The Yellow Mustang

One of the bonuses of fall (besides the obvious: spices, pumpkins, orange-yellow-rose, sweaters, scarves, etc. etc.) is that the leaves fall off the trees and you can see what's been hidden for 7 months. This is especially fortunate for us, as we live on the 8th floor and our windows are surrounded by trees. Across the street there's a parking lot for an apartment building, and for the first time all year we can see it. 

There are a bunch of cars in the parking lot (you didn't need me to tell you that, I'm sure). Lots of residents exercised adult sensibilities when they were purchasing their cars, and there are rows of gray and black, some silver, several white, and one or two deep maroon. 

But one person—one blessed, carefree, personality filled person—has a bright yellow mustang.

Unfortunately for this picture, even though the leaves fell, the trees are still standing strong.

Honestly, it stands out like a sore thumb.

But at the same time, it is refreshing, bright, and, well... Yellow. Which is the color of sunshine and bumble bees (inside the black stripes, of course) and daffodils, all wonderful things.

I continue at the risk of drawing an analogy that's too complex or far-fetched. 

It's easy to feel like the yellow mustang in a world full of gray and silver cars. Some of what defines me is absolute: my faith, my family, my husband Curtis (he's very wonderful), my definite introverted personality. Other parts of who I am are a choice: cheerful, buoyant, thoughtful, and careful. 

The absolutes are like the parts of the car that it can't run without—engine, axles, gears, tires (a proper mechanic could lend a lot to this analogy). 

The choices are like the aesthetics: leather or upholstery, fancy chrome rims, and the paint job. 

The problem with people (myself included) is that we struggle to see past the yellow paint. This in turn makes our interactions with most people about as meaningful as a drive-by speculation on the color of someone's car. We assume that everything we see on the outside is everything they are on the inside, and go from there. 

It's not practical. It's not relational. But it's certainly easier.

Looking past the paint is hard—it takes work, it takes sacrifice, and it's not always comfortable.

But it's so worth it, because under the paint people are individual, odd, and beautiful, and so much more than just yellow or gray. 

The color is very important, but the buck shouldn't stop there.

Delighted by Sunday

This Sunday is for:

Chili and cornbread
Nutmeg scented candles
Cracking the window to let in the fall air
Watching the sun play on the buildings
Writing writing writing
^ Diligence
Eating ice cream till we have to change into sweat pants
Being in love
Optimism
Fall delight

Again and again and again we're delighted by Sunday.

Seeing What You're Headed Towards

I work in a rectangular building that was built squarely on a compass. Translation: it faces N,S,E, and W, instead of the half directions.

Yesterday at closing time, there was a grim glowering storm out of the east windows, and a dazzling, orange-yellow creamsicle sunset out of the west windows. My office-mates who sit on that side of the building had no idea that a storm was brewing, 45 feet away.

Sometimes you're 45 feet away from something delightful. Sometimes you're 45 feet away from the worst storm yet.

Usually you only see the one you're headed towards.

Practice looking around you to see all the weather.

Short 02

The more you study, the more you learn.

The more you learn, the more you know.

The more you know, the more you forget.

So...

Why study?

Excitement Lives in the Young

Every week we go to youth group. We play games, have lesson and small group times, and try to help two or three dozen high-schoolers understand that they're not alone, they're not as awkward as they feel (and even if they are it's totally okay—spinach gets stuck in everybody's teeth sometimes), and not knowing what you're going to be doing in two years isn't the end of the world. 

They're fun, they're kind, they're smart. They play sports, they do drama, they read books, one of them even volunteers at a museum in her spare time. They're learning what growing up is in a safe environment, one where they are reminded of what matters, their parents keep them safe, and they don't have to pay their own electricity bills.

They're excited about life, because it's full of possibilities. 

They're excited because they're young enough to sleep well and forget the hard things.

They're excited because they haven't had a job they didn't like, a boss who was unkind, or a college roommate who doesn't understand what being courteous is.

And they should be. Writing excitement into young people is crucial (unless you're styling the moody artist type—that's a whole different set of attitudes), because it's so relevant to the young, and so refreshing for everyone else.

Learn to capture their excitement, because excitement is half of what makes life... Well, exciting.

