Continuing saga of the black pants

Dad,

As you recall, you asked me to pick up your black (not navy) pants and take them to your friends flower shop. They were heading south to your vacation spot and were happy to deliver the correct color of slacks to you, if I could deliver the correct color of slacks to them. You specified a specific date for me to drop them off before your friends left town.

I had no problem getting your pants to your friends shop by the day you noted.

However, I do not believe it was the date you meant.

I went by on Thursday to deliver your black (not navy) pants, early. Surprisingly, the girls in the shop said that Ann and her husband had left that morning.

I must have looked very crestfallen as I shuffled out of the store trying to figure out how I had made a mistake and delivered on the wrong date.

I plopped into my car and started to turn the key.

Suddenly, one of the florists sprang from the shop waving a bouquet of carnations. She tapped on my window. I eased it down and she stuffed the flowers in my hand.

I accepted them with a droopy smile.

I now have a bouquet of pink flowers and a pair of black slacks.

As a reminder, this is February. Next month is March.

Navy is the new black: the story of the missing pants

My dad is a regular guy. With regular issues. He forgets things.

He is on vacation and discovered he was missing something. He sent me an email and asked that I stop by his house, dig through his closet, grab his black pants -- that he needs for a special occasion -- and forward them to his sunny digs in Arizona.

I did.

Then I got this message.

"I do not remember if I thanked you for going by the house to pick up my black pants so here is a thank you.

However, the pants you chose were Navy Blue."

Elephant makes stool, do you sit on it or step in it?

I recently followed a headline reading, “Elephant Makes Stool,” followed by “First Known Aha Moment for Species.”

Kandula uses stool to reach for fruit.

There's a child in my house.

Once, that child made a stool, too.

It came with an AHA moment, as well.

I believe that child may have thought something like “Eureka!”

The link I followed took me to a page showing the video of the defining moment for the baby elephant.

I thought I might see something humorous.

“Eureka!” I read, “Burst of insight may redefine elephant intelligence.”

In an apparent flash of insight, I realized the stool was, a stool.

Watch the video here.

Why I don't always have to be right, do you?

About seven years ago, I traded bedrooms with my daughter. The exchange gave me the quiet room on the back of the house, the one that overlooks the (mostly) well-kept expanse of backyard.

The room I vacated had a super abundance of what I call 'old-lady' wallpaper. I remember questioning my then grade school-aged daughter whether she would like the wallpaper changed. At the time it didn't bother her.

I was fine with that.

I did not relish the thought of tearing it down.

Now, several years later, the room your friends hang out in seems to carry a greater value. Personally, I would have complained far sooner, and campaigned quite diligently for a disruption of the flowery bonanza. My daughter seemed content.

Until now.

It's a holiday. We have an extra day off. It's time to attack the wall paper.

I agreed.

After all, I would have done it sooner, but it was a lovely pattern once to someone, and I could tell the paper had come from the expensive end of the wallpaper book. I wasn't looking for extra work way back then. Today, that postponed chore caught up with me.

When I start a project, I plan, gather supplies, get an early start, and quit when am I one arm's length past exhaustion. Which is to say, I don't loll around in bed and crawl out all sleepy-eyed, meandering across the hall, chat and spend some time deciding what to eat for breakfast.

When I finally saw the whites of my daughter's eyes, I'd already been to the store, purchased a wallpaper perforating tool, chemical remover, a high pressure sprayer, set up the purchased equipment and tested it.

I organized my gear in the kitchen and gave her instructions to protect the carpet and furniture, then took my trappings to her room. I realized she had lined everything up to begin work on the wall with the most wallpaper. I sucked air through my teeth and rolled my lips in and considered. "Here's my recommendation," I said. I pointed to the wall with the least amount of flower-ganza. "I'd start with that wall. You can probably finish it in one day. You'll learn a lot, and by the end of the day one wall will be completed."

She sighed, as if I always have to change things, as if I need to be right.

"If you start on this big wall and tucker out, it won't be finished, it will look like a mess. If you can get the other wall done, you'll feel like you accomplished something," I encouraged.

She agreed to my recommendation. I'm not one to usually back down. She's generally willing to learn.

