Category: Observer

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How To Be An Optimist

There’s a saying: We make plans; God laughs.

Whether or not you believe in God, truth of the matter is that we’re not in control of our lives. If you think you are, just wait. One day you’ll see what I’m talking about. Certainly we have to make plans and decisions to tackle day-to-day life, but occasionally the gods/stars/planets/marshmallows fall out of line and all goes astray. Marshmallows? Ok, who knows what has to align, but how you respond to unfortunate situations is what really matters.

It is possible that once or twice in mylifetime I might have been accused of being a pessimist. Only in the last few years (under the loving tutelage of my husband) have I learned how to turn limes into margaritas. In the past three years, we have spent about six months in Costa Rica. In the past few weeks, I have had several chances to whip up a pitcher of optimism.

Let me offer you a taste test:

1) If you hate tarantulas, but happen to find a fine example of one in your bathroom when you are home alone, killing it with a broom handle will give you an enormous sense of accomplishment.
2) If you have trouble digesting gluten, you will find that a caveman’s diet (meat and fruits and vegetables) is very healthy. Man lived like this for thousands of years–yes, without pizza or beer.
3) If you create anything (e.g., a novel) on a computer, and said computer gets stolen, you will learn the absolute necessity of backing up your work.
4) If said thieves steal ALL your electronics, but spare your life and limbs, you are one lucky sonofabitch.
5) Once said thieves have fractured your sense of goodness in the world, you will learn to be safer and smarter. In fact, you will learn to hire a security guard with a shotgun.
6) If you love, love, love to sit quietly in the morning, sipping amazingly delicious coffee while over looking the Pacific Ocean, but said security guard wants to tell you all about his life and his country-in Spanish–because he has spent the last 12 hours walking the perimeter of your villa while you watched David Letterman in subtitles and got eight refreshing hours of sleep, then you will learn that your guard might be the best Spanish teacher you will ever have.
7) If you wake up one morning to the smell of smoke from the wildfires approaching your villa, you will learn how the infrastructure of a country such as Costa Rica actually works: Do it yourself, and help your neighbors. What did you think the damn garden hoses were for anyway?
And lastly,
8 ) If you think that The Good Life involves a villa, an ocean, tropical weather, and tequila, you will learn that there’s no place like home. AND, all of the above can be excellent material for your next novel.

Adios, Costa Rica.

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How Badly Do You Want It?

I want you. I want you so bad. I want you. I want you so bad, it’s driving me mad, it’s driving me mad.

That’s how I feel right now about my Work In Progress.

Friends, family, work, TV, the internet, eating, sleeping, reading, blogging, cleaning out your closets… On any given day it’s easy to get distracted. Life holds not only Jungian hierarchies and obligations, but also the freedom to make poor choices, give in to poor time management skills, a million cracks in the sidewalks, and a few other things that can get in the way of our goals.

Generally speaking, everyone has time for what’s truly important to them, but some things are completely out of our control: Computer crashes, health problems, money problems, accidents, theft of one’s laptop… If you read my last post then you know that two weeks ago when my husband and I were in Costa Rica, we were robbed. They took not only our electronics, ALL of them, but also my eyeglasses and Rx sunglasses, four pair of shoes, jewelry, clothes, and most importantly, they stole two weeks of my life. That’s how long it has taken me to regroup, replace all my stuff (including my peace of mind), and get back to writing. The two most fortunate aspects of what we’ve been through are, one, we were not harmed physically, and, two, they did not steal my novel in progress.

My dear Twitter friend, Taylor Stevens—NYTBSA of The Informationist and The Innocent—and I agreed that a writer’s list of priorities are: 1) Life, 2) Work in progress, 3) Everything else. Los hombres malos did not get my novel because I was wise enough to back it up each day. (Note to others: since I was traveling, I actually emailed my novel to myself each night so that no matter what happened to my electronics, my novel would be safe. Google Docs would also work.)