How to Write Real People

No one wants to spend their time reading characters that aren't believable. We have enough people who can't hold our interest in real life—writing them into your stories is a disservice to a faithful audience. Making characters three dimensional takes planning and consideration, and even if you're not careful, they can slide back into flat-dialogue-speaking-feelingless stick figures.

So how do you write real characters into existence?

#) Study people. You'll understand how to make the "fake" thing if you have complete knowledge of the real thing. Watch people interact, watch them be alone. Study their mannerisms, their habits, their hobbies. And ask questions. Understanding the why behind the what always helps to write more whats.

#) Make friends. If only for the sake of your writing, make friends with your characters, even the villains. In real life, you're honest with your friends, and you see their flaws. Do it in your writing, so you can give them believable flaws (nobody really likes sheer perfection) and lovable foibles.

#) Let them go. One of the delightful things about creating characters is that once you've given them life and personality, they'll start making their own decisions. When they do that, don't try to force them back into the mold you've created for them. Let them do their own thing, and when they suffer for bad decisions, don't try to patch it up for them right away. Let them be real people, who mess up and get mustard on their clothes and sing off-key.

#) Practice. I include it in every list because it's really the most important thing to do in writing. Stop reading this and go write up some real people.

We like to read us about people who remind us of ourselves—if you can master creating them, you'll be miles ahead of all competition.

Post-Publishing Depression

I wrote a novel last year, and last month I published it. Some authors fill in this space with details of euphoria, the wonder of seeing their name in written print, and the blissful ease of spouting off 85,000 words that needed no refining or editing.

I feel those things. It's great (besides the editing thing—every writer needs an editor, whether they think so or not). 

It was also hard. Very hard.

It was Saturday after Saturday crouching over my keyboard, watching the blue sky darken and imagining it was the last sunny day of fall that would happen in my lifetime. It was night after night of frustration, pre-occupation, and contemplation, as I lived in two worlds—one that I can do nothing to control, and the other that is subject to my every whim. Balancing the two realities is like trying to paint a landscape while holding a seat atop a bucking mustang (the horse, not the car). It was person after person coming back with my manuscript and telling me to "change this," "re-write this section," and "make this part better because it's not good enough," subjecting my already fragile ego to the whims of critics who, I worked to convince myself, actually knew what they were talking about. 

It really wasn't easy.

In the sweetness of post-published, it's easy to forget the hard parts in the delight of my name on the cover of a book. 

In the uphill trudge of self-marketing, I remember it again. Having published, I'm now marketing. Yesterday I emailed almost a dozen influential people, introducing myself, asking to guest post on their blogs, asking them to read and perhaps review my book. 

So far, everyone has said no. Although to my practical mind, this makes sense (influential people are busy, or something like that), to my ego it's a gentle reminder that none of them need any favors from me. 

Mine is the small platform, the new book, the person that no one has heard of.

Mine is also the vision, the goals, the desire to work hard to do what I believe in, to make a difference, to foster and help my novel grow, because I wrote it and I stand behind it.

It's not easy. But I think someday I'll look back and acknowledge that it was all worth it. At least, that's what I'm hoping.

Here's a link to my book.

Check it out, maybe buy it, and write a review on amazon! 

And thanks for reading what I have to say so faithfully.

I Sell Tickets

I'm a writer—it's what I want to do, it's what I love to do. I'm also young, which means I'm inexperienced, learning how to market, and essentially invisible in the world of professional writers. I'm doing my best and growing my market, but it's slow going. I'm not complaining about my life, I'm just explaining my need for a day job.

I work in the customer service center of a fairly large non-profit organization, which means all day every day, I answer phones. People call about everything. That's not an exaggeration. Politics, world events, city events, sickness, death, babies, tears, happiness, vacation, the radio... The list is long and still growing. There is nothing people won't talk about to someone who is listening and who doesn't have a face. As an introvert, it's not my dream job, but I get a lot of good stories, and two paychecks a month, so I can appreciate it. We also sell tickets for large musical events, and yesterday I worked the will call table for one of the productions. 

A lot of people come to the will call table to request replacement tickets for tickets that didn't arrive, or tickets that they misplaced, or forgot when they left northern Michigan this morning to drive down for the show. Some people come asking for information about the event: where's the auditorium, when's the intermission, how long is it? But a few hopefuls come asking if there are leftover tickets that they can purchase. 