I helped her get started and turned the tools over to her. About an hour later, I checked in. "Are you tired?"

Vigorous head nod.

"Aren't you glad I suggested the smaller wall?"

She smiled and said, "Mommy's always right."

I didn't like that assessment. It felt self-righteous. Argumentative. Not genuine. I arched a brow and said, "I don't have to be right. It would be better to say, 'Mommy has great ideas.'"

Those words sounded way more satisfactory slipping past my daughter's smile.

How about you? When's the last time you were right, and how did it feel when someone else realized it?

Tomorrow's leaders will be defined by . . .

...how well they can spell.

I was checking out FutureWorks, the top agency in the US for social media, digital and public relations integration led by Brian Solis, and I watched the entire, actually entirely too long, entrance video. (Screen shot of website above).

I spent more time on the first page than I normally do, and as I did my eyes wandered down to the copy blocks and I began to absorb what top public relations practitioners say about themselves:

“FutureWorks is an award-winning digital and social media agency founded and led by author, speaker and thought-leader Brian Solis. FutureWorks fuses “best of breed” social media, new media, digital influence and work of mouth marketing. (Boldface and italics mine, screenshot below).”

From this description, namely the reference to ‘work’ of mouth, it is clear they must also specialize in dentistry.

I know advertising people. Some advertising people are my best friends. Some may say I might be one. And yes, there's some heavy drilling that goes on when marketing people attack the world to influence us with their version of information, and here is the EXCITING news FutureWorks is ahead of their time.

FutureWorks may have found the shortcut to the hours spent on research to understand the target demographic, the shortcut to gathering intelligence from focus groups, the steep investment to hire top creative managers and renowned web designers. Certainly, they have discovered how to eliminate the hours upon online hours drowning in understanding and participating in social media. Potentially, they may have found the way to avoid all the small marketing testing and near misses, and to immediately deploy on large scale.

It's clear FutureWorks has decided to get in our heads through our mouth.

I'm thinking a good tooth yanking would definitely make me buy ANYTHING.

Or, perhaps FutureWorks should learn to spell.

P.S. It's ‘word’ of mouth marketing.

Carry on.

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Do not operate a submarine while reading this blog

I downloaded a new app to my smart phone and prior to engaging it the application required me to read the End-User License Agreement.

Most of the time I click the box that means, yeah, I “read” it.

Pay attention non-readers, not every boring End-User License Agreement is boring. In fact, these manufacturers believe that * I * am anything but boring, too!

Mostly, they're right.

But to make sure we were on the same page, the End-User License Agreement detailed what was intended by high risk activities I should avoid conducting while using their product, and I quote:

HIGH RISK ACTIVITIES: The software is not fault-tolerant and is not designed, manufactured or intended for use in hazardous environment requiring fail-safe performance, such as the operation of:

• Nuclear facilities
• Aircraft navigation
• Air traffic control
• Implantable human medical devices
• External human life-support machines
• Explosives control devices
• Submaries
• Weapons systems
• Or in controlling the operation of moving motor vehicles in which the failure of the Software could lead directly to death, personal injury, or severe physicial or environmental damage.

Let's be clear. I agree. The above bullet points are high risk activities. I also think if you are intelligent enough to engage in the above activities, you are smart enough not to conduct the stated activity while using your cell phone.

But maybe not.

So, let's be clear about you. I believe you are smart. You read my blog, follow me on Twitter and make comments on such, and due to your high use of good judgment it must also be stated that you are bright enough not to perform those activities while operating a phone (yours or mine), yelling at at kid (yours or mine) or entering into any life changing event such as getting married (while reading my blog).

In case you're not that bright, this blog is provided “as is” without warranty of any kind, either express or implied, including, but not limited to anything I have said, might say or may never say and any of the preceding that may or may not appear in writing under my byline.

If you have any questions about the above, please leave a comment below. I will review your comments with my attorney and will craft a reply that will not place you in further danger of End-User Agreements.

If you do not place a comment, you proceed into life and future End-User Agreements at your own risk.

Cheers!

