It Never Stops

I am constantly learning. I can’t speak for all writers, but for me, there is always something new that helps technique, craft, helps streamline the process. I steal learn from other writers all the time.  I got a reinforcement, a refresher, just this morning, about getting the first draft down on paper, from beginning to end, as quickly and completely as possible, because nothing is more painful than an unfinished, stops-halfway-through idea that dies right in front of you.
Once that solid foundation of beginning, middle, and end is in place, the real writing begins, at least for me.
So I am working, thinking, about the first draft right now. Usually, I start with the first scene, the one that I can’t get out of my head, and I write that fairly full, and polish it, and the rest of the first draft may not be as fully formed and complete, but the first scene or chapter uis usually critical for me. Once I get that down, I can push ahead and finish the rough draft.

This time, though, my thoughts are scattered and I have tried to get that initial scene down, but I am unsatisfied with the result. So I wrote the final scene. I thought, what if the story ends not when I imagined it would but some years later? How would my central character react to this event?
I wrote a conversation between two ladies having drinks in the living room, at night, after dinner, seated before a cozy fire. No descriptions, no transitional or internal thoughts, just dialogue.
It’s an experiment. Can I write the first draft with this target in mind? Can I write toward that final conversation?
I have no idea whether this conversation will fit, whether it will even be used, but it will serve a purpose. I will write toward it, like tunnelling, until I reach that point.
It’s bare bones. Only the words they say to each other. I often advise other writers to write one entire draft that contains only what is said and heard, only what is done. It not only speeds up the draft, it forces me to concentrate a lot of weight in dialogue alone, leaving out reactions, thoughts, descriptions, anything extraneous.
So here is that conversation, the point on te map I am trying to reach, which may or may not ever appear in the final draft.

“I should have died then. I should not be here to witness this. This is too much for a person like me.”
“You personalize and dramatize everything. ‘This’ isn’t happening to you.”
“A man gets a flat tire on his drive to work. While he’s changing it, he is struck by a car. His ambulance gets struck by another vehicle on the way to the hospital. After he makes it to the office on crutches, he gets fired for being late by his boss. Accident piled upon accident, followed by tragic and unfair results that add to the cycle of bad things happening.”
“And you’re the innocent bystander both fascinated and abhorred by the tragedy. But nobody ran over you.”
“But I am about to be fired, for arriving late to the scene. Because this time I can’t be a bystander. I can’t watch this. I have to do something.”
“You’re joining the march?”
“I don’t know. You don’t think I’m capable of it, do you?”
“I think you’re capable of a great many things. I don’t believe you should punish yourself for not doing some things which you could have done. We all could have done more then we have, and maybe it wouldn’t have reached this present event. It can’t be stopped now, and it won’t be stopped. Throwing yourself onto the altar of disappointment in your lack of involvement won’t help anything now, not even your conscience.”
“I don’t feel as though I would be sacrificing myself, or salving my guilt. I simply need to do something. If everyone did something, each of us some little thing, it wouldn’t have reached this big thing, marching toward us now, and we can’t get out of the way.”
“You’ve done enough, risked enough. You should feel absolved by having done what you could, when you could.”
“Branding myself a foolish, esoteric ninny by writing letters, sitting at home with my cat and my irascible mother’s constant haranguing, hardly measures up to a contribution. I’d have done better if I weren’t so scared.”
“You mother’s approbation wasn’t the only thing that cautioned you. Use a little common sense. A person must eat, and have a roof over her head.”
“I suppose so. Caution, self interest, common sense. I agree with my critics. I’ve read too many books.”
“Pull your chair closer to the fire and get warm. Walking along the highway in March weather is a cold prospect.”
“I can never tell when you’re being real or when you’re being sarcastic. I learned to drive in 1956, because I had to. I may as well put that hard-earned skill to use. I can ferry people back and forth, just like I did then, don’t you think?”
“You’ll get shot at. Some of these boys are good enough with guns to hit things even when they’re drunk, as I presume many of them are. Be very careful.”
“Do you mean that? You’re taking me seriously?”
“I’m giving you my heavy winter coat. Please keep in mind that it’s not bullet-proof.”