Our event yesterday was sold out, but due to the nature of the organization, and people who care, over the two hours that I spent at the table, about 35 tickets got returned to us, so we could "maybe give them to someone else." At the beginning of the two hours, people would come to our booth with a look of hope and desperation, wanting anything. We first had to turn them away, advising them to check back closer to the beginning of the performance.

People had two main reactions: Some took it to mean yes, and wandered away smugly, like they'd just bet on the winning horse. Others took it to mean no, and shoulders slumped, motioned to their small waiting group to follow them as they beat a dejected retreat. The people who were happy came back in an hour and as many of them as came back got tickets. The people who looked defeated never came back—never got tickets, and didn't go to the show. The ones who waited patiently got what they were coming for; the ones who left abruptly didn't get anything but disappointment.

If your readers like you, they will wait patiently while you build the suspense or drama or thrill of your story. 

Don't disappoint them.

How I Beat Writers Block

Classic writers block takes two forms: 

1. Getting up to a certain point then not being able to continue. You've written long and hard, and suddenly, at the end of the sentence, you can't think of what comes next. It doesn't matter how hard you try, the villain won't pick up the gun and the heroine stays home in her pajamas. After hours of staring at the screen, you decide maybe you'd make a good chef (writing is for pale bookworms and nervous journalists with big glasses, after all), so you buy a cookbook from Amazon and start googling french cooking terms. 
    
2. Nothing to say. You've sat down to write, and you've written forty-five first sentences—and you don't like any of them. None of them catch on, each one more flaccid than the last, and every time you come up with something maybe even a little good, the burst of inspiration dies out like a shooting star landing in the ocean. Dead. Completely. Sunken to the dark seaweed-y depths to live with bottom dwellers and pale fish with large eyes. You get it.

I don't know of any diehard methods to beat writers block, but I can tell you what I do: Write. About writers block. I write about how I despise it, how it makes me feel worthless and miserable, how it robs me of all inspiration and love for writing that usually comes so naturally. I write about how frustrating it is to want to say something and not be able to, like the boy who wants to ask the pretty girl to dance but he just... can't... get... the... words... out... there... Pretty soon, I've written a paragraph. If I'm feeling particularly spiteful (which is rare—I may have ditzy spells, but I'm not vindictive by nature), I'll have a page. Suddenly (while my brain was learning french and my fingers were flying with wrathful vengeance against something so small and obnoxious), the heroine has put on her super-suit, the villain is holding up a bank, and the shooting star is resurrected in blazing glory.

It may not work for everyone—but it's better than staring at the screen in doleful misery. 

Maybe it will work for you.

Nuance

Nuance gives interactions depth. The change of tone, the raised eyebrow, the subtle shift in posture—all of them indicate attitude and feeling. It's what makes story interesting, movies gripping, and real life easier to interpret. Without nuance, face to face interactions lack a certain emotion that we depend on to understand what's really going on. Even stranger to stranger interaction has subtle nuance, whether discomfort, disinterest, or delight.

Nuance differs from person to person, but some things are universal. Do you look up to the sun with your eyes closed when you go outside? Are you constantly picking at things with your fingers? Do you lean in when you're listening, cross your arms when you're upset, yawn when you're bored? Subtleties help us process interactions—without them we can't tell what the other person is thinking, unless they come straight out and say it. Was he leaning out because he wasn't listening? Why didn't she nod? What is all the yawning about?

In the same way, writing nuance into your story clues your readers into what's really going on, and triggers the imagination to help tell the story and fill in the tiny missing pieces. Without nuance tips, we won't know the tone of the story.

How do you write nuance into a story?

#) Understand what nuance is. You can't write it unless you understand it. Fortunately, it's an easy thing to learn. Eighty-five percent of social interactions that you witness are full of nuance—and once you start looking for it, it's everywhere.

#) Read for it. Find popular writers (both current and classic) and read their work. Do they use nuance well? Poorly? At all? 

#) Practice. This is the dead horse that I'll flog forever, when it comes to writing. The only way to get better is to practice, even when you don't feel like it, even when you have nothing to say. Look at the objects on your desk and write a story about them having a conversation. If your desk is empty use your shoes. If you're not wearing shoes, write it about the wall and the paint. If you write in a gazebo, maybe you're in a public park and there will be people walking by... You get the picture.

Nuance is invaluable to writers. Perfect the art.