Do These Pants Make My Ass Look Like Two Rhinos Fighting Over A Double Cheeseburger??

Perception is a state of mind. I'm sure you've heard this before, that what you perceive is what you believe.

Recently I had an example of this drilled home. The thing is, I don't drive. After my last miscarriage I had a nasty adventure on I-65. I was cruising along, hopped up on one too many Diet Dr. Pepper's, wearing an old prescription of glasses, and rocking out (badly) to The Beatles Love album. I never wear my glasses. I always rock out. Usually badly.

But as I was cruising, my perception slipped. My heart rate turned into a loud, overenthusiastic trombone and began a rapid blast in my chest. I knew what was happening, which only seemed to worsen what occurred. I went to my breath, regulated my heartbeat, and opened the flood gates to pure, undiluted panic.

If you've never had a panic attack, you're not missing out. It's like being on a very short, malicious hit of acid. My ability to judge reality slipped away. The levels of rational thinking turned into an escalator of terror, and I was certain a) I couldn't drive and b) I was going to kill someone or myself if I had to stay behind the wheel.

I'm a good driver. Like Granny good. I don't really speed - except on backroads and that doesn't count - and I always wear my seat belt. I check my mirrors, have an odd obsession with using my signals, and yield to other drivers.

But I couldn't do it. The music was too loud, too raw. The road too long and arduous. I was out of control, and I knew it.

I managed to get off the interstate and make it home. The 20 minute drive took an hour.

After that, driving wasn't worth it. Each time I tried, the same sense of doom - the overwhelming panic - bubbled up and over. I knew it was irrational and unfounded, but I couldn't change it. I didn't have the tools.                  

So I stopped driving. I even sold my very pretty, very shiny Lexus. I surrendered to myself. To the knowledge that right now, being behind that wheel wasn't making my world better.

This was a hard decision. Mostly, because of what other people thought. I had one friend wig out. Like for real wig the F out. She thought I was batshit crazy, should get back out on the road ASAP and maybe dry hump my car for good measure.

Ok, I made that last part up. But she was affected severely by my decision. She wasn't the only one. Many people thought I needed to face my fear, get behind the wheel, pony up, eat that elephant one bite at a time...

I began to realize that their fear wasn't about me. It was about them. They were transferring - putting themselves in the situation, and it was a situation that didn't sit well with them. At all.

In the last 9 months, my life hasn't changed very much. I still travel as much as I did before I gave up my motor skills. I actually travel more - going abroad for a month to live in Ireland this summer (where I fell in love with their public transportation). I'm not agoraphobic, I don't wear a helmet when I ride in a car, and I'll happily travel anywhere I want to go.

I'm just not the person behind the wheel anymore. At least not today.

We're a self involved race - looking to others for them to define things about ourselves. I'm here to say that you don't have to. That you have the power to accept yourself and listen to your second brain - to your gut - and pave yourself a gorgeous, well-fitting future.

It's all up to you, to your perception.


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Round Here

The wheels on the bicycle spin
as the sun flickers down,
catching red locks
and magnifying them
in the summer's rays.

Sprinklers are twisting,
blasting bended blades.

Children race down sidewalks
barefoot
laughing
ignoring everything
but living each moment of the day.

The contrast of white on white
illuminates the laughter
that will be lost
much too soon.

As days grow into years,
lives grow into routine
and the spinning wheels
lose their shine.

For when we forget the best of times
we give ourselves over to rote,
to missing the understanding
that there is always
something left to say.



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Oh Snap

I'm still editing. In the "I've crawled inside the book and I. Can't. Get. Out." fashion. Perpetually rotating myself around the words, and fitting in reading a book or three while I try not to let my head fall off. It's hard to keep my brain in there when it's on overdrive.

The past three novels I've read have left me with one feeling upon turning their last page: oh snap.

These authors know how to do it. How to unzip the cracks and climb into the crevices of my knowing to reveal something awesome.

I doubt they did that on the first write through. I'm pretty darn certain that their beautiful works of art were poured over, revised to the degree above nth and revised again.

