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Writers, Don't
Forget To Exercise! - January 2007
Small Writing
Conferences - December 2006
Autumn Once Again -
September 2006
Day of the Old Man - June
2006
Story Collage - December 2005
Ten Tips For Pitching -
July 2005
Are you a Fog Walker?
- May
2005
Writer's Block-Myth or
Truth? -
February 2005
The Vegetable Soup of
Characters - January 2005
Appreciation - November 2004
Autumn Aspects -
October 2004
Letter By Letter -
September 2004
An Interview - August
2004
First Time Ever -
July 2004
Most writers are glued to their computer chairs and
keyboards for hours at a time. Every day.
We don’t realize how quickly time slips through the day
because we’re living another life—that of the
character currently walking, talking, breathing,
feeling, eating, sleeping...okay, you get what I
mean, right? We are the character existing on the
screen in front of our eyes.
Those fictional lives pull us in so thoroughly all else
in the room, the house (or office)—in the
world—vanishes.
And then it happens.
A half hour passes.
An hour. Two. Three.
Suddenly we glance out the window, or at the computer
clock and realize half the morning or afternoon or
evening has disappeared.
We push slowly out of the chair, stiff and creaky and
sore at the wrists and back and thighs and a
thousand spots that were fine before we sat down.
It’s not a healthy way to do business. Especially when
the news tells us things about how blood clots can
develop on long- distance flights and, God forbid,
end a person’s life! When I heard that tidbit, I
made a HUGE point of exercising as I write. No more
sitting statue-still for hours for me!
So, here are some easy, non-intrusive routines that
help me keep the blood flowing and my body moving
during my writing hours. Hopefully, they’ll help
you, too:
1. Set your oven timer (or watch alarm)
every 40 minutes. When the bell rings, use 3-4
minutes to do one of the
following:
- toss a load of laundry into the washer or dryer
- get a drink of water
- make a cup of tea or coffee
- go to the washroom
- wander around the house
- take the stairs and look out an upper window
- fold a batch of laundry
- go to the kitchen and eat a piece of fruit (great as
natural sugar and energy fix)
- make a bed
- unload the dishwasher
- step onto your porch or deck and breath some fresh
air
- tidy a room (remember only 3-4 minutes!)
- do ab crunches, sit-ups, lunges or
squats until your calf muscles and quads scream
(for me that's about 2 minutes worth)
-
while in your chair, pinch your
gluteus muscles
- if you’re a yoga fan, do 2 poses.
- have a small stool to put your feet on—and off
Before you know it, your subconscious will no longer
need the timer. Your body will
tell you it’s time for that mini-break.J
2. Set aside at least 40-60 minutes of
“sweat” exercise 5 days/week. That means working
up a sweat. I don’t mean getting warm, I mean
perspiring. On nice days, I jog outdoors. There is
nothing like fresh air and hearing a little birdsong
en route. On inclement days, I walk/run on the
treadmill while watching a TV program. And don’t
forget to use the incline as well. Get your body
used to climbing; it’s great for your bones as well
as circulation! If you don’t have a treadmill, walk
briskly around your block. Or walk two blocks. Even
better if you have a dog, take it along for company.
But get in that “sweat time.”
3. A couple times of week, lift a set of
hand weights (3 –5 lbs). You can have these at
your desk and when you you’re in that “thinking
zone” or need to reread a scene you’ve just written,
pick up a weight and work the different muscles in
your arms and upper body—triceps, biceps, deltoids,
pectorals.
4. Keep a big glass (or bottle) of water
at your desk. Drinking water all day is
incredibly healthy because it flushes your system
and keeps you from feeling hungry, and...it will get
you out of your chair eventually.
J
Of course, there are dozens of exercises your can do,
but these can give you a starting point toward a
routine you enjoy. And don’t say, “Yeah, but when
I’m writing I hate interruptions.” The simple
exercises here are not interruptions.
They are interludes that allow you to mull over your
story or scene while your body is
maintaining its health. So, go ahead. Try a few
exercise samples. Chances are, in a couple of weeks,
you’ll discover your energy, motivation and
writing increasing happily!
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Have you ever felt alone—completely alone—at a
national conference? Hundreds of people wandering
corridors, riding elevators, attending workshops,
and there you are: a lone entity among the masses?
A conference experience can be uncomfortable and
stressful. And that’s not what you’ve paid for,
right?
This was me—until recently. Except for sharing a room
and a few meals with a friend, I was on my own at
National. I had to get out there, but I had no idea
how to do it. Everyone, it seemed, knew someone.
Friends met in lobbies, authors met each other or
their agents or editors. In other words, everyone
seemed to have a raison d’etre to meet someone
somewhere—to network.
