or did I perm it and let the white-blonde turn “doll-hair yellow”?

I did both. Same with my writing, in purple prose and stripped to a dirty limerick version of Dr. Seuss. Both didn’t have the effect I’d believed it would.

Purple prose is my writing crutch. I read a lot of lit fiction and in like coloring my hair, was what I knew to do. A high school English teacher -- Donald Finnicum to be exact, God rest him -- told me numerous times I wrote well, but begged I cull the superfluous. I dug in my heels, declared I’d never edit myself and, in a fit of anger, I went the other extreme and pared my writing down in a jibe at him via a Dr. Seuss/Dick-and-Jane limerick. He flunked me -- not for the writing, but for being a wiseass. Little did I know how many years I egotistically wasted not following his advice. Arrogance tends to blind -- not albinism-related legal blindness -- one to that much simplicity.

“Oh, I can’t edit myself, I’ll lose my voice if I do,” you may declare. Untrue. If you don’t or won’t edit the excess, in fear of losing the voice, you risk becoming an editor’s and agent’s worst nightmare. You want the glory without the revision work, you won’t accept serious, non-hobby-dabbling unpublished writers in your Yahoogroups you ask for outrageous speaking fees to accept an award. Or you're a smart-alecks in talks and the writing reflects this. I thought like this until recently. And though I’ve divorced Miss Clairol years ago, surely I can do the same with purple prose or snarky, pared-down writing, right? I had to. Both moves took balls. Many writers won’t shed their insecurities for reasons they may never address, and I didn’t want to be part of that statistic. Know you, know yourself -- especially if you’re reading you in these words.

When I asked Hope Clark, the minimalist writer on her LOWCOUNTRY BRIBE book tour-stop to a Pennsylvania local writers group, how I’d turn my albinism into a writing lesson, she suggested I begin small. Small, how, I wondered? I don’t do small! I mean, c’mon, we’re talking about albinism and writing here, are you kidding? These topics are HUGE!

The answer came in a phone call from my auntie that Saturday night with a memory and a picture of my late mom with me. Auntie said she and my Granny told my mother to never cover my hair color when she wanted to do it when I was three. It was too pretty to hide, they both said. But she didn’t listen for her own reasons I learned much later. Still . . . for the second time that day, I tried not to cry. An idea dawned through the emotions, and this post came to be.

Four ladies at the Saturday workshop loved my hair so much one called it “silly pasta.” Little kids sometimes tell me it’s the color of “air-popped popcorn” or “polar-bear hair.” The CAROLINA SLADE MYSTERY author mentioned there’s nothing wrong with my lit style, just don’t overdo the lyrical in my lit prose and the plot through it with crimson verbosity (paraphrasing mine). Sage advice I’ll carry until God calls me home.

I now love what I’m born with, don't color my locks anymore and shameless in killing OTT writing. The simplicity in my natural hair color and streamlined lit prose is more gorgeous than I first gave it credit for. Enjoy your writing. Just make sure it never gets bigger than the story is.

Oh, Miss Clairol and the Preference, Feria and Garnier Sisters? I'll always wish them well. Although that book in my life is over, its story will never be forgotten.

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5 Pushup Forms -- Of Revsion
originally posted: April 23, 2012

Most folks have a love / hate relationship with pushups. The struggle to heave bodyweight away from the floor mocks many. Echoes of laughter and scorn from other kids during school-mandated P.E. classes because you (and I) couldn't do them rang in the ears. But to get in shape and healthier, it was and is an inevitable part of the fitness life.

Revising a novel also holds true. What, you? Pshaw! Sacrilege! Heretic! Some novelists only had to revise their works twice, and it is gold! Some were born with gleaming, buff muscles! (And I can assure you, they're the rare exception, not the rule, and neither is it for me or you). Every word on the page is gold and no way does anything get cut. Cleaning spelling and grammar is a given ("Sure, I'll walk the dog for ten minutes, no problem!"). But plot-holes, crafting more likable characters, less "Snidely Whiplash-esque" villains, cutting scenes unrelated to the story even if it's your best writing. Liken it to purging your cabinets of the secret stash of emergency Mallomars that beg you to not drown them in Windex as they languish in the trashbin while you sweat buckets doing three toes-only pushups.

