I’m writing up a storm on my Work-in-Progress. It makes me so sad (this one’s a doozy), I have to stop and eat massive doses of chocolate just to get through the day. (More than usual, I mean. Which is saying something, folks.)
Of course, then I go teach Zumba classes to ward off Writer’s Butt. (Yesterday, one of my class members commented on how much we were sweating. I wiped off my forehead and said, “Sweat? This isn’t sweat. It’s the blood of a thousand vanquished M&Ms.” Real life dialogue for the WIN!)
The week started off with sadness, as two of our sweet pet chickens died horribly. Then I got a bit of lovely writer news — a poem accepted into a new anthology put out by Mutabilis Press for poets with ties/connections to Texas and Louisiana. The anthology comes out rather soon, and I’ll post a link here when it does.
And then there was some other Happy News I can’t share until later in the week! Intrigued? You must wait!
I hope you all had Happy News in your week. And no dead pets, because that part really sucked.
Now, I’m off to torture my characters yet again. Huh. Where’d I put those Snickers bars?
It’s been an interesting day in Nikkiland, Writer Friends.
I spent an alarming amount of time working on my Very First Ever Vlog (Or Video Blog, for my technophobe friends), for which I actually put on makeup, changed clothes, and tried to speak intelligently.
It probably would have helped if I'd planned out what I was going to say. GO PANTSERS!
And failed. I did so many takes, it was ridiculous.
Why was I failing so awfully, so often? After a while, I figured it out.
It wasn’t vlogging I was particularly bad at. (At least I don’t think so.) It was that I didn’t want to vlog for YOU.
Now, don’t go storm off in a huff. I AM going to vlog for you, Dear Writer Friends. Someday soon, probably. But the particular topic I had chosen to vlog about this time was a topic I very dearly wanted to talk about — just not to Grown Ups. I want to share this thing* – and this whole SET of related things – with kids.
It shouldn’t surprise me, I know. After all, I set out to write Grown Up Books years ago, and found myself three manuscripts into a middle-grade career before I realized I REALLY wasn’t going to be doing a whole lot of romance novel-writing. At least not at this point in my life. *grin*
So, why should it shock me – or anyone- that my audience, the ones I really want to address — are nine to twelve-year olds? Even when it comes to vlogging, apparently.
It shouldn’t. But this blog isn’t the exact right place for this new set of vlogs. So, while I’m cooking up some plans for Cool Other Internet-y Things where I can have lots of interaction with my audience, I’ll leave you with a question:
Who is your audience, when you are writing — or blogging, for that matter? Middle grade kids? Young Adults? Toddlers? Other Writers? Or –dare I say it? — Agents and Editors?
And have you ever questioned who you have chosen to write for/speak to?
Lots to think about, Writer Friends.
*thing= cool lessons for kid writers on how to become a writer with amazing Super Powers, like the power of Revision, Submission, and even Termination. It’s going to be so awesome.
I was supposed to be writing today. I came home from my other job, setlled down in front of my computer, checked the email… and gazed longingly at this.
"You know you want to read me. Come on, Nikki. You know you do."
My new book, the book I’d been hearing all those good things about.What? You haven’t heard of it?
Well then, here’s the blurb from Goodreads:
Fifteen-year-old Bridget Liu just wants to be left alone: by her overprotective mom, by the hunky son of the police officer who got her father killed, and by the eerie voices which she can suddenly and inexplicably hear. Turns out the voices are demons–the Biblical kind, not the Buffy kind–and Bridget possesses the rare ability to banish them.
San Francisco’s senior exorcist and his newly assigned partner from the Vatican enlist Bridget’s help with increasingly bizarre and dangerous cases of demonic possession. But when one of Bridget’s oldest friends turns up dead in a ritualistic sacrifice that mirrors her father’s murder, Bridget realizes she can’t trust anyone. An interview with her father’s murderer reveals a link between Bridget and the Emim: a race of part-demons intent on raising their forefathers to the earth in human form. Now Bridget must unlock the secret to the Emim’s plan before someone else close to her winds up dead, or worse–the human vessel for a Demon King.