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Manhunt Part II

I wonder sometimes why I do some of the crazy things I do. I think it’s because I don’t want to miss out, I don’t like there to be places where I don’t belong, and I like to know what’s behind closed doors. I will be the one who—after everyone has gone home—pokes her head in the men’s bathroom. Just to see what it looks like.

Uh, yeah.

The people who know me would not be surprised by that disclosure. They might, however, be surprised that some of my antics require me to get my nerve up. But Sunday, entering the Korean Church felt quite comfortable now that I was in the company of a Korean, my co-worker Chye.

The time I came without her, the Korean greeters had taken one look at my auburn hair and round eyes and waved the Korean bulletins in their hands as if to ward off smoke from a campfire gone awry, shouting “This is not the right church.” Of course, they said it in Korean, but it was quite clear they believed I had made a wrong turn and ended up in their midst by mistake.

I smiled.

They gaped.

I neared.

They took a step back.

I took another step, reached out, and my smile tensed as I tugged a bulletin out of the tight grip of one of them. I gave it a cursory glance, nodded and entered the sanctuary. I sat as close to the back as I could, certain I was a distraction, but hoped I wouldn’t ruin the service for the people who worshipped there regularly.

This morning they had the same set-up. Two Korean guards women greeted the oncoming with smiles and bowing heads, handing out church bulletins. Their eyes glowed when they saw Chye and the Korean words rushed and swirled as the introduction conversation ensued. With grand hand gestures, one of them handed Chye a blank piece of paper and a pen. Chye wrote something down, turned to me and told me to write my name down.

“Why?” I asked suspiciously.

“They want to introduce you. They say your name and you stand.” She pointed at a spot in the bulletin, ‘Welcome’ it said in bold letters followed by circles and hash marks I recognized as Korean.

“No. No, way,” I answered, taking a step back.

“Just do it,” she said, then the smile tightened on her lips as if to say don’t embarrass me.

I glanced at the women. They smiled encouragingly and waved the bulletins as if to fan the fire of invitation. I grasped the pen, narrowed my eyes on Chye and scratched my name on the paper under hers. Just you wait, I thought, if they make us speak I’ll announce we’re on a man hunt.

We stepped into the carpeted sanctuary and eased into the back row as soft music lilted from the small orchestra at the front of the church: violin, viola, cello and keyboards. We stared at our bulletins. One of us could read it.

A congregational hymn began, a few hands clapped in rhythm. My head jerked up.

Unbelievable.

I understood Korean. At least one word...



AH-LAY-LOO-YAH

More to come...

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What evil lurks in social media? A mom knows...now.

Little_Karol, my daughter, sat in a cube after hours at the office. The computer screen in front of her glowed as she checked her email. At least that’s what she told me she was doing. I strode into my office, crashed behind the desk and plunged into an evening of catch up.

It had never happened before, that our wires had crossed, even though she always used my log-in to get to the internet, but an absent-minded mouse flick on my part altered the screen I stared at. Suddenly, I shadowed her computer movements. It shocked me how quickly I rocketed into the bad-mom-universe. I was the bad mom. What flickered before me alarmed me.

Facebook.

I had shuddered at every horrid child abuse story in regards to social media, and had nodded sagely, arrogantly even, knowing my capable parenting skills would never find me the subject of a sad news story. I was too intelligent to raise a child who would fall prey. My child was too bright to fall to a predator. But there it was. Facebook. The ultimate child predator.

MySpace drifted in semi-consciousness as: ‘places not to visit.’ LinkedIN sounded like the online bar of hook-ups. Bloggers were anal politicos who needed a forum to rant, or self absorbed punks who didn’t get enough ‘me-time’ and needed to hear their own voices, so they posted what remained of their dribble online: me-me-me. Twitter had barely hit my radar and sounded inane, a test to drill your most profound thought to 140 characters. What kind of a character is that? Did a space count as a character? Ignorance foamed and huffed at me and I choked on its fumes.

My fingers trembled as I stared at my child’s Facebook wall. What the heck is a wall? Why would I be encouraged to write on it? I clicked through the other places of her Facebook page. Oh my effing gee, she has posted pictures! If that isn’t a predator call I don’t know what is.

