A (Puzzled) Thanks

I fear speaking too soon.

And yet I’d like to report on my novel-writing project.

Four weeks. 13,500 words. 35 pages. Five chapters. And my dominant emotion? Bafflement. At how easy it feels.

I know enough by now to realize that initial creation is always the fun and easy part of writing. And I know that I am just beginning even that. Finishing will be work. Editing will no doubt suck, as editing always does. And selling it (should I get that far) will be Sisyphean.

But, nevertheless, I feel as if I am watching myself from a distance, thinking: wow, who knew she could do that?

Perhaps the root of my bafflement is that during the six years I spent writing my memoir it never occurred to me —never ever never once—that writing fiction might be easier than writing narrative non-fiction about my dead baby.

(Ahem, a friend responded. Yes, I would think it would be quite a bit easier.)

Who knows how this will all fall out in the end, but right now this is exactly the balm I needed to move forward as a human being and as a writer. And even if this is all it ever is, I’d like to offer up the teeniest and most sincere thank you to the heavens for that.

Hurts So Good

My writing group friends agree: there is such a thing as a “good” rejection letter.

As I have reported in the past (Boomerang), an unfortunately much-too-common rejection letter in the publishing industry is no rejection letter—no response at all, which has the result of making one feel like pond scum, or worse, invisible pond scum.

Far too much of the time when I send one of my essay-babies off to publishing-land, it vanishes with barely a whisper of the mouse button never to be heard from again. After a several weeks, I assume it dead, or at least terminally neglected.

Which brings us to a good rejection letter. The qualities of said precious item convey that one’s slaved-over words were a) actually read by a fellow human being b) admired in some stated way and c) deemed worthy of a few sentences of semi-thoughtful reply.

Here’s a lovely rejection I received the other day.

Dear Kim,
Thank you for sending “The Why Season.” I’m sorry to take so long to reply.
I enjoyed reading your essay and found it both funny and touching. However, I must report that we’ve decided to give it a pass, as we recently published an essay on a similar topic and don't yet feel ready to revisit the subject. I wish you the best of luck placing this piece elsewhere.

Gee, isn’t that nice? Of course we should not overlook the fact that it’s a big fat no. But why dwell on that when we can bask in the weak filtered light of its approval? Sigh. I feel so warm and fuzzy inside.

Seasonal Interference

We interrupt our regularly scheduled musings on motherhood, writing and rejection for a taste of summer living. We regret to inform you that this might be a common occurance until mid-September. Please bear with us and enjoy our dabblings into a new artistic format--the photo essay.

A Friday Bonus!

J. Robert Lennon nails The Truth About Writers in the LA Times.

Happy Weekend!

Summertime Writer's Fatigue

A picture is worth a 1000 words (left unwritten).

The Trauma Tour

Captain Daddy is professionally inclined to report on topics of disaster and death.

In our early years together I named this litany of unfortunate events the Trauma Tour. Everywhere we went he had a story to tell: car into tree, drug-addled assault, slow and lonely decay. I endured it, sometimes even with affection for the tragic contents of my loved one’s brain.

Until we had kids. Lately I’ve tried to press upon Captain Daddy that perhaps chickens ages two and four do not need to be told ghastly and terrifying true tales on a daily basis. And I can’t take it like I used to—the tender mother in me suffers everyone’s pain.

Nevertheless, the Trauma Tour continues. An average morning around here kind of goes like this:

Captain Daddy suddenly exclaims: “A drowning!” Chicken Little ambles over. “Where, Daddy?” He points to the newspaper, explaining a fall, a sweeping away, as if this conversation with his two-year-old is perfectly normal.

I gesture in exasperation. “If you must share,” I say, “Try to leave the chickens out of it. Just spell things.”

The next day, he tries. “A p-i-t-b-u-l-l attacked and mauled a three-year-old over in the valley.”

“Wrong words, Captain,” I advise. “Try the verbs.”

And God forbid anyone should ever ask him how his day at work was.

Today, after 14 years of listening to tales of tragedy, I finally have figured out something to do with them. Captain Daddy and I have a (chicken-free) lunch date to discuss the most horrifying, ugly, ghastly details of the worst car accident he's ever seen.

Why? Research for my novel.

This just may be a turning point in our relationship.

My Name is Kim and I am Writing a Novel

When I started this blog six months ago, I didn’t put my name on it. I didn’t tell anyone I was writing it. I didn’t announce it anywhere.

When it comes to new things, I tend to put a toe in the water completely privately. Or maybe even just a toenail. I try it out in secret, I don’t talk about it. This caution is true about new writing projects as well as other pursuits, like guitar playing or pie baking. By not calling attention to my endeavors (I seem to figure) if the whole thing explodes before takeoff no one will notice the massive detonating wreckage.

Oh, fear, fear—why must you stalk me so determinedly?

In an effort to be a little bit braver about my ambitions, I have an announcement to make.

I AM WRITING A NOVEL.

I began brainstorming it a couple of months ago, outlined it a few weeks ago, and started writing last week.

Yep. It’s true. I have never written even a paragraph of fiction in my entire writing life. I have always said that I could not write fiction. And here I am, doing so. I am acutely aware of the fact that I have no idea what I am doing, and yet, I am doing it.

What’s funny is I do actually seem to know what I am doing. Ten years of writing conferences and critique groups (not to mention over three decades of rabid reading) seems to have seeped the tenets of good fiction into my blood. That does not mean that I automatically know how to create it. But nevertheless, I am excited to try. As many of you know, I desperately needed a new project to attend to whilst percolating the memoir debacle (see Book Burning Take Two). This is it.

All of you novelists out there: advice for the first timer welcome here!

And in case anyone was wondering, I bake a mean pie.