It was supposed to be my Reward Read – the one I let myself devour after I finished the week’s word quota.
But it kept calling me.
The call of this book was stronger than chocolate.
Of course, I really NEEDED a good read – I’d been stressed to the limit by all the Texas wildfires, and the one that had broken out twice across the street over the weekend had made me pack and unpack my Most Precious Preciouses more than once. (Look for a vlog on that late this week.)
You know what happened. I started reading. But what you don’t know was that I couldn’t put the book down. It was un-put-downable. I kid you not, this book? AMAZING. It reminded me of Lisa DesRocher’s excellent Personal Demons a bit, but maybe more scary. It has everything: hot guys, a great, strong female main character (maybe I should hve put that before hot guys?), scary demonic possession stuff, and pacing to beat the band.
LOVED it. You need this book – go out and buy it. But how, you might ask, could this book have saved my whole neighborhood?*
I’m getting there.
My favorite reading chair is upstairs, in my bedroom, next to the window that overlooks the valley by my house. After I read a while in my office, near my computer, I got tired of the way Ms. SmartyPants Computer was staring at me, whispering tacky things about “word count failure” and “lazy procrastinators” and “reward books are the Devil,” so I gave up and went upstairs.
I was reading there, by the window. I happened to look up (probably to entreat the Heavens to allow me to write something this awesome) and saw a wisp of smoke out the window. And then, red flames.
Yep, the next door property was on fire again.
Poeple, if I had been downstairs, I would not have seen this. I would not have KNOWN to call the fire in. It’s entirely possible that Gretchen McNeil’s book, POSSESS, saved my home, my neighborhood… possibly my life.
So, seriously. But this book NOW. The next life it saves could be your own.
* Okay, truthfully? One other neighbor saw the smoke and called it in, so maybe we wouldn’t have all been left without homes. But you NEVER KNOW.
Happy Labor Day, Writer Friends! I hope you’re celebrating in whatever ways you desire.
Me? I’m cleaning the entire house, including the porches. I even had my son clean out his goldfish bowl. For those of you who know me, this is deeply frightening, since me voluntarily cleaning is one of the sure signs of the Apocalypse.
Oh, yeah. That reminds me: Schedule horseback riding lessons for my kid.
It may very well be the End Times, Friends. Because if the Four Horsemen came to my door this morning and asked me for directions to the party, I would point them to my hard drive. I’m pretty sure my current WIP is possessed. Or something.
It’s scaring me like this anyway.
(No, this is not me before coffee.)
By possessed I mean that it’s taken on a life of its own – and not one I would have chosen for it. It’s gone from merely tragic to horrifically frightening (for me at least). And while it has all the beautiful images I like to play with, the things that some of the characters are doing? Oh, holy cow.
It’s all I can do to sit down and keep writing. I’m terrified, and my own characters are making me cry. Betrayals galore, terrible secrets revealed at great expense to the helpless children there… I think I’ll stop now and go clean the mud room and pantry.
No. I can’t.
The manuscript is calling, in its horrifying little Carol Anne-from-Poltergeist voice. I have to go back into the closet, and figure out if I’m just mining my own well of crazy, or if the story knows what it’s doing.
So, one of those things Debut Authors do in those months up to The Big Day (whch I have found out recently for MY first book, is August 21, 2012!! Woo hoo!) is go to other author’s events.
Of course, we do this anyway, sometimes because the authors are friends/heroes/mentors, and/or because we love their books, and sometimes because we have no other lives anyways and the Roller Derby was sold out. But anyway… we debuts go, and take notes.
Oh, wow. I could have *filled* a notebook last week at Tom Angleberger’s Darth Paper Strikes Back book signing at Bookpeople in Austin. I could have… but I was laughing too hard to take any notes at ALL!
Now, I’ve been to some pretty good author events. But this guy? He remembered something, I think, that many of us forget when we start talking to a large group of people about our writing-y things.