But things changed recently and I realized conferences
weren’t quite as scary as I’d once believed. The
difference? A smaller conference. The chances to
meet the same people in hallways, elevators, the
restaurant, lobby and in workshops increases and,
suddenly, strange faces become familiar in less than
a day.
Of course, you still need to get out there and network.
But because the crowds don’t crush, the intimidation
diminishes and opportunities for networking
multiply.
For example, there are several strategies you can
practice at smaller conferences:
- You can walk into the luncheon room before most
arrive and find a table near the podium or the
buffet—a table you know will certainly fill up with
other attendees. In other words, they join you.
- Ask smart questions when you first meet someone.
We’re all writers, so it’s logical to ask, “What do
you write?” or “What workshops have you attended?”
or “Are you a member of the local chapter?”
Questions that initiate conversation. And try not to
talk about your published books or wip. That gets
dull fast!
- If someone you’ve just met walks into the
restaurant, invite him or her to join you for
breakfast or coffee.
- Invite new friends to join you and/or your
roommate for a relaxing dinner. And if you’re a
published author, don’t hesitate to ask new
unpublished friends to join your dinner.
- Sit with fellow attendees on lobby couches or
linger at the coffee stand or registration table—or
introduce yourself to the person behind you in the
pitching line. Most people are as nervous as you, so
say hello and calm each other with a smile. You’ll
be surprised how quickly a conversation begins.
-If you want to join a group, hover at the edge—with
a smile!—and allow the group the choice to let you
in. Then be gentle in how you join their
conversation.
- You’ll probably recognize people wandering through
the lounge, so invite them to join you.
- Walk with an approachable attitude. That means
having a genuine smile on your face and a light in
your eyes that tells others you’re glad to be there.
People will be more inclined to talk to you or
invite you into their group if you present a
friendly face.
- Smile and say hello to the person next to you in a
workshop; you never know, you could be seated beside
an agent or a big name author who is there
supporting the speaker.
- Share tips and positive aspects of a workshop with
someone who wasn’t able to attend that particular
workshop.
Lastly—if, by chance, you’re introduced to an agent or
editor outside of an appointment, be sure to shake
their hand and ask them how they are enjoying the
conference. Don’t immediately talk about your
writing or the book you want to pitch. If they do
ask about your work, sum it up in a short sentence.
Don’t dwell on the entire plot or what the hero has
to do to save the heroine. Keep discussions about
your work short and to the point!
Most importantly, enjoy the conference—and don’t forget
to have fun!
Temperatures are growing cooler these days. Fall has
plunked herself down on the earth and painted
hundreds of pictures: yellowing leaves, crisp starry
nights, mornings that display breath if you go for a
brisk walk, Canada geese carving Vs across gray
skies....
The list goes on.
There is a certain mood
that arrives with autumn. It’s one of preparation.
Green things fade and settle their roots into the
soil. Squirrels, chipmunks and bears scrounge to
fatten their hibernation holes or their bodies for
winter’s long cold days and nights. And robins,
finches, hummingbirds, plus a myriad of songbirds,
are suddenly absent, journeying southward, along
with the geese.
In my back yard, black
and gray squirrels dart from planter to earthen pot
to flowerbed, digging tiny holes in the moist soil
for burial of the pine cones and acorns they gather.
Each morning, I see evidence of their expeditions
the night before.
I enjoy this advent of
fall.
These days I’m a little
more relaxed. I’m working on just
one project, due on my editor’s desk in late
November. Two months ago, I was caught up in four
writing projects and the stress was high, the
pressure to “get things done yesterday” immense.
There were the final
edits of one book, the revisions of another, then
further revisions of a proposal—all while I was
writing fresh every day on yet another project.
Thankfully, those hectic days are behind me and I
can focus on my current project.
Of course, that doesn’t
mean I’m not dreaming of future books. I am. While I
write, I’m thinking about creating another trilogy,
possibly about a family of women.
The muse does not stop.
Not for a day. Or night.
Not for a moment.
Still, I’m determined to
smell the autumn winds, watch the slate clouds cross
the sky, hear the pattern of rain on our roof.
I’m determined to insert
those lovely bits of fall into my writing, because
this story, my work-in-progress, takes place during
September.
Most of all, I’m
prepared to catch this season before it passes
by my window.
Several weeks ago my husband was scheduled to have
minor surgery on his knee for a torn cartilage
that’s been bothering him for a number of years.
The morning we arrive at the hospital’s
out-patient area the waiting room is packed. Seems a lot
of folks are getting things done to their knees and
ankles and feet. Maybe it’s “leg” day. Whatever the
case, at least a dozen women, men and children in the
room ranging from toddlers to seniors sit on
vinyl-chrome chairs.
Less than a minute after my husband is called
to go down the corridor to some obscure room where the
doctor waits, an elderly gentleman favoring a casted
left foot hobbles into the room. Slowly he lowers
himself onto the chair my husband has vacated.
