Thea's All Write

My Own Private Psychological Thriller

2011-12-31T15:19:00.000-08:00

I haven't written about writing because my life has been writing itself for half a year--a psychological thriller. And though I have kept my personal life (for the most part, but never completely) out of my fiction, the plot I've survived is original and twisted, so why not get it on paper? There is art, and there is story, and there is money. Why not have all three? I will not, by any means, write a memoir--after all, there are hearts and minds at stake. But I can take the pain and redemption, among other perennial themes, and sink them securely into a novel, letting their final forms emerge.

Funny, I thought I had suffered enough in life, which often allows for good writing. Who knew that childhood suffering had only prepared me for middle-age suffering, and finally and hopefully, for a cathartic release in a really good book.

Waxing Crescent

2011-09-30T22:07:00.000-07:00

The moon waxed crescent yesterday, September 29th. Is it only by chance that my story, "Broken Moon," a story that takes place on the same day, September 29, though in 2032, should be accepted by New Plains Review ? Maybe. But even chance is in the hands of Fortuna, and on this same day, when a most intimate aspect of my life rose and fell and rose again in an unpredictable cycle, its brightness and harshness changing before I could adjust my vision or my footing, so that my temple throbbed and my knees buckled, I know that my fate and my story are in the hands of someone greater than me.

Alive in the Dance of Death

2011-09-02T17:19:00.000-07:00

How fitting that during this strange time in my life, when something I had held dear and assumed would always be as it was transformed itself, died to me, and returned anew but not mine anymore--how fitting that during this time another one of my experimental stories, written years ago and almost forgotten, should find a home in Danse Macabre, a literary journal that holds dear that which might otherwise shiver in a dark corner, alone, a journal whose title suggests the editors are no strangers to the fact that this is all transitory. For now, "The Unfurling of Ann" has a bit of breathing company. Please join us.

Novels & Tubs

2011-03-15T22:41:00.000-07:00

I finished my novel a couple of weeks ago. Seems odd, I know. So quick. Yet, it really wasn't. I had started it a couple of years ago and finally convinced myself it was a worthwhile way to age, definitely better than cleaning the bathtub, a tub that just gets dirty again and again. And what I only just found out is that no one in this house notices if it is clean or dirty. They actually do not care. This was revelatory. If cleaning the tub is only for me, and writing the novel is only for me, I choose to write.

I say I'm finished, knowing that I'll revise some of it at some point. But not now. Now, I am on page six of my next novel. This is the one that will delight at least one agent. Hush. I cannot tell of its content. Hush.

Meanwhile, twenty queries have been sent to agents for novel #1. Three or four rejections, as to be expected. All may reject, some may never care to respond, some may say a nice word or two but pass. No matter. Novel #2 is much better, anyway.

In a Hotel Room at Midnight

2011-01-23T23:13:00.000-08:00

Two days ago, I wrote:

Day two of morning, noon and night of novel-writing in a hotel room, steps away from Oregon's portion of the Pacific Ocean. It's midnight, and the music is blasting through Pandora, through my headphones, urging me along. I drove for four hours from another state to get here, a gift from my husband. I write this now to pull away from the intensity of writing make-believe, which I have discovered has its own transforming reality.

I get one more full day and night of this. I am grateful beyond measure.

I have not seen the ocean. Maybe before I leave.

I have not seen the hospitality crew. Maybe before I leave.

I brought some turkey and mixed greens. I brought whole grain bread. I brought coffee. That's all I need.

I've written twenty pages in two days. Usually, this would take two months.

My writing night continues, and I am reminded that as far as writing fiction is concerned, it is the amazing process itself, of creating life with symbols I type, that matters.