Now let's get to work.

Follow these five tips to get where you want to be regarding pushups and revisions, making the bet YOU -- and your prose -- around:

1. Knees-Only Pushups / Only Spell-Check Your Work --
If you can't get in one traditional pushup, there's no shame in dropping to your knees. Hands under your shoulders, place your knees on the rolled towel or yoga mat so your bum isn't in the air, and push your upper half up and down until exhausted. So goes for spell-checking your work. Don't rely on MS Word or your own spelling knowledge, either; have a dictionary (or a Scripps National Spelling Bee champion) handy. In both cases, don't forget to breathe. It does get easier.

2. Side-Tri-Rises / Read Your Work Aloud --
Lie on the floor, on your side. Your hand NOT on the floor is the one you'll use to push your upper half as high as you can lift, then lower yourself. Do as many as you're able. Switch sides. Read your stuff out loud to yourself. You'll be surprised how many typos and awkward sentence construction you'll catch, as well as some gem writing lines that'll make you gasp with surprise, laugh or tug at your heartstrings some. Another surprise you may find with these pushups: you're stronger than first thought.

3. Pikes (Presses) / Spikes --
Stand with feet flat on the ground, bend forward, hands also on the ground. Drive the top of your head to the floor, then push back up (Sorry, no knees here, but it's not on your toes, right?). Repeat until done, even if it's only one. There comes a time when, as good as the writing might be for the work involved, it doesn't fit, it's not working, you know in your heart it won't go, your critique partners aren't in favor of it, no matter what you've changed around it. You have to spike that part of or ALL the story, chapter, character, scene, paragraph or line. Eventually, it'll be leaner, tighter, you like the changes, flow more seamlessly and ultimately, it make sense and reads clean to your reader.

4. Traditional Pushups / Re-read and Keep Going Until Error-Free --
By now, you're sore, sick and tired of pushups, you can only STILL do less than five on your toes and "when the hell does it STOP hurting!?!" Well, never. That's the bad news. The good news: you're stronger, your shoulders are looking FIERCE and so is your work. But you're sick of reading it, too, and with that, comes less objectivity, more ego and more emotions. Take rest days in revising you work and doing pushups and do something else. Work on another story, or do squats. Run with the dog or paint-splatter your daughter's first grade class t-shirts. After a few days -- and ONLY a few days -- go back to the pushups / revision project. I'll bet you're not only stronger, but are okay with ditching it entirely and starting the work anew, or like where you left off and have fresh ideas to improve it more. Dare I say it? You braved and did four traditional pushups! Nice job!

5. Pushup Jacks / Get a 2nd Opinion -- Hands under shoulders as you're in a traditional pushup stance on the floor. Lower your body, but jump your legs out like you're doing vertical jumping jacks. Send your work to a well-trusted beta reader/critique partner and glean their feedback on your writing strengths and what needs improving or elimination in the project. Be honest in receiving this feedback -- and in this case, as with the pushup jacks, breathe.

Oh, HELL, no! Another set of eyes seeing this hot mess of a work / pushup jacks?!? Me?

That's why you're stronger. You can do this, in revising and in pushups. And you're not as bad in either one, but you won't know until you try, fail and try again. I'll wager that the more griping done about pushups or revisions you do, the more of BOTH you should do. Worked tons of times for me, because even I got tired of my own whining!

What're some tips / tricks for your pushups and / or methods for revisions? Share them here!

~ Missye

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I love feedback and read every comment. Please post your thoughts on this / other topics; I will reply in kind. If you prefer anonymity, that's fine, too. Be tasteful, however, as professionalism carries farther than ill-mannerism does. Thank you for understanding.

Ms. Clarke is a fulltime writer building her mystery series, The McGuinness/Pedregon Chronicles. When not homeschooling her son or involved with writing-related projects, she helps helps and engages people to embrace a healthier, enriched life through nutrition and exercise. Ms. Clarke is a blog poster to her portal on Publisher's Marketplace and future sites, spends too much on Facebook and a contributor to help colleagues shape and polish their works-in-progress.