The old gent is tall, thin and grips a cane. I
smell the musty scent of age that sometimes envelopes
people over eighty and a fine parchment of skin drags
from his cheeks and along his neck. Earlier that morning
he has shaved, but missed several patches: one under his
shriveled bottom lip and one near his right sparse
sideburn—as if the mirror deceived his distance
perception.
His clothes are those of a gentleman. White
shirt, khaki pants. One black shoe. However, the shirt
needs an extra sweep of the iron, the pants are an inch
too short, the shoe could use another layer of polish on
its heel. And his tie...his tie is a narrow blue strip,
its knot askew. Again that mirror thing, I imagine.
But his smile is radiant—if you look past the
yellowed teeth.
“Good morning,” he says softly.
I respond in kind.
And then we strike up a conversation...as
though we’ve known each other for years. Maybe even
decades.
He tells of days when he worked on the railway
as a conductor—before he became a college professor in a
small prairie town. He talks of his wife’s garden and
the vegetables she canned and put up for winter during
their prairie years.
I grew up on the prairies so he and I suddenly
have a common link.
I listen greedily as he reminisces about his
wife, the way she kept their home spotless despite the
ceaseless wind and dust and their six children—and of
his literature classes and his eager-minded talented
students.
Then he explains how much his wife had loved
their retirement home in the Pacific Northwest where
vibrant green growth and flowers garb the landscape.
Briefly, our conversation drifts to
hummingbirds, which visit the water-sugar feeder in his
yard; to the raccoon visiting his corn stalks during
moonlit summer nights. We discuss the coyotes yapping
somewhere in the fields surrounding his house—the house
he bought with his dear wife when he retired and where
he now lives, alone after her death five years before.
He misses his wife. Her laughter, her voice,
her way of nagging him to comb his wild silver hair into
some fashionable order. He misses her eyes across the
breakfast table. Sixty years is a long span to live with
one person.
He stares at his ankle, the broken one in its
cast. I know he is thinking that if she’d been alive a
few weeks ago, the grandchild’s toy he tripped over in
his living room would not have been on the floor.
And we would not be having this conversation
today.
I tell him then of my mother. He’s never met
her, but she gardened on the prairies like his late
wife. Like I do in my own backyard with an array of
annuals and perennials, which burst in color under a
summer sun.
I tell him my mother has been gone twenty
years, and there are always moments I miss her. Mentally
I shake my head. Two decades. If I concentrate
hard I can hear her laughter, those expressions unique
to her European accent.
For a minute the old man and I sit quietly,
our thoughts bonding through two women on the Spirit
side. The waiting room bubbles with giggles as three
toddlers seek temporary friendship in the middle of the
floor.
The old man’s chair creaks; he leans a little
closer to me. “Do you work?” he asks. A trite question
but not really. It can open a whole new door of
conversation.
I push it wide. “I write books,” I reply.
Again a moment of silence. Again he leans in.
“Well, you’ve gotten some fodder today.” Then he smiles.
In his rheumy blue eyes I see amusement. And
sharp cognizance.
When the nurse calls his name, I say, “Take
care.”
He nods and, grasping his cane, climbs to his
feet. He doesn’t look back as I watch him limp into the
corridor and out of sight.
I wink at one of the toddlers.
Tomorrow I’ll see how I can weave the old man
into the story I’m writing.
A few months ago, I attended a local writers
conference. I’ve always enjoyed these events because I
get to meet new people and chat with friends. And, of
course, there are the workshops. While I don’t attend
as many as I used to—my time frame has narrowed with
the increase of networking—I still try to take in a
select few.
One such workshop was on how to brainstorm your story
through collage, and its presenter was Jennifer Crusie,
an author whose work I admire enormously.
And so I sat in the front row along with an author
friend. Our curiosity was high. We wanted to know
exactly about this process we’d both caught drifting
through the writers’ grapevine over the past few
years. So we listened, took the odd note and laughed
along with Jenny because her wit is second to none.
And all the while she explained how to brainstorm a
story collage.
How to make ribbons work with trinket bells, and why
feathers and clocks will mean something in the story.
She taught us how to search, cut, glue, to let a story
shape and move and work on a big piece of cardboard or
in a hatbox or with things dangling here and there.
Jenny’s collages are artwork. They are masterpieces.
They are mystic and hold an aura of wonder.
My friend and I walked out, impressed, excited, eager.
And agreed to meet a few weeks later to hunt down our
own trove of brainstorming bits and pieces, to wander
down that enigmatic road of “story collage.” Anything
to make writing life for fog-walkers—hence,
non-plotters—like us just a little easier.