What would have happened if I lost all 200 pages and all my notes and outlines and research? Would I have had it in me to start over, rewrite the entire work from memory, re-interview my experts? As much as I want this novel to be published (that would be more than anything in the world other than good health for me and my loved ones), I’m not sure if I could have garnered the strength and energy to recreate it. I would have been a pile of mush, I know that much. I would have been devastated. I would have tried, but I’m not sure if I would have felt capable of bringing it back to life, or if I would just have moved on. I do know I would not have given up writing all together.

This I know for sure: I am a writer; I will always write.

Fortunately, I am safe and I am back. I want this SO badly I must keep writing. So without further ado, please excuse me while I go apologize to my characters for abandoning them for the past two weeks, and see if I can’t write them in and out of a few more mini-dramas.

What about you? What’s the most important goal of your life? How badly do you want it? What would it take for you to be defeated? What are you willing to sacrifice to achieve your goal? Sure helps determine your priorities, doesn’t it?

Turns out orderly closets aren’t so important after all.

 

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The Most Important Thing of All

It’s easy, fun, smart to post happy news, positive outlooks, positive outcomes.
It’s difficult to post bad news.

But sometimes, shit happens.

My husband and I just returned home after five weeks in Costa Rica, five out of our planned eleven weeks. Our home was robbed while we were there, asleep. A home invasion.

We are safe, and we know that’s the most important thing of all, but I can truly say we were shaken to the core. The bad guys, “los hombres malos,” came into our bedroom and stole our iPads from our beside tables. Inches from our faces.

I wrote about it. I had to. The feelings, emotions, fear, they haven’t let go. Even now, almost a week later, as I type this, my throat tightens and my eyes well with tears because I realize how close I was to never coming home, never talking to my children again, never saying “I love you” again, to anyone. You may find this melodramatic, unless you’ve been violated or felt absolutely vulnerable to evil. Then you might remember how this feels.

Los Hombres Malos

Sound asleep, wake to a noise, the unmistakeable noise, of a person, an unknown person, 
a bad person, close.
“There’s someone in our kitchen.”
Try to wake up, stumble to the door, turn on a light, face to face with a masked man.
Shouting, anger, the fear and primal rage of two grown men—
one fueled to survive, the other to save his wife.
Protect ourselves; hide; find a weapon. 
Now wait. Let them leave.
Long enough? No, wait. Wait. Okay, ready? Ready.
Quiet preparation, caution, caution, exploration.
Are they gone? Gone?
Are we sure?
Grab shoes, phones, keys—now get out! Call the police. 
What? What’s that? Don’t you speak any English?
Anger, fear, frustration—unleashed.
Slowly, finally, help.
A foreign country, a foreign language, a foreign system.
A helpless, total realization of vulnerability.
Then the visions.
They were standing over us, over me, in the dark, while we slept.
Pillows, fluffy and white, and capable of death.
Or a knife, or a gloved hand against my throat.
Or worse.
All for an iPad, or two.
Then a guard, a man, another strange man, with a gun.
This one’s on our side. Right?
Try to sleep, in the dark, in the same bed.
A noise. A branch in the wind? A bird?
No more sleep.
Take an inventory, make a list. What’s missing?
This, that, those too.
Counting. Still counting. And more—how bizarre… soap?
But nothing rivals our peace of mind. It’s gone. All gone.
Moving on. Chopping vegetables while detectives roam the house, 
dusting for fingerprints, black dust.
Everywhere.
Okay. We’re okay. We can do this. We can replace it all.
All except a sense of peace.
We can stay. Limp along. Make changes.
No. Why?
We’re better than this. We don’t have to endure.
This isn’t normal. This wasn’t our fault. We did everything right.
We have options. We’re in charge.
Not los hombres malos.
We are safe. We are smart. We are in charge.
We’re going home. We live in the United States. We’re okay.
But, what if?
What if panic, instinct, fear, surprise, madness took over?
What if “something went wrong”, “that wasn’t supposed to happen”?
Feel your neck.
Imagine someone else feeling your neck.
With their hands. With their knife.
Feel your heart.
Feel it stop.
Close your eyes.
Never open them.