He remembered who his real audience was. And he spoke to them.
Tom Angleberger talking to Larry. (It’s an in joke. Gotta be there to get it.)
Adults were there, sure, but Tom writes for middle grade kids (of which there were MANY in attendance) and he never forgot that. It was like a stand-up comedy skit for kids, with some juggling and reading thrown in to break things up.
How’s this for getting your audience? He dressed a kid up in an enormous origami Yoda costume.
Just as funny as it looks.
Every kid there was taught how to make a five-fold “emergency” Yoda, to take home. You know, just in case you need some Jedi wisdom some afternoon.
He drew pictures in all the books he signed.
He drew pictures, asked questions about what kids liked, and related their answers to particular chapters in his book.
And every time a kid raised a hand, even if their comment was way off-base (as can happen when kids get REALLY excited and try to make jokes with their favorite author), he was respectful and considerate.
And in doing that last one? He had every single parent there in the palm of his hand, too. Like me. He could write a thousand books, and I would buy them all in hardcover at full price, just because I want to show my appreciation.
Now, I don’t fold paper in my debut novel. I also can’t juggle, and I don’t have a hilarious scene about pee stains guaranteed to have the elementary-aged set rolling on the floor. But Tom gave me a whole lot to think about for my upcoming signings. Things about connecting with your target audience, dressing the part, and giving respect to the whole crowd.
Today is one of the worst days of the year for me: the first day of school. No, not school for me, sillies. For my kids.
I know, I know. It’s dumb. I get all worked up, worrying about them all day. Will they get to eat lunch with a friend? Will their teachers like them? Will they be teased/bullied/left out?
And this year I have a sixth grader, so my fears are intensified. My memories of sixth grade are… painful. Yes, that’s a word that fits. But not painful in the “wincing when I think about my clothing choices back then” way. More like “throwing up in my mouth when I even hear the words ‘sixth grade’ and curling into the fetal position for a week” way.
Yes, Friends. THAT bad. I had to transfer out of one school and into another one in the middle of February in sixth grade, when my mother finally figured out just how psychologically disturbed I was getting. (Of course, when we had that talk, she switched me to my new school in two days. And those two days were hooky days, where we went shopping and to movies. Good mom, right?)
Anyway, all this got me to thinking — why in the name of all that’s holy do I write middle grade? Because, seriously, I have to put myself in the head space of an 11 year-old kid every freaking day!!! I have to remember exactly what that was like, and recreate it on the page, and then try to solve the problems of my poor, tortured characters. I’m trapped, mentally, in sixth grade.
I think I have PTSD. Sixth grade PTSD, to be exact.
Anyone else out there conducting their own self-therapy regimen through your writing? Maybe your freshman year at high school was the one. Think about it — are all your characters 14/15 years old? Or am I the only one who seems to be stuck in the WWI Foxhole Year of My Youth?
On a side note, it is rather satisfying to make money off all that pain. So there is that.
Thoughts? Sympathy? Horrible stories about swirlies and sadistic teachers? (FYI, I’m going to be writing a book in November/December set in a demon-infested sixth grade where I poorly veil and only ever-so-slightly change the names of all the teachers and kids who tortured me. Maybe then I’ll have peace. 🙂 )
No, not the kind with sparkly horns and magical rainbow-surfing skills. The real kind.
Last week, I got back from the A Room of her Own Writing Retreat in Ghost Ranch, New Mexico. I’m pretty sure the founders of the conference, Mary Johnson and Darlene Chandler-Bassett, chose to host the conference there because it’s one of the most beautiful places in the world. Like, this beautiful:
Yes, this is where Goergia O'Keeffe painted all those lovely pictures.