That was it.

She was done.

I am a woman of action.

I took control and did the most sensible thing.

I read the Facebook terms and conditions.

I had her.

She was toast.

I called her into my office and I sounded mean. I confronted her Facebook abuse. I gave her a piece of paper and a pen and ordered her to write down every email, gmail, yahoo-mail, hotmail and every Web-site she was on that required a log-in and I demanded her passwords. Her dark eyes flooded with panic and tears pushed at her lashes. She took in a shaky breath, her little knees collapsed, and she sunk into the guest chair. One-by-one, she proceeded to disclose her secrets. That’s when I learned she had a blog. I had never read a blog. I was ignorant.

I shut down Facebook and doled out strong words. She was underage. Facebook had a minimum age requirement. She did not qualify. My strong lecture lasted up through her birthday. Midnight clicked over and back up went her Facebook.

Second discovery went as well as expected.

I yelled.

I gave up.

I got a Facebook page.

Happy halloween

Happy Halloween. We are cancelling all illness and turning the flu into pumpkins. Picture via Janet Liang: The Chemo Experience, from her blog Autumn in January.

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It's a writer's conference, cry me a river

Day One.
I give my elevator pitch to Fellow Writer A, a woman. She says, “Oooo, nice.”

I gain confidence and give my elevator pitch to First Agent. She nods, appears interested. I give very brief summary of story. When I get to the part where ex-husband shows up as female protagonist’s new boss the agent stops me.

“No. That is too much of a coincidence for me.” I explain how the plot line makes it plausible. “No,” she smiles, “He would already know who the employees are in a business he is buying.” I tell her the story does not make that clear, whether he knows she’s there or not, it is not a story point. “No,” she repeats still smiling, pulls out a pocket dagger, swings it in front of my eyes for emphasis and details further, “I can’t find anything likeable about your female character.”

Nothing? The glint of the steel flashes and I sit back in my seat. I swing my head toward the exit and try to judge how far away I am.

“I like books with very strong female protagonists. Rethink your pitch, recast it in a way that describes the genre, what and why—why would she marry him?” She says things like explain plot device and ends with, “I have a disdain for characters who get themselves into a fix.” She stabs the dagger into the table top for emphasis.

I am in a fix. She has disdain for me.

Rewrite the story? I can’t just make something up.

Oh, right, I made it all up.

It sucks. I suck.

I my lips pull into a wavering smile and I thank her for her time.


Day Two, Morning.
I give my elevator pitch to Fellow Writer B, a man, “Wow, I’m intrigued.”

Second Agent says, “Pitch me.” I give same elevator pitch. She stops me. “If she’s learned not to depend, why does she?” I explain the circumstances that make it plausible. She asks, “Is this you?”

“No. why do you ask? Does it sound like it happened to me?”

“No, but if it had happened to you, I would ask why you married this guy and tell you to turn it into a memoir.”

I wonder briefly if I can find and marry Jae-Chun Lee. I must discard this thought, after all, he is already married and...and...he is fiction.

I realize I am insane.

My plot is insane.


Day Two, Lunch.
I decide I will not share agent feedback with my critique group, because one of them will tell me that such-and-so always bothered them, too, and I will quit, actually quit writing because…

I’ll give them a good excuse, as soon as I write one that does not suck and sound insane.


Day Two, Afternoon.
I am thirsty. I leave my volunteer station in the agent consult area and grab a seltzer water can out of my car. I slip back into the banquet room and glide past an agent twiddling thumbs on a break.

The Agent grabs my arm and asks,“Where did you find the sparkling water?” I size the situation up. I hesitate. I do not snap the metal circle-tab. “You will be my new best friend,” she declares, “if you divulge your source.”

I hand her my can.

“No, I can't take your water,” she says, and struggles to maintain her composure. She’s likely very thirsty after telling all the writers how much they suck. She swallows and chomps down on the inside of her cheek.

“My treat,” I say. “I have a whole case in the car.”

She looks doubtful. I plant the can on her table. She relents. Her shaky hand reaches out. Her fingers close around the metal cylinder, red-glazed fingernails flick at the ring-top. It pops open and the water gasps, sparkling and plinking of Northwest freshness. She takes a long draw.