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Publishing Dilema #GN/BN

(My new hashtag: #GN/BN: Good news/bad news)

On Sunday, I was sipping my coffee, watching Sunday Morning on CBS, lounging with my husband, reading the paper, minding my own business. I opened up the Life section of Sunday’s Des Moines Register and screamed! My travel essay and photos from a recent trip to Panama were published in full color for God and everybody to see. I had submitted my story about 10 days before, but hadn’t heard a peep back from them so I had no idea it would be printed so quickly—or at all.

I jumped, I danced, I squealed, I Tweeted, I Facebooked, I called Mom, I called Dad, I texted family from out of town.

Then… I read the printed version, the one I wrote and knew by heart. Five hundred and six words, carefully chosen, carefully edited, carefully reviewed. But lo and behold, there were beaucoup errors! What? How could that be? Embarrassment silenced me. Half the verbs in the printed version are in past tense, half in present tense. HELLO!

My husband insisted that no one except writers would even notice. But… who else matters?

I’ve written 3 1/2 novels, all in past tense. That’s normal for me. But travel essays are often written in present tense, so I challenged myself. It’s not that hard, but it does take concentration to tell a story that happened 10 months ago in present tense. I consulted my best editor (yes, my son, @Elliott_Krause (as I now refer to him) on the finer points of non-fiction writing (he’s in the NF Iowa Writers’ Workshop and is an editorial assistant at the Iowa Review), and soon I had an essay I was happy with. Attach photos. Polite email. Send.

So the GN/BN: My essay was in print—nearly a full page!—but all those errors are so embarrassing that I don’t even want to frame my first hard-copy publication. I was ashamed that I let all those errors slip through. Shocked, even. Until I consulted my advisor again, (yes, Elliott) and he said, “Blame the paper.” I said, “I can’t do that. If I made the errors, I need to be responsible for them.” He said, “They may have transcribed it incorrectly to put it in their required format.” I said, “What? They don’t just Cut and Paste?” He said, “Probably not.” So I ran home and checked and, sure enough, my copy is clean, theirs has errors.

I can’t (won’t) complain to the newspaper editor because a writer does not want a black mark by his/her name with the local newspaper. But, still… how discouraging. What would any of you writers do? Does this happen often? How do you promote your accomplishments when someone else screws them up in the printing/publishing process? I suppose, **it happens, so you just deal with it and move on, right?

One thing I know for sure: This will not stop me from submitting a thousand more articles in the near future.

 

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Steve Jobs and Me

Let me start by saying I never met Steve Jobs; I wish I had, but that’s beside the point. Like millions of others, his life’s work has greatly influenced mine. I’d like to say that I would write books even if I had only pencil and paper, or only a typewriter. I might, but I’m not sure. But why Steve Jobs, in particular?

I didn’t become an Apple fanatic until 2007. Like so many others, my business ran on Windows products so I thought the conversion would be overwhelming. It wasn’t until I closed my art gallery and bought a laptop with the express idea of writing a novel (a fresh start) that I felt no barrier to switching products. I have been writing for four years now, yet I’m still not published. A good friend with a good heart recently asked me why I’m not published when so many other people are. I made a few self-effacing jokes and thought I’d let that comment die… and yet I can’t.

Malcolm Gladwell is famous for extolling the notion that it takes 10,000 hours to become an expert in any given field. Because I was not an English major in college (even though reading, writing and academia have been a major influence on my entire life), I believed that I needed to put in five years of writing before I could hope to be good enough to be published. Time will tell. But the death of Steve Jobs reinforces that fact. No one begins with perfection.

Looking back, the first Macintosh computer now looks like a dinosaur, a laughable relic. The iMac on which I now type is sleek, elegant and sophisticated—a masterpiece. Yet if Steve Jobs had never released the original Macintosh, this computer would not exist. Nor would the current iPhone, Nano, or iPad.