Geeky or Nerdy?

I am so excited. A list of books I’ve been anxious to get finally arrived yesterday. Some were hard to find, some out of print. But I got them, and started immediately reading Journey Toward Justice, the biography of Juliette Hampton Morgan. I’ve been waiting for ages to sit down with this book. Get acquainted. See how we like each other. Find out if we’re going to be best friends.
Is that nerdy? Is is merely strange, or does it slip into the category of truly weird, that I think of books as companions, friends with whom I have relationships?
Let’s look at what I get from the relationship. A good book stimulates my thinking, makes me wonder and question, makes me want to know more. A good book can thrill me, as no long time friend whose quirks and habits become punch lines can. Old friends know each other  too well, sometimes. On the other hand, I never get tired of my books.
I’d have to say yes, this leans toward the silly and ridiculous, thinking of books as my closest friends. Books don’t disappoint, and they don’t criticize. Wait, I take that back. There have been books that made me uncomfortable, made me re-evaluate my positions on things, that forced me to change my mind. Books have taught me a lot, come to think of it.
Books, I have often said, dramatically, can change people’s lives. Books certainly fill my life.
So why does a biography of a somewhat obscure and minor player in the civil rights movement exite me so much I feel like Christmas has come early? Because I am fascinated with her, this timid librarian, this person who really remained on the edges of the movement, who did not march or protest, who never stood with the ones who did, except in her own limited way. She took her own life, and there are those who count Morgan as a martyr to the cause, as much as any who were murdered for it. I want to know why.
Books can tell me why.

Bye Week

It’s bye week. No game. Time to rest up. Time to reflect. If I remember correctly, it’s still a few weeks until the beginning of deer season. If they’re smart, towns schedule their fall festivals during this off week. It’s Halloween, and it’s getting a little colder, and soon, Daylight Savings Time will end.
Last year, my team, the Alabama Crimson Tide, went 12-0 during the regular season, and was rated #1. The whole thing passed by in a blur. I didn’t even watch the games. It brought back too many memories of sharing that experience with my mother, who loved Alabama football. I am glad that so far this season, the Tide has been able to repeat the effort, and this year, I am watching and enjoying the games again, only a little sad sometimes. Mama would have loved this team, so tough on defense, with a good running back, like the Bear Bryant teams of years ago.
So I am a little nostalgic, maybe a little homesick. That makes me think of growing up, of my years at college, then the years I spent in Montgomery. Those memories lead me to think about my next project, a novel set in Montgomery during the decades leading up to the bus boycott.
But I am feeling that itch to begin writing the first draft. Have I done enough research yet? There are a couple of books still on my list to read, that I feel I really must have. But the urge is there, the need to put the first chapter on paper, to establish a clear tone, a base note that will stay in my ear and guide me through. I want to know what this new book will sound like. That is the dilemma, to contimue gathering facts around me like a huge pile of raked leaves, to toss them up in the air and see where thay land, or to cast off and begin fishing for that style and tone that will sustain me through the first draft.
Wow, did I just mix a bunch of metaphors, or what? That tells me that I really need to start writing, and soon.
The plan is to have the first draft completed by May, so that I can go to Montgomery and do some on the ground research, delve into archives, take photos, and just see with my own eyes the places I am writing about.
Read some more books, or begin to write?

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P Town and After

It is not often that authors from a publishing house get together. Women’s Week in Provincetown each year makes that possible for the writers at Bywater Books, as we join together for joint book signings and panel discussions. This was my first time, and I had so much fun, and it was so energizing to get to talk and eat and play with the other writers, all of whom impress me. It’s a good group, and we learned about upcoming releases, and shilled each other’s works, and the camaraderie was worth a host of seminars.