“You owe me a pitch,” I suggest, and it doesn't sound like I’m kidding. I mentally check my internal resources and steel myself for rejection.

“Send me your stuff,” she answers, “No,” she decides, after taking another gulp. She wipes her mouth with the back of her sleeve. “Send me your entire manuscript.” She scribbles her email on a scrap of paper.

I realize my value is measured in the drinks I keep in my car.

Later that evening, I wonder if it is required to cry everyday of a writer’s conference, and realize I do not suck at everything.

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Vacation over, what comes next?

There is something sad about the last days of vacation, something that fills me with deep anxiety, that somehow I'm not ready for life, I'm not ready to go back. I want to staaaaay....


It's been a week. It's time, the vacation gods murmur. The universe allowed you to leave, now it's time to go back, go home.

"But I want to staaaaay...." I sing into the wind and it drifts back into my face, but far rougher than I'd released it, and I swallow the words. "You're right," I concede, and the consonants taste like sandpaper. "It's time to go."

Work hard, the spirits whisper, do your best and you can return.

We throw things in our bags un-carefully, a counterpoint to the anticipation we'd began the week with, trying to fool the lesser sprites (the ones that keep a closer watch) that it doesn't matter. We're fine leaving. We could stay if we wanted. We just want to go home now. Really

The car rumbles to life, noses out of the the parking lot, and turns east toward home.

What's the first thing you do at the end of your vacation?

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Jake the alligator man and why my daughter has a new sweatshirt

There are the things that dreams are made of, and then there are the dark remnants that drift into our nightmares.

Consider Jake the Alligator Man. He fully intrigued me as a child, even captured my attention into young adulthood. I grappled with the facts of his leathery, dark hide looking for the stitch line that proved a human head had been attached to an alligator's body. I could never find the seam.

Perhaps, I believed he was real. Perhaps, that tainted the story as I spun the tale of the alligator man to my daughter and promised she would meet him.

"Some folks claim Jake the Alligator Man was a valet in a New Orleans whorehouse," I read from the complimentary brochure provided by Marsh's Free Museum. "Others claim to have seen him in carnivals, crawling around, nods of his head communicating yes or no."

My daughter grew astonished at the prospect of being face-to-face with Jake the Alligator Man.

She should have been sickened. I don't think even a mother could love his face...but she wasn't repulsed by JAKE.

Instead, she was disappointed in the way only a teenager can truly experience.

It's the one thing, the most important thing your mom neglects to explain which destroys all your hopes in life.

"I thought he would be ALIVE!" she roared when she finally saw him behind the glass case. She crossed her skinny little arms over her chest and stated, "You owe me." Her eyes narrowed in on me. "Buy me a hoody."

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Things my mom didn't tell me

My mom told me there were three bedrooms at the place she had booked for us at the beach.

What she didn’t tell me: the two bedrooms on the second floor have private baths with jetted tubs, the living room features a gas fireplace, flat screen TV and stereo system, the kitchen a dishwasher, a side-by-side with filtered water, and granite countertops.

She also neglected to announce the deck featured an ocean view, touted a gas grill and a hottub, which is why I appeared without a bathing suit.

Had she told me it was equipped with a washer and dryer I would have brought my chores.

Stop.

I’m confused. I thought we were traveling with retired folk. I thought we were…not rich. I thought vacation timeshares were bad, and that you should not purchase them.

I still believe that is true.

Do not buy timeshares!

Do, however, encourage your parents to purchase them. ☺

Oh, and remember to bring along someone who can cook (that would not be me).

And enjoy the view.

With a glass of wine.

Out of a box.

Really.

That was my classy contribution...

What's your best contribution this summer?

Advice I should not follow: my brother's

There's lots of hub-bub about social media these days. I read most of it on Twitter. I read some of it on Facebook. I re-read a Facebook warning from Little_Brother.

It is worth noting I listened to my brother.

It is worth noting I followed his directions.

This may be a momentous day.

Okay, it wasn't.