I Want to Weave Shadows

2010-12-11T22:46:00.000-08:00

Above my desk I display a painting, a print, a poster by J. W. Waterhouse: "The Lady of Shalott," a visual representation of Tennyson's poem, a poster that has come with me across the country, from the first time I laid eyes on it, in a poster shop in Buffalo, after having read the poem in college. The Lady is in a boat, her deathbed, breathing her last breaths, upright still. The Lady has had enough. She had been weaving day after day, year after year, in her tower, cursed. The Lady weaved what she saw in her round mirror that caught the reflection of everything that passed by her window. She couldn't actually look out the window; she couldn't turn around and see for herself the real thing, for if she did, she would die. But one can only take so much. While weaving, shortly before she turns to look, she says, "I am half sick of shadows."

It was the sight of Sir Lancelot in her mirror that pushed her over the edge:

His broad clear brow in sunlight glowed;
On burnished hooves his war horse trode;
From underneath his helmet flowed
His coal-black curls as on he rode
As he rode down to Camelot.

It was enough:

She left the web, she left the loom,
She made three paces through the room
She saw the water lily bloom,
She saw the helmet and the plume,
She looked down to Camelot.

She leaves the tower, climbs in the boat, and dies. If she would have continued weaving her images, her shadows, she would have lived. But to what end?

I'm different than the Lady. I want to weave shadows, but life is too bright, casting nothing.

A Small Happiness

2010-08-30T12:44:00.000-07:00

Stretch your mind, step out of your box, and visit chapter nine of the "stylistic" and "avant garde" literary journal Anemone Sidecar that contains my story, "Small Happinesses of the Day."

Epiphanic Moment During Pretty in Pink

2010-07-15T20:25:00.000-07:00

There's some movies that make me happy, movies easily poo-pood. Joe Versus the Volcano, Parenthood and Pretty in Pink are a few of them. As I flash-categorize qualities they all contain, I come up with: cute, funny and romantic. I imagine there are more complex qualities they all contain as well--very erudite, literary qualities that would justify my glee while watching them. But we won't go there. Instead, let's go to a few days ago, when my mom was visiting from out of state and my fourteen-year-old daughter was in a cozy state-of-being. I thought it perfect to bring together the three generations and watch Pretty in Pink. Before inserting the DVD, I remembered none of it, really, from when I watched it in 1986--none of it except for Duckie. I remembered feeling both affection and pity for Duckie, the one who loved but who wasn't loved the same way in return. The adorable and witty Duckie.

After the movie, as we reflected, I was struck: my novel-in-progress contains a number of striking similarities to Pretty in Pink. This epiphany was both exciting and scary. Exciting because it was fun to say, "Oh, my gosh, my novel has a Duckie and an Andie! Oh, my gosh, my novel's Andie has a mother who's gone (though she died; she didn't take off)." The epiphany was scary because I began to wonder if a teen-flick from my adolescence could actually carry that much weight. Scary, too, because I wondered if publishers would think my novel was a ripoff.

I concluded that I don't think they would think this. Whether they are similar or not, this story--the boy who loves a girl who loves another (though my girl doesn't love another, but an other (thing, not person)--has been told ages upon ages. I just have to continue to believe that my novel contains those complex qualities that didn't pop out at me while categorizing the movies. Really, my novel isn't cute or romantic. Maybe that only works in the movies.

Shameless (shameful?) Plug

2010-06-01T22:00:00.000-07:00

I suppose there's more profound things I could post than shameless plugs, but I'm too tired. So, here is a link to Camera Obscura's blog named Aperture: http://www.obscurajournal.com/aperture/?p=247. It's a posting from January, but follow the links to the first, high-quality issue of this new mag.

Experimental Story Finds a Home

2010-01-30T14:35:00.000-08:00

Feelers. Stretch them. Find where you belong, where you need to go.

Three years later, my story with the voice that called me to write it (see previous post on experimental writing) found a home in Anemone Sidecar. I had come across a great link of experimental titles: http://www.selbyslist.com/ (Thank you, Spencer Selby!). Three weeks after submitting, an acceptance crept in from this beautiful, quiet little journal.

I had sent this story out on my anniversary getaway, near the ocean, near thrown jellyfish and cracked sand dollars. It was all wet helix. It was time.

