WRITING CREEPY | A Ghost Story Weekend

Come to find out that writing creepy is hard! I’d arrived at Ghost Story Weekend without an idea, thinking no biggie, something will come, it always does. On Friday night when most of the other 12 writers at the retreat tapped away, tap-tap-tap, on their short stories, and with only 24 hours to write a first draft, I found myself doing the Jack Nicholson:

“…I don’t know what to write I don’t know what to write. Image of a girl walking her dog…so stupid with no other character on the scene. But maybe the people in the houses — the people she sees through the windows are the creep-factors. Stepford-wife-like neighborhoods are creepy. So what would this girl be — blah! I don’t have an idea I don’t know what to write I don’t know what to write…”

About half of us sat in the haunted boathouse while the others wrote in the bungalows. When we’d met with our hostess, novelist Elizabeth Engstrom, earlier in the evening, I’d noticed that most of my fellow crazy people looked confident. Even the few who’d arrived without a story idea looked confident that they’d find and finish their stories. For some reason, I was stuck on the word “creepy.”

I wasn’t in a creepy mood. I was having too much fun reunionizing and meeting people, enjoying the unusually warm weather, relishing the time away from my moronic downstairs neighbors, and drinking red wine. If anything, I was in a sarcastic mood. I kept hearing a flippant little first-person voice poking fun at everything ghostly.

But…I was also torturing myself in classic writerly fashion: I must give creepy a try.

Saturday dawned cloudy with wind enough to stir Siltcoos Lake and set the boathouse to swaying. I had nothing. No revelations in the night despite the index cards and pen sitting next to my pillow. EFF-this, I thought, I’m going with my sarcastic voice. As long as my story contains some species of ghostly phenomena, I’m golden.

Then, what do you know, I had a blast writing my story. Now my desperation was all about finishing the draft by 6:00 p.m. that evening. I started with a voice and a setting — plus something to poke fun at: ghost hunters. Didn’t know where it was going, how to end it, or what the point of the whole thing was. After awhile, I didn’t care, and, in the end, I even managed a little creepiness.

Lessons learned or relearned?

1. Jump in, the story will follow. Sometimes it’s best not to think too hard about it.

2. Go with the voice in my head that’s yelling the loudest.

3. Creepiness comes when you least expect it.

My (Little) Taste of the Big-Time

Only one more left!
Only one more left!

On Friday night, C, K, and I went to a movie. It being C’s birthday, and because this was a girly-friend custom, C picked the movie (a creepy one, also a custom), which we ambled toward after happy-hour drinks and a little shopping.

It just so happened that we passed a Barnes & Noble on our way to the theatre. C and K were too cute, wanting to check out the anthology I’ve mentioned many times already (can’t get enough of it!) in its natural habitat.

I need to practice my signature -- this is the wobbly version
I need to practice my signature -- this is the wobbly version

Admittedly, I hadn’t thought to do this yet, so their enthusiasm grabbed me up too. We perused the “New Mystery” section, but, alas, we saw no sign of the anthology. We asked the information-desk lady, and she comfirmed that they had one copy left.

But where was this lone copy of TWO OF THE DEADLIEST? Answer: Up front on the “New Fiction” table! Too cool! I probably wouldn’t have said anything because of my horrifyingly dismal shameless-self-promotion skills, but K mentioned that I was a contributor.

And here’s where the little taste of the big-time comes in: Information-desk lady let me sign that lone book, and afterwards she slapped an “Autographed Copy” sticker on it!

Is that shameless enough?
Is that shameless enough?

I felt like a teeny, tiny star on the fiction horizon as C and K pulled out their cell phones to snap pictures of me and the book. We giggled like fiends, and the security guard watched us with a knowing smile. He’d lent me the pen I used to sign my story. I’m sure he’s seen local authors before, but this was a first for me!

Later, in the theatre’s bathroom, I called over the stalls to C and K: “If that isn’t enough to inspire me to get on with the next project, I don’t know what is.”

Maybe, just maybe, stuff’s starting to percolate again. Maybe, just maybe.

Hey, There’s My Name on the Back Cover!

The cover art is actually classy white.
The cover art is actually classy white.

