Chapter 5: In Which The Author Freaks Out

Dear Readers, beginnings of books are the hardest for me to write. It's showing up solo for a party full of people you don't know and trying to decide how best to present yourself. Wait for the hostess to introduce you to a few like-minded folks? Burst through the door and shout, "How 'bout 'dem Bearcats?" Slink around the perimeter with your coat still on, looking for the family dog? Find the smokers shivering on the patio only to recall you quit ten years ago?

So. Many. Options.

By Chapter 5, I know I've chosen the wrong one. I'm closing in on the end of the first arc and it's not lining up with where I know the middle and end are heading. The stakes aren't high enough. Or they're too high too soon. The opening "everyday" situation doesn't succinctly convey the normalcy of an abnormal world. Too many people are introduced too soon. It's too bland. It's too confusing. It's too...

GAH!

Now, imagine you're in sitting in your car, just outside the party venue, getting ready to head inside. Nude lipstick or red? Handbag or just keys? Coat or no coat?

Breath mints. Definitely breath mints.

Freaking out.

In every book there comes a moment of self-doubt. It's damned near inevitable.

Sometimes it happens early on, and sometimes it happens much later. In the case of my Aliens novel it came very early on as I thought about all that had gone before, including two of my all time favorite movies. Usually it's when I'm rounding the last bend in the story.

the self doubt comes in and I wonder if everyone will realize I've been bluffing my way through the writing process this entire time.

Two bits of advice. The first is my usual statement to writers of all sorts. Sit your ass down and write. By that I simply mean finish the first draft as quickly as you can, before the self doubt makes you go back a reread a dozen chapters and start changing this. Save that for the second and third drafts, when you have more time and less to lose.

You might think that advice is counterintuitive. You're welcome to that opinion. If, however, you have half a dozen short stories and two novels sitting in a virtual drawer until you can get motivated to work on them again, you have already fallen victim to the problem with not listening to my advice. Lloyd Alexander offered a simple quote in his Chronicles of Pyrdain. He said there are three principles of learning: See much, study much, and suffer much.

Guess which one I think works the best? I've met far too many writers who never finished a manuscript because they kept going back to tweak this and that before the end of the story. Make notes, move on. that's my advice. You can always fix it in the rewrite. Same answer for research. perhaps you NEED to know the migratory pattern of the Canadian Goose. Awesome. Make a note. Look it up when yo';re done writing. the information will still be there and you will not have slowed down.

My other but of advice is the same that every coach on the planet has offered to every athlete that fell down and got scraped up or took a blow that hurt but caused no major injuries (Which is also my advice for a break up, but that ls neither here nor there.).

Walk it off.

Sure it's uncomfortable as hell. Sure your world is ending.

Walk it off.

That is all.

Added bonus, I threw the following on Facebook and my Genrefied blog, but I like it so I'm throwing it here, too. A brief section from THE LAST SACRIFICE that I found satisfactory. No context offered.

“We have come to warn you. Your father sent us. He says if you do not change your path, you will die here soon. Die, or worse.”

“My father is dead.” Beron smiled, pleased to have caught the man in a lie so early on.

“Yes, I know.” The man nodded. “That does not mean he does not look out for his son.”

Superstitious nonsense. Still, a chill walked through Beron’s body.

“You have given your warning. Was there anything else?”

“You misunderstand. He means now. Physically. You should change your path or you will suffer greatly.”

“My path is chosen. I have a great distance left to travel and diverting would only make the challenge of arriving at my destination greater.”

The lean man sighed. “I have offered the warning. May the gods be with you.

“So far, of late, they have not been.”

Writing Freak-out Moments - And Why You Shouldn't Freak Out

Our topic this week is "The part of the writing process when I freak out."

Which... it would be easier to pick a part of the process where we DON'T freak out. Writing seems to depend on freaking out in the same way stage performances feed on nerves.

Also, it really depends on the book. Each one seems to comes with its Personal, Super-Duper, Individualized Major Freak-Out Moment. You know the one - where you realize that it was idiocy to attempt that book, that it's irredeemably flawed, and that THIS will be the book to end your career.

Still - it's occurred to me that I should journal my moods on the progress of writing each book because it might be for me that the Personal, Super-Duper, Individualized Major Freak-Out Moment occurs pretty much at the same parts of the book. My big three are:

1) 20-25%
2) Midpoint
3) Last ~15%

The level of freak-out varies. It helps if I can remember that I pretty much always stall at least a little bit at those stages. And the flavor of the freak-out is different for each of these.

20-25%

Usually the first 20% of most of my books goes really fast. This is the honeymoon phase. Or, as I call it, Babylove. So much potential. The concept is bright and shiny. The words come fast, sweet and hot. But around 20%, I usually slow. My critical brain kicks in and I start thinking about how I'm nearing the Act I Climax and how much needs to be set up by then. Even if I'm not consciously aware of this impending threshold, I find myself slowing, cycling back, revising and tweaking. I start to wonder what the hell I'm doing - then I realize: oh right! First Act freak-out. Finally it's set the way I want it and I move on.