Why am I not yet published? Because I am not yet as good as Ann Patchett or Jonathan Franzen. I am hypercritical of my work and anxious for it to be better. I’m also kind of shy. Stretching out of my comfort zone to pitch a novel that isn’t as good as (insert any literary masterpiece here) stops me from sending out the quantity of query letters necessary to find the right agent to rep me. Instead, I finish a novel (I’ve completed three), send out a few queries, then immediately start on my next story knowing it will be better, it will be good. My standard of good enough is as high as Steve Jobs’ must have been, but it apparently didn’t hold him back and I cannot let it hold me back.

In 2005, Jobs gave a now-famous commencement address to the graduates of Stanford University. In that speech he said, “The only way to do great work is to love what you do.” I love writing. I am confident that I will be published, and thanks to Steve Jobs, I will no longer be shy about what I have created. My first published work will probably not be the great American novel; that’s okay. The important factor is where it will lead me.

With enough love, persistence and luck, maybe one day I will write a novel that is as delicious as an Apple.

 

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The Sadness of Strangers

We writers are a sick bunch. There are myriad jokes about how authors use others’ pain and suffering to enhance their writing. We see it, study it, stir it around until we can turn tragedy into text.

I am guilty of the same, to a degree.

On my bulletin board above my desk, I have a newspaper photo of a young woman from the earthquake a couple years ago in Italy; she’s being helped by EMTs. Either the victim’s legs were crushed or she’s just lost a child. There is no blood visible, but if you can imagine for a moment the pain of having your heart ripped from your chest without anesthesia, well, that’s the look on her face.

But do you want to know what compelled me to cut out the picture and hold on to it for this long? The victim has the most beautiful hands, more beautiful than a hand model. It’s the contradiction, the unfairness… Or, maybe it is fairness. Every person, every life has good and bad, triumph and tragedy. I’m not saying that beautiful hands make up for what has just happened to her, but they lead me to believe that before the earthquake, she had a comfortable life filled with people whom she loved; her hands have not toiled at hard labor; there is a lovely diamond ring on her left hand. I see her face everyday and wonder how she is and hope that she has recovered from what happened that day.

One of my husband’s favorite sayings is: Nothing is good or bad except by comparison. Perhaps that’s why we write—to offer comparisons so that our readers’ lives don’t seem so bad. Or, to help readers understand that they are not alone in their suffering.

Maybe we writers aren’t such a bad bunch after all.

 

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Failure or Success: Which is Worse?

Fear of failure is a common phrase. But there are so many quotes about picking up, moving on, learning from, and becoming better people because of our failures, that I wonder why should we fear it? And why should it stop us from trying our best at something?

More sensible yet less talked about is fear of success. Success changes everything, not always for the better. Think of people who win the lottery only to go broke again, or actors who become movie stars and lose their privacy. Think of the winners of the Biggest Loser and the scrutiny they’re under to stay slim. Think of Mark Zuckerberg who now has 20 Billion things to worry about. Think of aspiring authors who like the quiet life of being a writer, then get shot out of a cannon into the public eye when their novels get published.
Then again, fame and money are so fleeting that maybe the real test is whether or not you can hold on for the brief flight.
Yes, that’s it: Success is like a bull riding.
Excuse me while I go look for my cowboy boots.

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Write What You WANT to Know

There are many American axioms that, like stereotypes, are prevalent because they are true: Location, location, location; Time will tell; Never underestimate the power of body language; and my new favorite: Research, research, research.