I’ve had a few short stories published, and I’ve received author’s copies in the mail. But today I received a whopper of an author’s copy. A luscious, 460-page hardcover anthology that’s so fresh, it squeaks. And, ah, that new-book smell, my nose up against the spine from the inside, no doubt killing brain cells sniffing the spine glue…

Finally! Two of the Deadliest, edited by Elizabeth George, has arrived. I mentioned this book in this post. And now I’ll quote Elizabeth George, from her Introduction:

“Included in this volume is something a bit different. In the second portion of the book, you will find “Introducing…,” a section devoted to a group of writers who are either largely unknown or who have not been published before. These women come from various backgrounds — they are journalists, educators, and techies — and they have all been students of mine at one time or another, in one venue or another. I have asked them to participate in order to bring them to the readers’ attention and, perhaps, to the attention of editors and publishers. It’s a rough publishing world these days, and people of note are often disregarded.”

Kudos to Ms. George for inviting us newbies to participate. She could have offered the page-space to well-known novelists instead — thus attracting their readers. Thank you, EG!

A Little Sanity

Weekend writing spot: Laptop, dog, beans and rice, what could be better?
Weekend writing spot: Laptop, dog, beans and rice, what could be better?

I think, but I’m not sure, that I started off this week a million times more sane than last week. Don’t get me wrong, at various points over the weekend stress nipped at me, reminding me of its existence while I went about my business trying to have a weekend away from the work.

That was my main goal for weekend — SAY “NO” TO WORK — because I needed, wanted, had to work on short story edits. This story will be published in an anthology, and I’ve been sitting on the editor’s notes for weeks, closer to two months. I’ve longed for the brainspace to sit down with the story and clean it up. But until this past weekend, I was out of my mind.

This weekend I was only a little out of my mind. In fact, I’d say SAYING “NO” TO WORK and forcing myself to ignore the stressed heart-thumps and chest pressures did me a world of good. I feel better for having time with my fiction.

(Unfortunately, I did work over the weekend, but just a little on Saturday morning and last night. Mostly, I had my weekend.)

In fact, the anthology’s editor called me Saturday morning. I rushed to assure her that the short story was open on the monitor. Apparently, she wasn’t concerned about the edits though. She was concerned that given my fragile state of late, I’d take this blog post the wrong way.

I had to laugh when I read the post, and I’m looking forward to hearing her rude-writer tales. You’ll also see my comment. Rest assured, I’m not one of the unprofessional writers she was talking about. Why? Because I communicated with her along the way — and I know how to format a bloody manuscript! (Aspiring writers: heed her post.)

She’s smart. She suggested that I might feel better if I left my apartment for a real lunch hour. That seems obvious (so why hadn’t I thought of it?). I didn’t try this today; instead, I clowned around outside with plants, a neighbor, and my dog. That counts for a lunch hour though.

And it helped!

You know what else helped? Instead of stumbling straight from bed to drowning in work-muck without coffee (much less breakfast) until hours later, I took thirty minutes to shower, say a quality “hello” to the animals, fix coffee, dress in real clothes, and step out onto the deck for a few quality inhalations.

I can’t remember the last time I showered in the morning. Usually, I get it in whenever, which is often right before bed. Amazing what a difference that makes…sigh…

While I Wasn’t Looking

Spring happened while I wasn’t looking. All of sudden daffodils are blooming and trees are frothing. I vaguely recall a check-out clerk lauding the first day of spring (finally! but when was that?) and a sign-up for spring softball/baseball sign-ups. Our days sprang forward and I’m still catching up.

spring

Yesterday, a good friend sent me this note: You’ve been MIA. Everything okay with you? That was enough to stop me in my tracks for an internal check. Am I okay?

Sure, I’m okay, but I’m not thriving to go along with this season of blooms. I’ve been too busy and anxious throughout March. So, I thought I’d take a TIME OUT (yes, capped) to blog after my unintentional blog-pause.

1. Gray roots. I’m prematurely gray (since my early 20s, in fact) and my gray roots are an inch-and-a-half long at the moment. Those are the kind of roots I’d prefer not to see, especially when they’re practically yelling at me to stop with the crazy obsessiveness and pay attention to myself already.