Seventeen Years of Marriage and Writing

2010-01-09T20:49:00.000-08:00

Getting ready for my wedding anniversary getaway, I received an email from a writer who teaches three thousand miles away in Toronto. I did not know her. She had read one of my stories in a journal but recycled the journal and wanted to know where she could get another copy so she can use my story for an assignment.

This getaway, so far, was going well.

And then, the next evening, after a romantic dinner at a charming restaurant near the beach, while checking my email, I discovered that a journal accepted a story I wrote two and a half years ago, a story that had been rejected many times, but a story I kept sending out.

For this anniversary getaway, I had someone cover my classes, my husband rearranged his obligations, and we asked a good friend to take care of our three children for two days.

In the inn on the beach, my husband said I am his perfect woman. I said he is my perfect man. I talked of my writing joys. He listened. He knew exactly what I meant.

These are the fruits of commitment.

The Editor's Role

2009-12-27T17:23:00.000-08:00

I often wonder if pre-internet editors regularly corresponded differently, that is, more, than editors of today. I remember getting a full letter from an editor of a literary journal sixteen years ago in response to a short story. I was a new writer, and here was this editor, caring about my work and letting me know what was good about it and what left him wondering.

Yes, I've received letters since. Just the other day, in fact. A marvelous letter, full of sincere compliments and even an offer to critique the story that had been rejected. I accepted and in a short time received a full critique. Immediately, I set to work on my story and have been asked to resubmit.

This is not the norm. But did it used to be, say, in the 80s and before? Did established writers get lots of one-on-one critiquing and editing from editors? I remember reading about a well-known writer who had line-by-line editing done by an editor at The New Yorker as they sat side-by-side. This doesn't make the writer less of a writer; writers need different eyes and minds and hearts to experience their work. Writers are so close to the material, they cannot be objective--unless they stick their story in a drawer for two years and read it fresh. Editors save time.

I know some things. I know that because editors are flooded with submissions, they can't respond, even to worthy stories. I know that because there is no money to make on stories, it isn't worth editors time to critique. I know that computers across the world are full of worthy stories, good stories, publishable stories or almost-publishable stories that will never be read and that good writers across the world will stop writing because no one is taking the time to tell them not to.

Time Dictates Genre

2009-10-14T21:47:00.000-07:00

I did start my novel, but I'm back again on a new story and rewrote the last one I blogged about. I will be done with this story in a week or two, depending on how many hours I can actually find to write. But still, I know I will finish it, and because of that, I always return to the short story. There is satisfaction in completion. I will return to my novel, but when? After this story, I tell myself.

I think if I were a factory worker in a third-world country, I would write poems because they are short. And if I were homeless and childless but with my wits and a pen, I'd be just about done with my novel.

But that's just me.

Where's the Heart?

2009-06-28T22:48:00.000-07:00

During one of my residencies at Pacific University, Pete Fromm’s agent talked to our group about stories that came across her desk. She said that many came across her desk that were cleverly written, but few had heart.

A few days ago, I handed my new key reader (my husband) my story that I was sure was just about done. As he read, I sat at my computer, straight-backed and giddy, choosing the top five journals I’d send it to, adding their names to my “publication tracking table.” Having carefully critiqued, my husband entered my writing sanctuary. “Wow,” he said. “A lot is going on in this story. Way too much is going on in this story.”

I felt, momentarily, like giving up, like I had no talent or expertise. But after that moment (okay, five minutes), I was grateful. He saved me a lot of postage and time. Too much does happen in the story. It was the first time I intentionally wrote a story with a whirlwind ending. I had a blast letting my imagination run wild. I actually had a Billy Idol look-alike hop on the back of a tangential character as the two smash into the dance floor mirrors. Fun. The scene makes me happy still. But it just added to the chaos and convenient meetings of characters.