First, Little_Brother advised everyone to update their Facebook privacy settings to keep their personal pictures out of the hands of ruthless third party advertisers. Second, I followed his advice and updated privacy settings (Click on SETTINGS up at the top where you see the log out link. Select PRIVACY. Then select NEWS FEEDS AND WALL. Next select the tab that reads FACE BOOK ADS. There is a drop down box, select NO ONE. Then SAVE your changes). Third, I checked it out.

Facebook's reply to me, "Worried about privacy? Your photos are safe. There have been misleading rumors recently about Facebook using your photos in ads. Don't believe them. These rumors were related to third-party applications, and not ads shown by Facebook. Get the whole story at the Facebook Blog, or check out the Help Center."

I clicked through to the blog. Basically, they said a rumor had begun spreading, the rumor was false, someone did misuse Facebook profile photos in ads—which violated their policies, those ads were removed. They also wanted it noted that the removal occurred, then the rumor started. I say, someone smelled cover-up, disgruntled employee, jealous competitor. Take your pick.

Let's just be clear. Before re-posting anything, vet it, investigate it, research it.

And please, hesitate before forwarding any email blast. Scope it, snope it (Snopes), and after you confirm it is TRUE, consider if it's really necessary. Don't be a lemming, don't follow the crowd, don't jump off the cliff.

Be original.

Start your own rumor.

And never, NEVER forward me what I call the-wisdom-of-the-internet-email with a gazillion people's emails included. Just don't do it. I will value you and your correspondence far greater if you email or post a comment: just-thinking-about-you-wanted-to-say-hi.

Seriously.

So, now what to do with all those rumors... I know you're itching to post them somewhere. Okay, permission granted. Send them to Big_Brother. He likes 'em.

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Follow Friday? Follow me out the door

Upon arrival at work, I encountered this sign at the back entrance. I considered whether I should take it as a sign (Am I punny, or what?!)


I drove around to the front of the building and the office was buried behind road construction crap. I plucked out a parking spot and picked my way through the concrete maze.


I placed all hope on my key and slid it carefully in the lock. It turned... Darn.


This sign greeted me at my completely (dis)organized desk. A second sign? Sure. I'll run with that.

See you all Monday! And maybe with a celebrity who's met me.

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Gems within old leather bound books

My dad thrust a small book in my hands and exhorted me to read a couple of the chapters. His finger tapped the open pages to draw my attention to exactly which two. I nodded a quick 'uh-huh' and set the book aside. Later that day, a twinge of guilt plucked at my conscience and I picked up the book from where I had discarded it. I cracked opened the old green leather and thumbed through the thin beige pages. I ought to at least read a little something, I thought.

I scanned the text, stopped and re-read. There are gems in old books.

A story should first of all mean something, should have some value to the reader for the better understanding or living of life. The second requirement is that it be presented in a form of beauty.

From the General Introduction of The Best Tales of Edgar Allan Poe, 1924.

Books should offer meaning, value, beauty. I couldn't have received a more poignant message. Thanks, Dad.

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Write better faster

The world is full of interesting people. Some of the best have met ME!

Laura Whitcomb encountered me at a Willamette Writers event. I was an attendee, she was the featured speaker. I entered excited for our encounter. She smiled and posed for a picture and probably laughed after I disappeared into the crowd. Some people are not sure what to make of me, including me sometimes, but I’ve found a smile and intelligent banter can get you just about anything, including working up your own courage. Hah!

Whitcomb opened the evening lecture, Diving into the Fetch, by noting she completed twenty novels and novellas before selling her first book, A Certain Slant of Light. She went on to co-author a second, a non-fiction work with Ann Rittenberg, Your First Novel: An Author Agent Team Share the Keys to Achieving Your Dream, which published a year later.

How do you find such good fortune? As I said in the prior post, First Friday is for Friends: “You work hard, you mix it up, and you get lucky.” Remember, the luck comes when you’re working hard. Oh, and creating a good relationship with your agent has its perks, too. In a follow up email Whitcomb corrected an error I had made on which of her books sold on a synopsis and writing sample. She noted, “Your First Novel was already a deal Writers Digest had set up with my agent and she chose me to write it with her. She already had a great platform, being a hot lit agent, and she got her top client, Dennis Lehane, to write the forward. I'm sure I wouldn't have been able to get such a cool gig on my own with only one novel under by belt at the that point.”