Patience and focus are necessities, ones I'm forming a partnership with -- even as I dance in my seat and restlessly wish to go, go, go.

Because I keep returning to one thought, one driving notion that keeps me grounded. The story is worth it.


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Can You Hear The Story?

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The Interview

I have been privileged to interview a number of authors over the past two and half years. I'm fortunate enough (blessed, lucky, insanely grateful) that I interviewed my literary heroes (on the fiction and non-fiction side) twice. I've battled nerves and insecurity to dig deep in formulating the questions that as a reader, I desperately wish to know.

It's an almost creepy act - being a word surgeon. Which is what I think of interviewers, journalists, as. You're searching for a way to extract the knowledge, to pull answers, insight and truth from the masters of story. And in my humble opinion, if you've written a book well, you have attained a level of mastery.

Accessibility is a marvel. That authors are willing to open up their thought process for us to pick at, prod and withdraw from, is borderline unbelievable. There are no Sekrits to greatness. Perseverance, craft and fostering talent drive the front. Yes, there are natural talents, but for the most part even these brilly scribes still have to study, research and focus to climb the literary ladder.

We are the lucky ones, able to study their methods, heed their advice and learn from their mistakes. When you come across an author interview, don't just skim the surface. Take a second and third look - much like you take a second a third revision - and soak up what they're offering.

Step away from the urge to rush, rush, rush - and make this journey on the writer road about something other than the result. Let it be in the creation, being the best you can be and taking the time to evolve into that penmonkey. Your work deserves it, and the writers who will one day look to you for advice and inspiration are worthy of it.


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Sometimes You Just Gotta...

Go for it. 

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Ask yourself this: What's stopping you?

Sense-Ophelia

I mentioned yesterday that I'm absorbing the books - studying and sponging up story, technique and new worlds. Working to see outside of the words that plop on the page, taking a 30,000 foot view of how I write and how I can improve my art.

I believe it's also important to go to other forms and sources. Inspiration and clarity can blossom from song, poetry and even silence.

I always try to learn the rules, if for no other reason than to break them. It's important to know the right way to bend an idea - so the integrity and beauty increase, rather than disperse. So I'm popping pockets of poetry, wrapping myself in melody, and letting in the notions and isms of a wider written perimeter.

These songs have been framing my current novel's state of mind: 

 

The Importance of Being a Student

My mentor saddled me up with a leaning tower of books last Monday. Craft works -- the sort of books that hold all the answers, and that I desperately wish I could sit upon the crown of my head and suck into my brain via osmosis.

While I'm reading these exceedingly accessible, invaluable and important books, I'm also studying one of the greatest writers to have built story out of the English language.

I'm also reading from my TBR stack of review books and researching the authors that I have on my interview list.

Study, research and hunt are this Empress's invisible clothes.

It has been in the past year that I've admitted how important being a student is to a body of work, a sliver of art, a canvas of story. As a writer, I just want to sit down and crack my head open like an egg -- let all the words, fodder and material brandish the page like a golden stream of brilliance gifted from the gods.

What I end up with is a very pretty watercolor. A creation of quality somewhere between Bob Ross and the high kid in art class. It may look good on my refrigerator, but it won't make it to The Met. And I don't know about you, but if I am the representation of my work, and my work the representation of me -- I want to land every showcase from the Louvre to the Guggenheim.

So I've gone back to what inspired me in the first place. To the written world of words - the pages inside a story and the paragraphs that shape them. I am taking my time -- mental mapping, sentence slurping and deconstruction diagramming are now my constitutions.

I love to let the words slip and slide out. To sling the phrase and watch them color a page. But I don't want a motley mess of image. I am defining, refining and underlining my work. Like the Tin Man in Oz, I am buffing, waxing and oiling the worlds, so that they may bring into focus the realities I am giving up so much of myself to create.

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Shhhh. Can You Hear The Story?

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Trodden Steps

The noises overlapped
the ping the pause the rap,
                                          tap,
                                                crack.