2. Earning the moulah. Thought I had this handled, but then the project I’m on took a turn for the outrageous. I’m talking rolling deadlines and unanticipated extra requirements and, oh I don’t know. Not worth describing the details. I suppose I’m still getting used to this gig, is all, and the high-learning curve adds stress to any already hectic deadline schedule.

3. Finishing the manuscript. But maybe, just maybe, I wouldn’t have stressed out about the project if I hadn’t first obsessed about sending the completed manuscript to Nice Agent before the outrageous turn occured. (I knew it was due — the project is that schedule-ized.) So I worked night-and-day, even procrastinated the project by a few days, which meant that I then I had to switch over night-and-day for that, and I didn’t get the manuscript finished anyhow, and I was disappointed, and then I got so exhausted that I cried, threw a tantrum, and gave myself an almost-migraine earlier this week.

4. Submitting a short story. And then on top of it all, just to add to the grinding pressure, I’d so wanted to revise the bench short story, really shine it up, for a March 31st submission deadline. Hah! I say double Hah! to that. Yet, I tried to squeeze it in, and then other night I was awake at 3:00 a.m. with a Lisa-freak-out. So, no go with the story for now, and I’m disappointed yet again. I’d so wanted, longed, to submit a short story to an annual anthology called Voicecatcher, which is a local women writer’s community effort — to be part of a community, you know? Now I have to wait a year.

The upshot of all this, the reason I’m only “okay” is that I don’t feel like much of a fictionista right now — I let myself down in that department. I feel like a work-drone, is all. This will pass, I know, but you might be wondering why I haven’t blogged much. When I’m in happy-fiction-land, I tend to blog more often, it seems.

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Just paused within my blogger TIME OUT to coat my gray roots with Preference dark brown hair dye. This is a step in the right direction, anyhow. Taking care of the small stuff leads to taking care of the big stuff. And, I’ll just feel better without my Cruella deVille gray streak.

“Outstanding Women of Mystery”

After so long, it’s great to see signs that Two of the Deadliest is sliding into the home stretch toward publication. It might be coming out in the U.K. first for all I know, because the U.K. edition’s cover art is available online. Good looking cover, isn’t it?

Check out that subtitle!
Check out that subtitle!

Many of the writers that Elizabeth George invited to participate aren’t mystery writers, per se. But that’s marketing for you, eh?

I’m smiling because I can’t believe how excited I am to see this baby in print! I wrote my story way back in August/September 2007. The original pub date was set for April, 2008. Then, we were looking at April, 2009. Next month! But, alas, no…July? This is what the HarperCollins site states, but I heard it might not see life until the fall — in hopes that the economy stabilizes, maybe even improves some?

Writing Bliss

Just a pretty view, but what's that?
Just a pretty view, but what’s that?

Today felt fan-tabulous. I fiiinally started the story that I’ve been thinking about for eons. This story began its budding life with a title I liked…and then last fall a memorial bench in my neighborhood park sparked my interest.

A few weeks after noticing the memorial plaque beside the bench, I took these photos, which solidified my story idea. It’s been bugging me ever since. The piece felt difficult, however, because I wanted to challenge myself to create a story in which nothing much happens. (Sounds weird, but read on.)

A few days ago, I decided I’d best set myself a goal and get the darned thing written. The steam of it was about blow out my ears. Onto the page already!

What's that woman doing at the memorial bench?
What's that woman doing at the memorial bench?

I played my usual mind tricks: index cards, daydreams with notebook open at my side (and a few zzz’s thrown in for good measure), jotted notes in a blank Word file.

Then today: Ten pages, baby! There’s something too delicious about fresh words on fresh pages.

Closing in...Oh my, she's cleaning the memorial...
Closing in...Oh my, she's cleaning the memorial...

Don’t get me wrong, I love revising, but revision is quite the analytical process for me. Pure creativity like today’s is bliss.

Bliss!

The story consists of three scenes: at home, to the florist, to the memorial bench. I wrote two of them today. It never ceases to amaze me that a whole world can exist within a basic, maybe even boring, framework.

...for a boy, I imagine her son...
...for a boy, I imagine her son...

I’ve probably mentioned this before, but I love backstory. And my quiet, grieving protagonist isn’t all that she seems. So even though nothing happens, in reality everything’s happening. I love that!