Midpoint

The midpoint freak-out is definitely worse with some books than others. People offering writing advice will often dole out the wisdom that if your Act I is solid, you'll cruise right through the "midpoint sag" or the "mushy middle." I've never been able to draw a correlation. (Read: I think that's BS.) I do believe that *not* having the stakes set in the first act can contribute to a sagging middle (where basically the characters run around, stalling for time until the big climax), but having a sterling first act guarantees nothing. I think we've all read published books with amazing premises and openings that gradually fall apart as the book progresses.

Despite all of this, to me, the midpoint freak out is tied to the fact that it's the turning point of the story. In other words, the STORY is in freak out. It's not really the writing. Just ride the waves and know the storm will pass.

Last ~15%

Finally, I start to slow again near the end. It's weird. I do it every time and this one, at least, I've more or less learned to anticipate. It might not even qualify as a freak out - except that inevitably a deadline is looming and it's precisely the time I *don't* want to slow down. But I do. It's not always that I don't know exactly how the story ends (though sometimes I don't). It's more that I have to feel my way into it, plus I'm all emotional about the book ending, plus the emotions of the final climax, and, and, and...

Okay, it qualifies as a freak out.

Regardless, the point of all of this is that these phases are expected and part of the process. Keep on keeping on and those, too, shall pass.

Who Was Most Influential For Me?

Our topic this week was to talk the person who was most influential on our early writing career. I agree with some of the others who have said that at different times in your writing life, different people will be most influential. To that end, Andre Norton is, and always will be, the most influential in terms of the original spark that set me loose to write my stories set in the stars. She fired my imagination with her many varied worlds, including the science fiction, Witch World and her ancient Egyptian novel Shadow Hawk. I just needed much more romance than she was able to include at the time she wrote. To my great regret, I never met her but she was my inspiration.

The person I really want to talk about today was the most influential in terms of my ever getting published and also on being independently published. My daughter Elizabeth. As my girls grew up, they always saw me writing away in the evenings and on the weekends. (I had a fulltime day job at NASA/JPL.) I made one or two not very serious efforts to submit a manuscript somewhere, at a time when you did it kind of the way Joan Wilder did in “Romancing the Stone” – a big messy pile of typed paper, in a box held together with rubber bands. Although I was mailing mine off to fall over the transom into the slush pile, not having drinks with my editor in NYC. I had no editor, no agent and no idea how to get one.

Beth is also a writer, among her many varied talents. A Berkeley graduate, she worked very hard at her craft and became a published author years before I did, with several books at various publishers. She did a lot of research on the industry and the new trends, including self-publishing.

One of E. D. Walker's titles

E. D. Walker

In late 2010, I decided to get serious about becoming a published author, in part because I was energized that I actually knew a published author – my daughter! I wrote a paranormal romance novella and proudly ‘submitted’ it to Beth, for a serious critique. We agreed she would lay it on the line, really provide blunt feedback and tell me what areas I was lacking in. I’ll spare you the entire list but it turned out I was making ALL the newbie mistakes, probably plus a few. Show versus tell, info dump, and head hopping were the most egregious, along with near total lack of interesting stage business for my characters to do, and ways to show emotion through actions.

 I’d asked for it.

 I accepted it.

There was about a week where I said, that’s it, I’ll never be published.

The world was dark.

But writing is like breathing to me. I HAVE to do it. And I was definitely at the stage where I wanted to start sharing my stories, not just write them down for myself…so I had to learn how to write successfully in the here and now.

I picked up the story again and tried to work through the issues. Beth sent me blog posts, how-to posts and more. She provided more feedback (as did my other daughter, who is a freelance editor). I felt I was making progress. I abandoned the paranormal novella and its flawed plot, which will probably never see the light of day and worked on my science fiction romances instead. Beth sent me a link to a Carina Press call for Ancient World romances because she knows how much I love stories set in ancient Egypt and – feeling inspired – I wrote what became Priestess of the Nile and sent it off.

And in late summer 2011 Angela James gave me The Call. Carina acquired my story.

I can’t ever express enough gratitude to Beth for all the tireless help she gave me, and continues to provide as needed.

She was also instrumental in my going into indie publishing, with Wreck of the Nebula Dream in March, 2012. I’ll save that story for another day because coincidentally, I’ve finally written the sequel to that book. It’s the sequel my readers have asked for most often and now the book is here! Star Survivor is the continuation of the story for Twilka and Khevan.

Here’s the blurb:

The survivors of a terrible wreck meet again—but this time only one can survive.

The long-awaited sequel to The Wreck of the Nebula Dream…

They survived an iconic spaceship wreck together. She never expected to see him again … especially not armed to kill her.