Like shaking hands reaching for a paper towel
words dribbled to the floor,
a muck, a mess to clean no more.

The tisket of a tasket,
a ring
a ride
a racket
the meanings varied too far to touch.
And the ragged reach was rough,
wearing the heavy coat of too, too much.

Through the fading rainbow's glance
a cast off prism, a locked out dance.

Seen through the screen of a heavy lidded daze,
the wait becomes water, and the mantra flows into endless praise.

Behind the curtain of the hour,
ringing, ringing,
mingling, bringing
the wilted promise of a weak old flower.

His steps trod to black.
The floor creaks, it cracks.
And the noises
over
lap.



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The Blog-O-Sphere

I rather like a good blog. It's much in the way of enjoying a good piece of chocolate or sliver of cheese. You nibble a nosh here and a munch there - digesting someone else's philosophy, words and images. It's voyeurism, in the sense of popping into the page of someone else's open diary.

I write in my head. All the livelong day. So it's something of a relief to have a blog. A place where I can write the thoughts out loud and read them back one day. When I feel I've nothing to say, I'll be able to come here, peruse the nonsense and pieces of importance that I allow to filter out.

My own written time capsule. Pieces of Paige, bits of -ism. What an extraordinary concept.

This past weekend I painted, read, researched, growled, studied, blushed and devoured. I'm still steamrolling along my own little story wagon -- slowing down enough to enjoy the scenery, but not so much that the breeze draws me away.

The words matter. The lessons are vital, and the truth is somewhere in between.  

If you'll excuse me, the characters, dream and unraveling are calling me now. Happy creating all.


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Pausing To Listen

I'm in the middle of revising the most ambitious novel I could have possibly written, while drafting an even more ambitious novel, reading a new cache of books for review and craft, and outlining August's articles. It's a hazy dazy crazy whirlwind of literature and I'm in love with it all.

Still, sometimes I have to pause. To take a moment to lean back, raise a cup and dream.

Wordless Wednesday (Can You Hear The Story?)

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Truth Serum (The Author's Greatest Tool)

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As a writer, you have this box filled to brimming with all of these shiny accessories. Dialogue, plot twists, imagery, shakedowns, hullabaloo, chicanery, ideas and imagination. These are the tip of the iceburg when it comes to the shape-shifting powers of a writer's pen.

But one of the most powerful utensils a writer has is their voice. Their truth.

It's not always easy to say what you mean, mean what you say and present a new angle for the world to step inside. Of all the things we are, we're most importantly individuals first. Uniquely created, hand crafted and 100% self made.

Created, perhaps, from the embers of the fires of others - as we take on qualities that we admire, refuse to let go of, or are unaware cling on.

But our most potent weapon - and I don't mean that in a gunslinging way - is the ability to be honest with ourselves and the characters, universe and story we create.

By offering our truth, we reveal an honest foundation. From here, authenticity knows no bounds, and anyone else who happens upon our nitty-gritty has the freedom to build their own.

Today's word is a rerun that bears repeating: verisimilitude

Sometimes The Well Runs Dry

Do you ever have one of those moments? Where you feel like this:


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Or maybe a little...


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Sometimes the day, hour, minute, etc doesn't start off the way you wish it would. That doesn't mean the rest of the day, week, month, etc plans to follow the muggy, ragged trajectory of one not so perfect moment. But while you're in it, it can be hard to move, hard to climb out of the rut of Now.

Sometimes, you're just stuck here:



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Pretending to be here:


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It's OK to fake it til you make it. Nothing is permanent. Everything is temporary, and you never know what five minutes from now will bring.


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Tweets That Open The Writing Door

This morning executive editor Angela James shared (via twitter) notes from the editorial submission rejection reports over at Carina Press. James tweeted a number of reasons why a submission is passed on; why the story doesn't fly out of the editor's hand and straight into the presses. Below are a sampling of the many turn offs that cause a story to stymie. While these honest critiques may cause some writers to cringe - especially at the thought that it could have been their work inspiring such a response - the notes are a surprising and advantageous foot inside the door of publishing parliament. They can serve as a magnifying glass into the think-tank of how books come alive. This sharing of knowledge allows us to  peek inside and study the why's of what to do and what not to do. There are few greater gifts we penmonkey's could have bestowed upon us. It is, after all, for the love of our craft (and the betterment of it) that we write and persevere in creating a written world of story we hope for others to one day hold.