I had breakfast with editor and publisher Kelly Smith, and she couldn’t stop talking about Cynn Chadwick’s next book.

And coming out very soon, like the first week of November, is Jill Malone’s new book, Field Guide to Deception.

Then, there is Mari SanGiovanni’s next book, Liddy-Jean, Marketing Queen, which promises to be as hilarious as her first.

I also got to eavesdrop as Marcia Finical discussed her next book with publisher Marianne K. Martin, and with Kelly Smith, the FG.

I was so excited about all this news, that I barely thought about my own next book, What’s Best for Jane. The editing process will begin soon, and I’m not nervous about it at all.

Much. A little. I have complete confidence that What’s Best for Jane is brilliant.

Marianne Martin is working on her next book, a sequel of sorts to the wonderful Under the Witness Tree. It focuses on the character of Nessie Tinker.

A lot of big, important books are on the way. Bywater is establishing its reputation as a company that seeks out great new writers, and they have found some through their annual fiction contest. They are finding and publishing quality fiction. I am happy to be a part of that group, even if I am a tiny bit intimidated by all of my fellow Bywater authors. Not much. A little.

The plans are to have four of these major events each year for Bywater authors, with the new releases scheduled around them. If we have as much fun at all of them as we did in P Town, you can count me in.

Let's Put on a Show

lesficwritersguild
Mission Statement

The Lesfic Writers’ Guild is a professional association of writers of lesbian literature. Our goals are to advance work by, for and about lesbians; to advocate for the legal and artistic rights of our authors; and to collectively organize, advertise, promote, collaborate on and distribute the publications of our members. In our quest to promote the full spectrum of lesbian writing, we welcome authors, industry professionals and readers.

How cool is this? Every genre has a professional organization, from the Mystery Writers of America, the Romance Writers of America, Science Fiction and Fantasy Writers of America, Horror Writers Association, you get the idea. There has never been a professional association for the writers of lesbian literature, a small niche, you might think, but I know how large it really is. It’s time the writers get organized and pool information and resources for marketing and promoting our work. Most of us are published by small independent presses with little or no budget for marketing, ads, certainly no money for book tours and the like. Mid list publishers are in the same boat. The economy has put virtually every publishing house, big and small, in the same boat, and some wonder if it is sinking, facing the monolithic amazon.com, which ofers huge discounts, cutting into publishers’ profits, crushing independent booksellers where our work lives, feminist and gay bookstores, with the rise of E Books, the used boook market that resides cheek-to-jowl on amazon’s site with new books, and the litany of woes and dire forecasts could go on. Shrinking dollars in every household budget, shrinking economy, the purchase of new, print books is a luxury.

So, we writers have decided to band together and pool our resources to help ourselves out. This is in the tartup stage, and for now, it exixts as a Yaho group:

http://groups.yahoo.com/group/lesficwritersguild/

So new, we haven’t built the web site yet. This has happened in the past few days. We have a domain name, a logo, a mission statement, and server space for the web site. It’s sort of like Judy and Andy Hardy, let’s all pitch in and make a show in the barn.

We’ll buy ads. We’ll do things together and share the costs. We’ll promote each other’s work, we’ll act collectively to market and sell, we’ll do joint appearances.

I get a feeling like they must have had in the sixties, when women formed groups and marched and sat on committees and did things together to advance civil rights, women’s rights, peace, so many things. The energy and excitement is contagious.

I’ll keep you updated about the web site, and as you can see from the mission statement, readers are invited, and indeed, essential to that mission. It’s you we are trying to reach, after all.

Now I have to pack and get ready for Women’s Week in P Town. If anyone who reads this will be there, please catch one of Bywater’s events and step up and introduce yourself. We’ll talk.

How it Starts

From the foot of Dexter Avenue, looking toward the capitol.

Sometimes, it begins with an image in my head, sometimes, it starts with stumbling across an old photo, like this one.