Our first stop was a big box craft store. We meandered
through the aisles, glancing at this, feeling the
texture of that and bemoaning the prices. We looked at
wooden pieces, glass pieces, artificial flowers, dried
flowers, trinkets, ribbons and myriad of accessories
we had no idea how to apply to a big ol’ rectangle of
cardboard no matter how sturdy or how wide.
Defeated, we left the store without buying a thing.
To restore faith in ourselves and our writing we took
in lunch at Montana’s instead.
And told each other, we were better off with simple
verbal brainstorming than trying to figure out what
should be stuck to a slice of cardboard.
That was two months ago.
Then last week, while skimming an authors’ loop, I
noticed a post about collage. About to delete the
post, I was suddenly caught by the fact this writer
used a very small piece of cardboard, and all she did
was cut from magazines, then glue. Nothing elaborate.
Well. I could do that.
Within minutes, I’d hunted down a 12" x 12" chunk of
cardboard from somewhere in the house. I’d stacked
magazines on the kitchen table along with scissors and
glue and my “character” folder. I needed pictures of
my “people” in order to begin. See, I already had an
idea of how they looked and behaved because I’d just
finished writing the first chapters of the story.
For the next two hours, while night closed in and
lights went on and my husband watched the sports
channel, I flipped through magazines, cut with
precision and care, and loosely chose spots on the
cardboard for the small horde of magazine cutouts I
collected. I studied my collage with determined eyes,
wanting each picture, each piece to fit where it
belonged. I found a picture of midnight stars and knew
it would offer a scene to my story somewhere along the
line. There was a tiny photo of a pair of hands
holding a plant. I don’t know how those hands will
slip into the story; at this point I’m not worried.
They’ll find a home in some scene.
I sorted and glued—happy as a kid on her first day at
kindergarten. And when my neck ached, I knew I’d sat a
lot longer than expected, but the outcome, ah, the
outcome of my very first collage was gratifying! The
colors and shapes made me smile. I saw hints and
avenues of my story. Scenes that might evolve into
plot points or simply move the story forward.
Beginnings and ends.
The next day, still inspired, I went to an arts &
crafts store. No longer content to use the brown
background of cardboard, I yearned for colored paper,
sturdy colored paper and found a prize of hues and
textures and prints along the store’s walls. I found
ribbon with “the joy of discovery” in lovely blue
print along its surface and asked for a yard. My
characters will walk a path of discovery and I’ll find
joy in getting them there.
Teacher that I am, I plan to compose a book of my
story collages. I’ll bind the book together with the
pretty ribbon and I’ll name each collage for the names
of the characters because at this point I still don’t
know the title the books will own one day sitting on a
shelf somewhere.
Back at home, I’m again at my kitchen table, satisfied
with my bits and pieces scattered about. I smile.
As a writer who fog-walks through her stories, I have
discovered a whole new road to travel in the universe
of brainstorming.
And for the moment, the fog has lifted.
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Every year unpublished writers attend conferences to meet with the editors of their choice and to pitch mini summaries of the books they’ve completed. Below are 10 crucial tips to help make your pitch a successful one. In other words, tips to have the editor sit up, listen with a keen ear, and think “this is an author I would like to work with”—and then request the manuscript you’ve sweated blood and tears to complete in its finest form.
1) Practice your meeting/pitch in the mirror the week prior. Do this several times, until you feel certain that you are presenting in your best form. Pay attention to how you make eye contact, how you hold her head, how your smile looks, whether your posture is its best. Each time you practice look for anything that might detract to your presence. Decide early on whether you are reading your pitch or memorizing it. Whatever your method practice it as well in the mirror.
2) Dress for success and feel confident. I cannot stress this tip enough. Don’t go into a pitch dressed too casually. Would you do that for a job interview? Not if you were interested in making that job your career and definitely not if there were a hundred others in line for the same position—which is exactly what authors are dealing with when they decide on targeting a particular line or publishing house. So make that first impression count. This is a tough business. Nail the “gimmes” immediately.
3) Maintain eye contact as you approach the editor. When you spot the editor you’re to meet make sure you have a smile on your face and that you are not surveying the room, but are focused on her. Walk with an aura of confidence and friendly professionalism.
4) Shake her hand as you introduce yourself. Show her you’re an author with a book to sell, that you know your book is what she wants and that you are an author she wants to work with. And don’t forget to smile!
5) Ask her something that is not pitch related to break the ice and put you both at ease: how she's enjoying the conference or if she had a good flight or if she’s done any sightseeing yet.
6) Tell her she has something of yours on her desk (if she does) or that she's judged you in a contest (if she has) or that you've met her in an elevator last night (if you have) or if you've read a recent book by an author she's editing. In other words, give her a "connection." However, if you don’t have that connection, don’t worry; she won’t disregard your pitch. Just move to step 7.
7) Begin with the mechanics: title of your book, its word count, the genre/line you're targeting.