Rejection tweets of infinite value:


"There was an initial promise for deep, intriguing characters. Yet, the author gives away way too much, way too soon" #editreport 1/2


"Within the first fifty pages, readers have already gone over the same memories, info-dumps, and backstory multiple times." #editreport 2/3


"By end of 2nd chapter this story was starting to sound familiar, then I realized we’ve rejected this before, under diff. title" #editreport


"I found this so implausible it almost offended me" (editor describing a scene where the heroine has insta-lust) #editreport


I see "I really wanted to like this" from the editors a lot. They go in to submissions very hopeful! #editreport


"I really wanted to like this, but ultimately after the first couple of chapters I found it too jarring. " #editreport


"Pace moves too quick, rather than allowing the reader to feel the emotion and heartbreak, the author skims over them" #editreport


"first 70 pages were filled with narration, and the little dialogue that appeared read as “as you know, Bob” convos" #editreport


"ending is too easy and the author breezes over the significant moments—" #editreport 1/2


"It’s a fairly common plot and nothing about the writing stands out" #editreport (is this one starting to look familiar?)


"Overall, I loved the hook for this. Yet, I couldn’t engage in the characters or the plot. " #editreport


"characters would repeat conversations from previous chapters, nearly word for word" #editreport


"writing lacks depth. Lots and lots of narrative. Action doesn’t start fast enough. POV wobbles" #editreport


"There were moments that sparkled,but also scenes that dragged, prose plagued by grammatical errors, & a long, contrived ending" #editreport


"There was no connection between the two main characters and their interaction did not ring true" #editreport


"This contemporary romance was never really compelling enough to keep reading" #editreport


"I kept noticing the writing instead of getting lost in the story" #editreport


"opening chapters filled w/dull, daily details that get across sense of pervading discontent but don’t encrage extended reading" #editreport


"could be considerably shortened...too many scenes do not serve a purpose, contribute neither to character development nor plot" #editreport


And to end on a good note:


"the unusual setting and heightened tension of the plot make it a compelling read" #editreport


I certainly found the tweets heightening my awareness and compelling me to reread, revise and rediscover. 


Thank you, Angela.

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Wordless Wednesday (Can You Hear The Story?)

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Faith and the Wordless Wonder

Do you know that song - the one about signs, signs, everywhere there's signs? When I was younger I took it literally. When people would say, "look around you, all the signs are pointing you in the direction you need to head," I went outside and rubbed my fingers across the lettering of the STOP sign.

I wanted to find that direction, to see the change the world was asking me to be. Because I believe that all the things I crave are achievable. Ambition and perseverance are two qualities I've honed, cut my teeth on and turned into a well-worn, fast friend.

When you want something desperately, it can be difficult to refrain. To simply be. Perhaps it's part of our culture, working tirelessly, burning both ends of the midnight oil and then banging our heads into the poorly designed infrastructure of a wall.

Stopping isn't easy. Because we always go, go, go - feeling that if we don't, how can we ever get there? How can we climb the mountain if we aren't carrying thirty bags of dream so that they can reach their destination, too?

I think it's faithlessness. Deeming that something has to be driven so hard in order to have the results achieved. The fun gets lost, the joy muddled and the thrill exchanged for adrenaline and insecurity.

Signs. Rearrange the lettering and you have sings. Something that most people do when happy, when celebrating or goofing off. A happy sound is a voice lifting up.

Stopping, when you need to get off the ride in order to enjoy it, is a wonderful adventure. Literally or figuratively, there are signs all around us.

Of course we must be careful not to read too much into anything. Lest you end up like the seventeen-year-old version of me, stopping at a STOP sign, waiting for it to turn green.



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