Hubby did more than just save me time and money (and embarrassment). His comments also made me question why I was writing this story. The story began because of an idea that popped in my head, a fun idea, one that made me laugh. That, in itself, can lead to a successful story. But what never surfaced (though it still could, if I continued at it) was the heart of the story. What do I mean by that tired word, “heart”? I don’t mean sappiness. What I really mean is the worth of the story. Heart contains worth, meaning, depth. I tried to force meaning into the motivation of the character, but when I questioned why she did what she did, I didn’t believe her and I didn’t think it was worthwhile, and really, I didn’t think it was worth writing. And when I motivated her to do her action for more realistic and truer reasons, I found that I just didn’t care.

Hubby also asked about the language of my story, the voice, said it was coarser than usual. I said, "Yes, it's meant to be. It's in first-person, and she is pretty coarse." He understood, but as a side note, he said that I should write more stories “like that one you wrote, that experimental one.” Ahh. That one. Yes, the one that pulled me from my bed and demanded to be written. The one whose voice captivates me. That one.

Two days later, I found myself at Barnes & Noble reading the first chapter of Michael Chabon’s collection of essays entitled, Maps and Legends: Reading and Writing Along the Borderlands. Chabon helped me find my writing heart. He spoke of the bad reputation genre fiction has received, that it didn’t always receive. He said that “entertainment” wasn’t always considered bad. He said that reading fiction was once—genre fiction included—a reciprocal act, between reader and writer, not a passive act. He spoke of the blurring of borders, of mainstream fiction, genre fiction, and literary fiction. He wondered what would happen if all those books were put on the shelves, side by side. He spoke of the need for more genre-blurring. He said it’s happening, that it has to happen.

I left Barnes & Noble listening to that voice of my one story, the voice that captivates me, the voice in my boundary-blurring story, the voice with heart, the voice that matters to at least me. I drove away, knowing I was going to go back to the borderlands to write a new novel because the voice I hear is a worthy one.

How Do Poets Feel?

2009-06-17T23:11:00.000-07:00

Sippy Cup's comment urges me to post. He's a poet, and he gives sympathy to fiction writers who spend long hours and days and weeks on stories and then have to wait for rejections and maybe, acceptances, while he says some poets can write poems more quickly and send out a number of poems at a time. This is something I've often wondered: Do poets wait longer for responses? Can a poet complete a poem in a couple of days? I've written some poems, and can write one in about two or three days, total time, three or so hours. I wonder about the poet's experiences with regards to time spent on poetry and turn-around time from editors. I wonder if poets send mass-mailings like fiction writers do, assuming rejections will abound. I wonder about the confidence of the poet, if it gets beaten down like the fiction writer's. I wonder if poets think it is easy or hard to get published in literary journals.

The Mystery of Publishing Experimental Fiction

2009-06-09T19:57:00.000-07:00

I wrote an experimental story two years ago that demanded to be written, that wrote me. I can still remember rising (dare I say floating?) from my bed, called to my laptop. Even today, I am titillated when I read this story. I sent this story to many journals and received the usual rejections as well as enthusiasm and even letters, but still, no acceptance. After two years, I asked my husband to read it, and lo and behold, changes were necessary for his comprehension of basic plot, which forced me to take seriously the words of one editor who had said that although my story was beautiful she was "lost in the narrative" at times.

I think I fixed that now. I think a reader would now not be lost, and would be grounded in its ethereal (sometimes creepy, maybe) other-worldliness. But still, I have this suspicion that this amazing story won't make it to print, and I refuse to believe it is because it isn't good enough. So there is the mystery. Why won't they publish this particular treasure, even online journals who have page space? In the words of The Lady of Shalott, "I'm half sick of shadows."

Too Tired to Even Begin, but I'll Try

2009-06-07T23:43:00.000-07:00

It's 11:44 and I should be sleeping. But I set up this blog because I get my own URL and I kind of like that picture I just took of myself. Why would anyone care about that? I don't even care about that. Still, there are things to be said about writing stories, things that we writers need to hear, even if we don't know it until we hear it. So when I'm feeling like I want to share, and if the kids are in bed, and I'm done prepping for class, and I can actually think and see, and my stories can wait, I'll sip some tea (since it will be too late for coffee--the best drink of the universe) and type it here if for no other reason than it feels good.