8) Pitch. Use voice inflection—in other words, don't monotone it. Keep the pitch succinct. During your week of practicing in the mirror you should have manicured your pitch to last 2-3 minutes. You should have the goals, motivations and conflicts of the two main characters rounded out and you should have a hook at the end. Whether you’re reading your pitch or have it memorized, maintain eye contact as much as possible. Feel enthusiastic about your story and let that enthusiasm radiate to the editor.
9) Remind her of the book's title by saying you have the completed manuscript ready if she's interested, and ask if she has any questions.
10) Finally...Thank her for seeing you and for the request. Shake her hand again and tell her the manuscript will be in the mail within the week. And don’t forget to SMILE!
For more tips on pitching to an
editor or agent check out Mary's
eHarlequin
article.
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May 2005
ARE
YOU A FOG WALKER?
© 2005 Mary J. Forbes
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I ’m
always amazed when I talk to other writers and discover how many
are what I call “fog-walkers.” I’m one myself. I don’t plot,
I don’t outline, I don’t have dozens of sticky notes, index cards
or jot notes; time-lines, character charts or plot grids.
Nada.
What I
do have is a “germ”, a tiny idea. It can be about a character,
theme, setting or event. It can be nothing more than the headline
in a newspaper or a 10-second sound-byte on TV. It can be one
word I’ve read in some book.
In other
words, the germ is microscopic. Sometimes it stays that way for
years. Other times, it evolves within hours, days, weeks. However,
once the germ has been prowling around in my head like a lone wolf
staking territory, and I feel confident enough to put some
tangibility to it, I begin my story.
I type
Chapter One across the top of the screen.
I type the
first sentence. Then the next. And the next....
Usually, my
germ carries me through that first chapter. If I’m lucky, I’ll fog
walk through the first three chapters.
Fog walking
is more commonly called “flying into the mist.” Personally, I like
the term fog walking—since I’ve often walked through those clouds
that fall from the sky to sit on the earth after a rain. On a few
occasions, the fog is so thick you can’t see more than twenty feet
into the distance. Of course, walking in a familiar neighborhood
is easy. You recognize the path under your shoes. You know
where your journey ends.
Not so if
you’re a writer who fog-walks through her story.
I do not
know what my next scene will be. I don’t know what the next page
or paragraph or sentence will contain. I simply write. Yes,
I have an inkling of what I want to write about at the
time, but I can not determine how my scene will end, how my
characters will react, what they will say. And I certainly can’t
depict the conclusion of the book!
Do I love
fog-walking? Oh, yeah.
I love the
mystery. The awe of seeing characters take shape, evolve, say
things that have me staring stunned at the screen, thinking: Where
on earth did that come from? And I especially delight in
those moments when I finish typing a sentence and recognize how it
ties to a previous scene, or offers a clue to a future one.
So how do I
get to that eventual ending of a book? How do I...“plot”?
There are a
number of ways, but my favorite is brainstorming with a writing
friend who is also fog-walker. Not only do you get to share a
little writing and biz chit-chat over coffee for a couple hours,
but you’ll always come away excited and keenly motivated.
So what if
the she writes in a different genre? So what if some of those
brainstorming ideas are a tad off the wall?
Did you
write them down anyway, take them home, read them, think about
them—and feel inspired to mold and reshape those kernels, even let
them lead you into an entirely different facet of your story?
Come away
with a couple words or a phrase, and the session will be worth the
time you’ve spent. Those words/phrase—that one idea—could unlock a
door you hadn’t considered. A door to which a field of
ideas roll straight to the horizon.
I’ve been a
writing fog-walker all my life. Oh, yes, I’ve taken plotting
courses, read oodles of how-to-plot books and sat in plotting
workshops, ad nauseam. Until I’ve literally had knots in my
stomach and tears in my eyes, wondering: how can I be a writer if
I don’t know how to plot?
Well, Nike
said it best: I just Do It. One word at a time.
So take a
breath. Relax. Being a fog-walker does not
mean you can’t write fabulously compelling books. What it does
mean is that you love the mystery of the unknown. It means you
love having your characters, your story direct
you.
Most of all, it
means your method of creating your story is as perfect as any
other on the planet
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February 2005
WRITER'S BLOCK - MYTH or
TRUTH
© 2005 Mary J. Forbes |
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Sometimes writers find themselves in a state where their brain
seems to shut down and their fingers won’t cooperate on the
keyboard, no matter what trick is used.
Is it the
dreaded Writer’s Block?
Many would
argue truth against myth.
But is
there such a thing as writer’s block? Or is it simply that the
author has somehow gotten to a point where s/he needs to sit down
with a friend--preferably another writer--and talk about the story
and its characters?
I’ve heard
writer’s block can be debilitating. I’ve heard it can shut authors
down for days, weeks, months. Even years. Spans of time where they
can’t pick up a pen or pencil, or type one word on the keyboard.