She is modest in her self assessment. Dedication to her writing craft continues to produce publishing success in even doses. The Fetch sold on a sample and a synopsis. That almost seems unfair when you consider the hordes of writers who slave over queries, only to be turned down due to weak sentence structure, misuse of adverbs, and vagaries of the market, but what the hay, let’s celebrate someone’s good fortune, maybe it will rub off. And remember, there's twenty books under her book-belt before one saw print. At the end of the day, good writing sells good books, and I'll figure out a proper query letter, eventually.

Whitcomb’s success in finding a publisher made her giddy and sublimely willing to overlook the challenge to produce within the publishers dictated timelines. She stupidly (her word--not mine) said, “Yes! I can do this, because I’m so excited.” When the enthusiasm dust settled, she realized she had a limited number of weeks to deliver. She needed to come up with a way to get at a better draft faster. She needed the fourth or fifth draft the first time out. It was that fast part that drew the audience into hushed silence, including me. What? You can have a book in less than two-kazillion drafts? That got my attention.

As she developed her techniques for speed she ended up pitching another book. What? Write two books at the same time? “When you’re working on one project you daydream about doing something else,” she mused. That daydreaming part I totally understand.

WHITCOMB’S SHORTCUTS

Whitcomb highlighted her habits to us that evening, and the full detail is captured in her book, Novel Shortcuts.

Begin with a sense of wonder. All that matters is creating a sense of wonder for the reader, drawing them in to you and why you have to write the story.

Use story telling devices. Voice, point of view, and tone carry weight, but what makes the difference is the story telling device. “It’s okay to make up a device to serve your own purposes. It’s not like grammar that already has rules, or the hero’s journey with a logical path. It’s no rules, it’s all you. It’s the way you tell the story.” Whitcomb’s latest release, The Fetch is told as a knight’s tale. Unique perspectives can be a great device.

The cross hairs moment. Grasp the most important moment in your novel, the one that lies within the rifle sight. It’s not always the climax. Example: in The Dead Zone by Stephen King, the cross hairs moment does not lie in the action part, nor the end, but it’s when the idea is posed, what if you could go back in time and kill… Whitcomb noted, “In my ghost story, A Certain Slant of Light, two ghosts are borrowing teenagers’ bodies. The cross hairs moment is when they realize they’re going to have to give the bodies back.” Aim for the cross hairs moment in your book and understand the compelling reason for each chapter.

Shortcut to the scene. Whitcomb is a list maker. She makes a list of what to put into a scene, basically what needs to happen and what she thinks the dialog will be, then she writes for ten minutes full speed thinking only about emotions, senses, metaphors and similes she might like. Her work at this juncture focuses on the creative development rather than the structure. She prints out her list and 10-minute writing sprint and puts them next to her keyboard. “I was able to write scenes three times faster, almost exactly like the published book,” she reported. “It’s like a cheat sheet, but it’s not somebody else, all of that is you.” What? Almost exactly like published book? I should give up now, right? (Nah).

Balance: scene, summary, and reflection. Whitcomb found her balance by accident, and equated her AHA moment to watching her four-year-old nephew riding his two-wheeler with training wheels. Once the paired wheels came off, he had trouble turning without putting his foot on the ground. The moment he learned to use his balance, throw his weight from side-to-side to initiate the turn, he had his AHA moment. The revelation on his face at this discovery was a mirror of hers when she unearthed the balancing act in her writing, juggling scene, summary, and reflection. Stabilizing this trio is like riding without training wheels.

To explain scene-summary-reflection she described developing an emergency room scene. “You capture everything that is said (scene). You summarize people going home, their first night, first week, that takes a paragraph (summary). Or, you go directly from the emergency room and encounter the character thinking about death. Here the narrator ruminates or philosophizes (reflection).” She came to her balance with practice. “My first reaction as a young writer was to only write scenes, some are boring, because I should have had made them summaries.” (There's hope! Not everything in print is perfect).