I lived in Montgomery for 13 years, and worked in a state building behind the capitol. No one can resist being struck by the juxtaposition of so many interconnected and disparate reminders of Alabama’s past, and her role in history. Being surrounded by the physical emblems, the buildings, historic markers, monuments, forces one to confront, or at least contemplate that past, so at odds that it seems there were two paths, two states, two histories, and indeed, there were. Two peoples.

For some unknown reason, this old photo of what Dexter Avenue looked like in 1906, right about the time the dastardly state constitution was rewritten, the one that had such an impact on Alabama for the rest of the century, and still affects it today, this photo churned up emotions and feelings. I returned to look at it often, letting the feelings swirl and coalesce. I started looking at other photos, and I got some books on Montgomery and started reading. This place began to resonate, to hum, and I could feel a shimmer, a vibration of excitement, as I read and studied old pictures of what Montgomery looked like years ago.

The feelings got mixed up with my strained relationship with my home state. I love it, the places and its people, my relatives, and it will always be home to me.

At the same time, I am torn with exasperation, frustration, anger, guilt, shame, and real pride at some of the things my state has done, some things it has accomplished. I used to moan and wail that the only time Alabama ever made national news, it was bad news. That is simply not true, though. In accepting that Alabama is the starting place for some horrible things, I have to acknowledge that it is also the beginning and ending of some very good things, some accomplishments that helped shape the direction of the nation.

So the research began, with that photo and some very mixed feelings that I wanted to examine, if not resolve. Do I have a right to claim personal pride in the good things? Do I get to share in the legacy? Or should I stand aside, and let all the sense of achievement go to those who walked the walk, who were there? Does the color of my skin bar me from sharing the good?

Alabama is not the only southern state to have this dichotomy, the multiple personality disorder that is our history, but the case can be made that it was the epicenter of much of the good, and much of the bad, all the contrasting things that make southern history so tortured and fractured. We have gold stars embedded in marble, we have monuments and memorials that attest to our service on the highway to a more perfect union.

If the color of my skin doesn’t disqualify me from looking at this history and claiming part of it, does the fact that I am a woman shut me out? History is still, by and large, written by men, about men’s accomplishments. So where does my female image fit in Alabama’s twisted route to where we are today?

I found some excellent books that examine those things, fascinating reading, urgent stories that also made me think. What do I have to add, as a novelist, a writer of fiction? How do I speak of all that I am feeling and thinking, in a way that encompasses everything I’ve learned?




Written by Lynne Olson

I find a story, a simple story of one person, that I want to examine and explore. I think I have found it, and indeed, not just the story of one woman, but three.

I also found a bookstore, one located in Montgomery, a wonderful source for books about Alabama and Alabamians, that has been of inestimable value.
Emails back and forth to Cheryl Upchurch, the owner, with her husband, of Capitol Book & News on Fairview Avenue. Please drop by of you’re ever in Montgomery. “Cheryl, I can’t find this book anywhere, it may be out of print, can you help?” Cheryl writes back, having contacted the author, to tell me yes, or no, or she can get it, should she order and ship it? She recommends other books that might help. She waits until my payday. “Cheryl, I need to know more about Mary Stanton, the author of From Selma to Sorrow, and all I can find is about another Mary Stanton who apparently writes YA fantasy. Can you help me find the right Mary?”

And this is how it begins. A burning desire to see, really see, in my head, these women and their lives and the story I need to tell, because it will be my story too. And while it burns in my gut, while I feel it tingling, itching, forming, shaping, moving from the back to the forefront of my consciousness, that is when it is born, and lives. While it burns.

Bywater Books/Women's week in P Town

Join us for book signings, a wine and cheese party, and an event with comedian/author Kate Clinton on Saturday, October 17, at the Paramount Showroom in the Crown and Anchor. From 10:30 am till noon, we'll have a lively discussion of our history, called Herstory/Yourstory.