I can’t
allow myself to believe in writer’s block.
I can’t
allow myself to get into a ‘brain freeze’ so that nothing in my
story moves forward and I helplessly watch the hours slip by while
my characters sit and wait for me to put breath back in their
lungs, and movement into their feet.
I can’t wait for writer’s block.
Of course,
that doesn’t mean I haven’t had days where I wonder how on earth
and where on earth I’ll find the next scene, the next
paragraph, the next word. I’ve had plenty days when the characters
float just out of my reach, when the story seems to stand still as
stone. But I won’t let myself believe it’s writer’s block. No, to
me those are times when I need to think. About the characters, the
conflict, plot, emotions, clues, events. A host of factors
involved in the process of creating a story world.
Blocking something means preventing
something, most likely a flow of liquid coming through some sort
of channel. Blocking can’t happen, in my opinion, in your brain.
How can you turn off thought? Never. Even when you sleep your
brain dreams scenes. Why can’t it do the same during daylight
hours?
So think
while you wait in those lulls. Think about your story and your
characters. Let your mind flow. Doesn’t matter that some of the
stuff makes no sense. Doesn’t matter that some of the ideas or
notions seem odd and absurd. Let the mind
reach.
Then type.
Type whatever comes into your head, albeit weird and wonderful and
totally unlike your characters. Type, type and type some more.
Before you know it, the characters will gather their story and
what you were searching for at the beginning of the lull will
present itself. It may be junk but, hey, as long as you’re alive,
you can fix those nuts and bolts, right?
You bet.
The other
day I was in the middle of a scene when suddenly I wondered:
Okay, what now? As always, I shivered a little. Because of
those dreaded two words. Because someone once coined them and
created a phrase for writers to glom onto as an excuse when words
stagnate.
I got up
from my chair. I paced. I told my pragmatical husband, “Listen to
this.” I read my partial scene aloud. “What happens now?”
He
shrugged. And then proceeded to offer suggestions that were so
out-of-sync for my story and my characters that I laughed—and went
back to the computer.
“Never
mind,” I called from my office as he continued to toss crazy
ideas. “I have it now. I know how I want to finish this scene.”
He went
back to watching the Super Bowl.
I went back
to filling in blank screens.
Writer’s
Block?
In this house, I’m calling it a myth.
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January 2005
THE VEGETABLES OF
CHARACTERS
© 2005 Mary J. Forbes
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The other day, someone asked how I created the characters in my
books. Did I, she wanted to know, base them on real-life people,
or were they myths of my imagination?
Both, I
told her. “Think of vegetable soup,” I said.
The woman’s
brows rose. “Soup?”
I nodded.
“Now, think of what all goes in it.”
She
considered for a moment. “Carrots, beans, onions, tomatoes, maybe
egg noodles...”
“Exactly.
And when you walk into the kitchen and the soup is simmering what
do you notice first?”
“The
delicious smell.”
“Right
again,” I said. “That’s how I create characters. Little bits of
realism—like the soup’s carrots, beans, onions and celery—go into
the cauldron of my character.”
Still, she
remained puzzled.
I went on to explain.
Characters
in my books often take on realistic traits, similar to those I’ve
seen in strangers, friends or family. Traits like chewing finger
nails; smoking; or jiggling a knee as they impatiently sit and
wait. In the same way I store vegetables for soup in the crisper
of my refrigerator, I’ve filed away bits of realism to one day add
to my character’s personality and nature.
For
example, when I began creating 13-year-old ‘Sam’ in
A Father, Again I had no idea the boy would be disabled.
But one day I walked into a school to sub for a teacher who was
ill. During lunch in the staff room, I met a second grade teacher
born with a deformed hand. Immediately I thought, What if I
gave Sam the same kind of hand? How would he deal with such a
handicap? Later that week, I wrote the disability into Sam’s
life, and voila, a boy with a sense of insecurity was born. These
real ‘tidbits’ taken from actual people are the vegetables—the
substance—of my characters.
The
inventive parts are the scent of the broth. The parts you can’t
actually see, yet they offer an illusion of the real thing. For
example, in Everything She Ever Wanted (coming August 05),
I created a character called Melody. She’s flighty, self-centered
and has the brains of a gnat. Though I’ve never met anyone like
her, I loved developing her character. She provided flavor to the
story—like spices in the soup, like the scent that drifts from the
cooking pot. The story is richer simply because she ‘exists’.
Characters
are just that. Characters. A composite of truth and fiction that
live and breathe on the pages. Yet all too often, when I find
myself involved in their worlds and their lives, I begin to
semi-believe they’re real people with real lives.
And in some
minuscule way, I suppose, it’s true.
Someone somewhere has laughed and cried, argued and reconciled,
loved and lost....and reunited...