Me, in Jackson
I recently spent a week in Jackson, Wyoming because that is the location of my work in progress (WIP). I wrote an entire novel set in Jackson because I’ve long held a romantic vision of the West. I completed the novel (300 pgs) with a story, start to finish, based on Google Maps, Google Earth and Wikipedia. As any good teacher would tell an aspiring writer, “Don’t do that!”
Actually, it’s not a bad way to start a story, but the novel would have been a joke if I had never gone to Jackson at all.
Annie Proulx, of Brokeback Mountain fame, sets many of her stories in her home state of Wyoming. In her work, the setting is as strong as any main character. Ms. Proulx must get the details perfect because they are vital. Ann Patchett set her most popular novel, Bel Canto, in an “unnamed South American country.” That’s one way to do it ~ be so vague that no one can contest the details. While in Jackson, I learned that C.J. Box (who also lives in Wyoming) set one of his mysteries in Jackson specifically. I bought Out of Range so that I could see how a famous, published author dealt with the details of the same town I chose in his work. (He was also very vague.)
Setting can be as vital or unimportant in any story as the writer choses. But if a writer choses a specific location, he/she better get the details correct. While my storyline was solid and valid, I got many details of the setting incorrect from the information I garnered on the web (I didn’t expect to have them perfect, I only wanted the framework. I always intended to visit the town). If I had never set foot in Jackson, anyone who’d ever been there (10,000 residents + 3 MILLION visitors per year!) would have thrown my book down in disgust. “She’s obviously never even been there,” they would have said.) Because I spent nearly a week in Wyoming, I was able to correct the details and polish my novel, and it is crucially better for the effort.
Some would suggest visiting the location of one’s work first. I can see the validity in that. Others might say you really need to live someplace for an extended period of time before you can get the true feeling of a location. I’m sure that’s true, too, in certain instances. Again, it depends on how important the setting is to the novel. But the one thing I know for sure is, whether you write about your home town, or you visit the place you write about, a writer MUST know what he/she is talking about first hand. The same philosophy applies to the characters’ occupations, hobbies, lifestyles. If you write about a baseball player, you darn well better know something about baseball. Some say, “Write what you know.” I say, “Write what you want to know,” just be sure to learn all about it before you finish the book.
Most people seem to agree that too much description of a place or a person can hamper the reader’s experience. For the most part, readers don’t really care what color the wallpaper is in a room, or weave of the carpet, or how many columns are on the front of the mansion. On the same line, most readers don’t want too much medical or job-specific jargon. What people want is an engaging story. The details must enhance the story, but not overwhelm it or be so inaccurate as to turn off readers who know more than the author.
Novels are entertainment. If a writer wants to draw his/her readers into a new world, he must find the perfect balance between an enveloping atmosphere, realistic characters and an engaging plot that will grab the reader on page one and never let them go. But we writers can entertain ourselves at the same time, can’t we?
Research is not a dirty word. Think of it as making you a smarter person.

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A Writer’s Silver Platter

When is the last time you counted your blessings? Is it possible to prioritize them?

Health might be the most important, neck and neck with family; food is a necessity, as is financial security; intelligence cannot be minimized or taken for granted—and with that, education; and don’t forget love. No, this is not an impostor sitting in for Karolyn… who only a few short years ago might have mentioned new black pumps, Prada purses and pearls. Now all I want is to be published—and to retain the aforementioned blessings.

Why do I not have a whiskey in my hand?

As I type this, I’m sitting in a beautiful Colorado home, where my husband and I will spend the next week. He’ll be drinking coffee and reading. I’ll be transcribing pages and pages of notes I took last week when we were lucky enough to spend the week in Jackson Hole, Wyoming on my research trip for my current novel… the one I wrote while we spent the winter in Costa Rica.

Please forgive me here, I’m not bragging. This admission scares the shit out of me.

I spent eight years as an art dealer with an evermore lucrative art gallery (i.e. it started out paying me zero, and ended up paying me a monthly pittance). When the moment came to re-up my lease or close, I closed it so we could travel and I could begin writing. Now I’m back to being paid zero.

The scary part is that I have every opportunity and every bit of the responsibility. I have been given the Writer’s Silver Platter: a laptop, a location, loving support and lots and lots of quiet time. When I publish, I will have so many people to thank: my husband for his unending support, my parents for my brain and their encouragement, my children for growing up and leaving the nest, and countless friends who’ve given me so much encouragement and advice (specifically my former artists and Twitter friends who will not let me quit). But no excuses, and no one to blame if I can’t make this happen.

So, now I must produce. I have counted my many blessings, and I’m ready to test my skills. By October 1st, I will be querying agents for “Invented Lives.” Get ready World, here I come.