Visual Aids. Have visual clues handy that communicate who your characters are and all the details you need to keep track of to weave into the story. “Sometimes it gets complicated, so draw yourself a map.” Whitcomb described her map, but for some things you had to be there, me trying to relay would get us both lost.

Stealing tricks from the best. Whitcomb assured, “It’s actually not stealing, because you’re not really taking material from anyone.” Doing this helped save her a lot of time rewriting tricky or difficult scenes, “Writing a really great entrance for a character, writing something to foreshadow before a climax, a scene that has mixed perception—what happens in the scene perceived one way by one character and completely different by the another, sex scenes.” Her technique is to read an author who excels at a particular specialty, pull their scene apart, and emulate it.

Let's start a list of great scenes to review to aid our writing. Leave the author, scene-type, and book example in the comments.

Don’t ignore Ghosts. “Ghosts are little thoughts that keep bugging you, even though they seem pointless and you keep pushing them away.” She mentioned items that float through her head, song lyrics, a scene from a play, and admonished, “Pay attention. The ghost is coming to you for a reason. There’s something in that seemingly irrelevant thought that is going to help in what you’re working on.” (This idea might also help slow you down before pulling the trigger on that not-ready-for-agent-review query).

Use Art. Allow art to get at the deeper emotion, the real core emotion that’s hidden under layers and layers. “Listening to music puts me in the mood of my current novel faster than anything else. True beautiful, memorable and strong, and preferably without lyrics.” Whitcomb creates mix tapes to jump start her writing. A favorite source are sound tracks from movies.

It stinks. What to do? Back track. Read the last sentence first. Is it bad? Keep reading backwards. If she hates the next to the last sentence she reads the next-next to the last sentence, until, “Now that is the last great sentence I wrote!” She recommends to keep going back until you find quality, and delete everything in between. “I don’t need slightly better written crap, I just need good stuff,” Whitcomb assessed.

I need a miracle. Goals. Self-imposed deadlines helped Whitcomb get past the finish line, and she works best when they are attached to something real. “I want to get the first draft done by 'this date,' because my friend is going out of town, and she said she’d read it.” Make it real to make it work, and support it with positive visualization, a mantra or made up word. Get creative!

SUCCESS IS IN THE LIGHT

Laura Whitcomb's success has come from asking the what if question. She uses well known or historical events and asks, “What if something is happening underneath the surface that you dOn’t know about?” She explores the murky depths and while she may write about dark places, she doesn’t actually write horror, despite being listed in the category, right after Twilight and, er, Twilight.

“I always write about the light, I believe there is light and love at the core of the universe and inside every human being. It’s why were here,… sometimes human beings hate, and do things that are dark things, but I think we are hopeful beings. That’s what draws me to the stories I read and the stories I write. We are lit from the inside with a common flame,” she concluded.

Burn bright little flame, I've got some writing to do, and quickly!

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Takes a hell of a lot of people to edit a book

Since August, the die-hards of Novel-Writing-Boot-Camp II have met once a week and read approximately twelve minutes of manuscript. It beats as the heart, and veins through as an integral part of the creative phase. Mere words cannot express the admiration and appreciation each has of the other four who serve up their personal Thursday evenings with faithfulness and fearlessness. Yes, we skipped the week of Christmas, but no, we did not skip the week of Thanksgiving, just met on Tuesday; we couldn’t let loose of the characters whose lives are evolving before us.

It can be very intimidating to read your work out loud, and even when you become accustomed to it, a particularly sensitive part can diminish your voice to a whisper. Spoken word hides nothing. It lays you bare: heart, soul, essence. Creative talent either excels or is found lacking, and members, who remain true to the art, communicate direction in words that are both sincere and kind, but direct. How we respond mirrors our own character, strong and relentless, uncertain and questioning, or certain not to be deterred from our course to write, edit and publish. If luck prevails one is immersed in the most intense AHA experience that surfaces the writer on the other side of mediocre, to an idea or concept that is really, really good. I can point to the paragraphs, or scenes that have benefited from the ears of my novel editing shipmates. Two heads are better than one, and five is just about perfect.