So, it shouldn’t surprise anyone that unicorns would hang out there, right? But here’s what I mean by “unicorns.” You know how no one with a philosophy degree ever finds a use for it? At dinner one night, I was talking to another writer who admitted she’d majored in philosophy. “Did that turn out to be useful?” I joked, fully expecting her to laugh and tell about her mother’s despair at the endless string of fast-food jobs philosophy degrees usually auger. “Well, I guess so,” she said to my surprise. “I’m teaching philosophy at XXX College now.”
Seriously? These people do not exist. A total unicorn.
A day later, on a drive back from the Ojo Caliente hot mineral springs spa (yeah, we totally took a day off from the writing — mud baths, too!), one of the poets in my car protested that “poets can make money! I did it.” I asked her to explain, and she spilled the details of her recent win of a major national poetry competition, the prize being publication of her debut chapbook AND a wad of money. Sweet. And also, a unicorn.
So, you know how your mom told you to for-Gods’-sake go to law school and not that Creative Writing program that was just a money pit and who ever gets a job as a writer anyway?*
Yeah, turns out? This conference was full of exceptions to the norm.
And the readings — every night, the unicorns read from their work. And it was glorious. First off, I took this picture from my outside seat on the second night:
Hard to pay attention to the readings when God's showing off like this, actually.
And the words they read… I was stunned. I’ve never been in a group that was so talented, such a large gathering (about 80 of us) who all had something to say , and had found a way to say it that transformed the listener. Poetry that brought tears to my eyes, short fiction that made me laugh so hard I thought I’d pee, excerpts of novels that made me grab my pen and write down the name of the book so I wouldn’t miss it.
Okay, I’m gushing.
Anyway, it was a glorious week. Readings and a keynote address from Marilynne Robinson (who is pretty much a unicorn herself, with her Pulitzer prize and all) set the tone, and Mary Johnson’s surprise Oprah-like book giveaway to the entire assembly (perhaps brought on by the news that Oprah magazine is planning to do a piece on her forthcoming memoir!) wrapped it up nicely.
I’ve never been to any of those other conferences – Breadloaf and the like — but this one was amazing, and I’m so glad I went. Oh, and I also got ten thousand words written on my new, tragically beautiful WIP!
So, Writer Friends, how was your summer vacation?
* Okay, to be fair, my mother never said that to me. But I knew a lot of other writers whose moms did. My mom was mostly happy I wasn’t going to law school. I think.
No, actually, I’m too tired. But I promise I’ll post about the AROHO conference in a day or two. I’ll just say one thing: There were unicorns there. Dozens of them.
No, I’m not kidding, I’ll explain later. (I know I’m a tease. But how else am I going to get you to come back to this site in two days?)
I’m inspired and exhausted. I haven’t partied that much (I guess I should call it “networking” so it’s a tax deduction) or learned that much in a long, long time.
I’ll post pictures and everything else soon.But if you were jealous, there’s a chance for a free conference in your very own home — one with a talk by my super-fabulous agent Suzie Townsend, and dozens of other industry professionals who specialize in kid lit. Go now to the second annual Writeon Con site and register.
Oh, and the Writeon conference starts tomorrow. Hope you have some frozen dinners for the kids — they’re going to have to take care of themselves, as this event is Not To Be Missed.
And, for the record, I don’t just write for spite. I also write for my kids, the glory of the written word, the elusive possibility of attaining a literary sort of immortality… and money. Gotta love money.
Have a great week! (And thanks to Samantha for asking me to share!)
Today, Writer Friends, I’m beginning the road trip to New Mexico. Where, exactly? To Ghost Ranch, the place that inspired Georgia O’Keeffe to do this:
I’m hoping it inspires me to do a lot of this:
The conference/retreat this time (AROHO — A Room of Her Own) is named for a small book I read WAY back when – and I re-read every once in a while just to remember to be fierce about this whole writing thing. Check it out.
I’ll be back in eleven days or so. And yes, I do know how cool this all is. Thanks to my mom for the “grant,” my husband for watching the kids solo, my colleagues at work for covering my classes, and my Writer Friends for all the encouragement! Oh, and the Muse, too, for sending the idea that I’m taking with me. Gotta pack now!