See what I
mean? Vegetables of life. A writer can’t have a better cauldron
for creating story characters
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November 2004
APPRECIATION
© 2004 Mary J.
Forbes
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November
is a time for reflection.
Before the cold weather and the year’s busiest season crowds in
upon me, I think about those in my life who have made a
difference, who have given me a fraction of growth, a kernel of
wisdom, a moment to contemplate. I think back on the last months
and remember how I faced certain events. Yes, it’s a time to
appreciate whomever and whatever for bringing me to where I am in
this moment.
And so, I’m ever grateful for:
-my
husband and children...with them I’ve gained the courage and faith
to climb many of life’s mountains.
- my
mother, who taught me life can be tough, but not unbendable.
-my
sister-friend...she fills me up in ways only a sister can.
-best
friends...they let me laugh and cry without criticism.
-my
brothers...living far away, but close in thought.
-my aunt
in her eighth decade.
I also truly appreciate:
-my
writing which lets me peek into the lives of intriguing
characters.
-the
welcoming coziness of home each time I open the door and step
inside.
-misty
mornings.
-autumns
decked in sunset regalia.
-warm,
sultry evenings.
-rainy or
snowy days so I can sit by our fireplace.
-my
health.
-the
splash of color and joy my garden tenders throughout the year.
-music
that makes me feel.
-my
children’s dog...a gentle, quiet companion during our walks.
-the
mountains bumping the sky beyond my front porch.
-each
day’s sunrise.
-snow-hooded trees.
-songbirds enchanting my yard.
-books
which offer insight on a level I hadn’t dreamed.
-digital
cameras!
-Monday
night football--for my husband’s sake.
And lastly, I’m thankful, so very thankful for the laughter
and chatter of family amidst the sight, smell and taste of turkey
at the dinner table
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October
2004
AUTUMN ASPECTS
© 2004 Mary J. Forbes
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Autumn arrives with a flourish.
Cooler nights.
Frost on the windshields. Canada geese grousing their way south.
And color. Everywhere red and orange, yellow and gold...of the
most vibrant hues.
Pumpkins,
cornstalks and scarecrows appear in stores and on porches and
doorsteps. Witches and goblins hang from curtains and are pasted
to windows. In the fields, hay is harvested in massive round
bales. Cattle and horses cultivate thicker coats. Chickadees dart
and forge in the apple tree and blackberry brambles, and squirrels
scamper--acorns in their mouths--across my back fence.
This week,
two mornings delivered fog thick as a cloud.
I love
autumn–-or fall, as we know it here.
I love the
brisk wind that brings rain, forcing me to get out my umbrella.
And sunsets that make me muse on divine matters.
Through
June to September, my back porch held an assortment of wooden
baskets, stone and plastic pots, each amassed with a rainbow of
color and fragrance. Last weekend, I emptied the dried and dying
stalks onto the dirt around my perennials. This season’s beauty
will compost into next summer’s nourishment.
Over the
weekend I dig up annuals and prune back haphazard twigs. My roses
have seen better days, as have the clumps of tiger lilies and
brown-eyed Susans. Asters and marigolds brave the dropping
temperatures, offering a splash of mauve and orange to my waning
garden. In their herb pot, the parsley, thyme and sweet lemon
basil I used as flavoring throughout the summer mock the colder
nights with a burst of growth.
Ah, fall
with its haunting gray horizons and long blue shadows; its days
when the sun provides a mollified warmth.
I’ve always
been a walker--truly, it’s the most natural form of exercise for
the human body--but taking a jaunt on early October mornings is
downright invigorating. Sunrise creeps over the mountains in a
soft blush...crisp air cleanses the senses...and without the
muddle of a long day, I ponder what I’ll write about when I get
home. How will today’s scene or scenes progress? Who will be the
star? Action or reflection--or both? Dialogue or narrative..?
But then
I’m sidetracked.
Somewhere, someone burns a spruce log in a fireplace. Overhead, a
pair of mallards wing a silent path southward. A raccoon scurries
across the pavement, seeking shelter in the woods while a gust of
wind sends painted maple leaves fluttering through the air.
And then, my writer’s mind takes charge again, storing its own
horde: scents and sights and beauty.
From a
season preparing for winter’s rest.
Did I say I
love fall?
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September 2004
LETTER BY LETTER
© 2004 Mary J. Forbes
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At a
gathering recently, a woman told me she had read my book.
Naturally I was thrilled. Blown away, in fact.
After hours
of facing a blank computer screen in attempt to mold the joys and
sorrows--the lives--of imaginary people, I had created a
work someone not only enjoyed, but...simply put...she got
my efforts.
In other
words, her comments didn’t rest merely with liking my story and my
characters, but with how I strung it all together. How I had
picked that particular phrase or found
this specific word.