Tomorrow I’ll finish the first draft. I’ll send it to my writing group. On Tuesday, they’ll probably ream me a new one.

But hey, it’s getting this long-awaited first draft into Times New Roman, 12 point, that counts! 

Flowers beside the plaque
Flowers beside the plaque

Story Got Accepted!

Remember the funny post I wrote about developing a story in four days to meet a deadline? (This post.) I started with less than nothing. Truly. My brain was so empty of ideas that it was vacuum. No way, I thought, can I come up with a plausible idea by deadline much less write it up.

Of course, thinking this, I had to give it a try.

Well, the story got accepted into the anthology to be published by TripleTree Publishing! And I didn’t know this, but I’ll be paid a little bit of money, too. That’s always a bonus.

What’s amazing is that the story is barely a second draft. Yiiikers. I expect to work through a few heavy rounds with the anthology’s editor. But that’s okay. I’ll bet I learn something.

High Hopes (for Tomorrow)

I had high hopes for today. Writing plans. A concrete goal. I’m flailing because I’m sick. Okay, okay, I’m not THAT sick, just heavy-headed and scratchy-throated enough that serious development work isn’t going to happen. I must be spry of mind for that, so maybe tomorrow then.

matrimonyBut I can blog. I can tell you what I meant to accomplish today. After three intense weeks with the manuscript, I’m letting it sit for a week. So, my goal for the week was (still is?) to start a piece of short fiction — complete a first draft actually. It’s the story I mentioned here. It’s finally collected enough steam beneath it. I’ve got the central premise, the feeling…

Who am I kidding? I don’t have squat, but it does want to get written. I decided that instead of just writing, I’d give novelist Joshua Henkin’s thought process a try. (He wrote his latest novel, Matrimony, over 10 years and 3,000 pages, and though I haven’t read it yet, I’d bet his novel is recommendation-worthy. That said, he’s known for his short fiction.)

Joshua Henkin led a short-story workshop last weekend. It’s ridiculous to think we can learn anything in an hour, so I sat back and kept an ear-out for soundbites. Those little bits of insight that could help me with my process or simply get me thinking outside my box. Henkin provided the following handout, which might be a helpful spur for you, too.

Questions Joshua Henkin posts above his desk

1. What is the journey my charactes are taking?

2. Why am I telling the story today? What’s special about today — what makes it different from all other todays? (Addendum: May be confusing. This is from the protagonist’s point of view: What’s the urgency about today versus other todays in the character’s life? Why story being told now? Answering this can help pinpoint the character’s journey.)

3. Who is the protagonist, antagonist?

4. What does my protagonist want and what does s/he think s/he wants (often different)?

5. What will protagonist do to achieve these wants and who/what are the obstacles?

6. What important choice(s) is my protagonist making and with what consequences for him/her or others?

None of this is mind-bending, yet I’ve never gone about brainstorming like this before writing a short story. Today, I’d planned to give these questions a try — like an experiment. Tomorrow I shall do so, I promise!

Do any of you engage in this type of story development before you write (short fiction)? Is your process as concrete as going through a list of development questions? How much do you know before you write your first draft?

The Season of Dead Squirrels

Autumn makes her mark. The leaves turn, and the breeze blows the golden ones off the quaking aspen outside my window.

 

Do you ever come up with a great story title? But no story to go along with it, yet you know a story’s lurking beneath the title? Or is this only me?

For the last three years the fall season has popped a title into my head. A title for a short with no story attached to it yet. I like this title for some reason. Hopefully its story will come to me one of these years.

The title? “The Season of Dead Squirrels”.

Might come off macabre, but it’s not meant to be. It feels sad to me, a little poignant. Melancholy. I don’t know what it is about the helter-skelter squirrels at this time of year, gathering and hiding their nuts and not taking care with traffic.

I picture a woman in a tidy little mid-century ranch in the hilly neighborhood three minutes east of me. It’s an autumnal story, literally and metaphorically. That’s all I know so far.

A simple day today. Here are a couple more images.

The adjacent property. Sometimes I forget that I live within the Portland city limits.

 Wanna guess which of my pets is the alpha?