“How you’d
described the sky,” she said. “I never thought of the sky in that
way.”
To say her
attention to those specifics warmed my heart would be an
understatement. She provided sustenance the way food gives an
emaciated body sustenance. Not because I require praise or want my
back patted or need my ego boosted.
No.
Those
observations lent fodder to my beleaguered soul because, at the
moment, writing has me in a stranglehold. Every day I come to my
computer and search for something to guide me through the next
scene, the next bit of dialogue, the next plot point. Sometimes my
characters cooperate and I race to set their world on the screen.
Mostly, they dance out of reach, leaves scattered in autumn winds.
And I stare at the winking cursor musing, “What now? Where do I go
from here?”
Then,
slowly, as my imagination hunts for pictures and images, I peck at
the keyboard for their story. Letter by letter.
In my
office silence hums. My back aches. My wrists burn from resting on
the edge of the desk. I trudge on.
Words form,
sentences take shape, paragraphs evolve.
Letter by
letter.
Finally,
the scene awakens. Finally, the characters live. And when the
hours have passed and I shut my file I’m satisfied.
Until the
next morning when I open the file once again.
No, the
story hasn’t come easily. It still doesn’t. Today’s session was
much the same as yesterday’s and the day before. And the week
before that.
Ah, but
see...I am closing in on those blessed two words, those lovely
words for which every author yearns. The End. I see them
clearly, a light in the tunnel, while the characters hang
suspended in my mind.
The woman’s
comments hover there, too, along with the characters. I hear her
question again: “How did you think this up?”
I smile
now, cherishing her sustenance. And I can give her as honest an
answer as I’ve ever given.
How did I
come by those words, that phrase, that sky?
Letter by
letter.
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August 2004
An
INTERVIEW
with Mary J. Forbes
by Roberta C.M. DeCaprio
Editor of the Capital
Romance Newsletter
Capital Region RWA, New
York
July/August 2004 Issue IV
Reprinted with permission
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Roberta DeCaprio:
Mary, how exciting for you to have your first book
published by Silhouette Special Edition (July 04). How long
did it take you to write A Forever Family, and how
many other publishers did you send the manuscript to before
being accepted by Silhouette?
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Mary J. Forbes:
Yes, Roberta, it was incredibly exciting selling that first
book. Especially after countless attempts and rejections to
get a “foothold in the door”. I can’t recall how long it
took to write
A Forever Family. All I remember is the night
I started it and the afternoon I finished it. The time
between is a blur. Too often beginning writers get
caught up in the numbers game. They think if they don’t
write X number of pages per hour, X number of pages
per day, X number of books a year, they’re not writers.
I can’t stress enough that it doesn’t matter how long it
takes to write a book, as long as you set up a routine to
write and then do the best job possible creating. The
routine will get your book done; the creating will likely
get it sold. But do expect some rejections. They’re a given.
With AFF, I initially queried and sent partials to
several editors and agents. It was rejected. I entered
contests. It came back without a final. Finally, I
shoved the manuscript under my desk and used it as a
footrest for about a year. Then in the spring of 2002, I
decided if the story was ever to live it needed a major
overhaul. So back to the drawing board it went. In
Denver, at the Romance Writers of America National
conference, I pitched it--again. The editor asked for the
manuscript. I gave it a last review and sent it out.
Seven weeks later I got The Call.
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RD:
The heroine of AFF is a woman hired as a dairy operator by a
small town doctor. Obviously a measure of research was
needed to authentically portray both the hero and heroine’s
positions accurately. What resources did you call upon for
your information?
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MJF:
The medical
research I did with a doctor friend. I asked him a gazillion
questions over the phone and through email and took copious
notes. He was incredibly patient and generous with his
information. I’ve thanked him in my acknowledgments. The
heroine’s job is based on Internet research as well as my
own experience. I grew up on a large mixed farm. We owned
about 20 dairy cows and shipped cream back then.
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RD:
Were your characters and the town in which the story takes
place inspired by an actual place and people?
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MJF:
Blue Springs, Washington, is a fictitious town, but it’s a
combination of the towns in the area where I was raised.
Very rural, enveloped by a farming/dairy/ranching community.
The characters resemble no one I know. Of course, their
personality traits, values, habits, illnesses, etc., are the
result of years and years of listening, watching and taking
note of life around me. I compare creating characters to
baking. Take the ingredients you’ve observed, put them in
the cauldron of your blank screen. Stir with your keyboard.
Bake for several weeks or months in your computer. Remove
with your printer oven mitts when your story cake is done
and, voila! You have authentic, flavorful characters who
whet the taste buds of your mind.
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RD: I
like that recipe, Mary. Good food for thought, no pun
intended. You are also trying to break into single title
mainstream romance. Can you tell us anything about your
work-in-progress?
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