Twilka Zabour is an interstellar celebrity. She built on her notoriety as a carefree Socialite who survived the terrible wreck of the Nebula Dream, and launched a successful design house. But now the man who gave meaning to her life, then left her, is back–this time for the worst of reasons. Will he kill her … or help her survive?

D’nvannae Brother Khevan survived the Nebula Dream in the company of a lovely, warm woman, only to be pulled away from her, back into his solitary life in the service of the Red Lady.  Now Twilka’s within his reach again–for all the wrong reasons. Khevan will do everything within his power to discover why Twilka has been targeted for assassination, and to save her.

But Khevan is not Twilka’s only pursuer. Will allies Nick and Mara Jameson arrive in time to aid the couple, or will Khevan and Twilka’s ingenuity be all that stands between them and death?

Buy Links:

iBooks      Amazon    Kobo       Barnes & Noble

Early Influences: The First

Think back to high school. You know that unhappy kid few friends and nothing much to look forward to? That was me. I was writing stories no one ever saw. Mostly as a means of entertaining myself when I was lonely and bored. It was often in those days. Sure, I'd had a creative writing class and I did just fine writing papers and essays, but it hadn't occurred to me that I *could* write. It was just something unremarkable the bland kid in the third row (me) did to transport her out of a lackluster life.

Due to some really messed up scheduling on the school's part, I ended up taking science classes out of order. Sophomores were supposed to take chemistry, then biology as juniors. I didn't get the memo. The school plunked me in a biology class filled with upper classmen. Mr. Peter Wiles was my biology teacher. He'd been involved in early nuclear research for the Navy. We knew there were some hair-raising, compelling stories Mr. Wiles could tell, but he wouldn't. Instead, he spent his days actively interested in each and every kid who came through his classroom door. Regardless of how moody, angsty, and sometimes surly teenagers could be. He made you want to think well of you - no one wanted to disappoint him. Not even the football players who only needed a D in his class in order to keep playing. Mr. Wiles got better from them, and they all seemed happy to give him the extra effort he requested. He even took me aside one day to inform me that I was a fraction of a point behind his highest scoring student that year - another sophomore tucked into one of his classes. Mr. Wiles wanted me to push just a little harder on my work and on my tests because he knew I could close that final gap. When he introduced me to his wife one day, she brightened and said "Oh! Pete's talked about you!"

I was surprised, because who talks about miserable teenagers no matter how well they score on your tests? Then I swelled up with pleasure and pride. Maybe I really was friends with my extraordinary biology teacher. At some point that year, he assigned a project. He gave us a multistep experiment to perform. We were to write up the hypothesis, the experimental protocol, document the actual experiment, and then write our conclusions. It took us weeks to wade through, but we finally turned in our papers. Some days later, he returned them. Mr. Wiles liked to hand back tests and papers in ranked order - highest scores to lowest scores.

I'd had a good time with the assignment and I knew I'd done pretty well. I knew I had. He gave back papers, stopping at student desks and saying something good about each paper. With each one he returned, my heart sank and my alarm grew. He wasn't stopping at my desk. Never before had one of my tests or papers not been returned within the top five. High school wasn't a good time for me at all. I had very little to cling to. My academic performance was about it and here I'd gone and messed that up in some way I couldn't comprehend. I must have gotten the lowest score in the class. That meant I'd disappointed my friend. And me.

Finally, Mr. Wiles, with one paper left in hand, came to stand beside my desk. He stared at the paper a moment, then looked at me. I must have looked terrified. I don't think I'd taken a breath since midway through his trip through the classroom.

"I saved your paper for last, because it needs some explaining. Highest score. Not just in this class. Out of all of my classes. It's brilliant," he said.

I blinked.

"The writing is clear. Concise, but detailed. Specific. If you don't become a writer, I'll haunt you until the day you die."

I laughed, but I was so relieved I cried, too. It must have been the reaction he was hoping for. He spent the rest of the period grinning.

A few weeks later, the substitute teachers started. Shortly after, we got word. Mr. Wiles had lung cancer. He didn't finish the school year, opting for treatment instead. Early in my junior year (when I had to take the chemistry I'd missed the year before), he died. Broke my heart. But his threat to haunt me made me smile. And the legacy of his faith in me and my ability to write, survived.

He was the first person ever to tell me I *could* write. To make a big deal out of a skill that I'd regarded as a kind of life preserver. He made me look at it differently. He inspired me to appreciate what I'd learned to do. And, in typical Pete Wiles fashion, made me want to try even harder. Not because he asked, but because he seemed so delighted by what I'd done.

So I write. I may have taken a few detours through the years, but I'm a writer, Mr. Wiles. Even if I sometimes wouldn't mind being haunted - just to get to see my friend again.

My Biggest Early Influence, aka Navigating the Hurricane

This week's topic is talking about someone who was a good influence on you early in your writing career (aka, someone you're thankful for).  I'm going to cheat slightly here, and pull out a piece I wrote when I was asked to do a bio for one the guests of honor at ArmadilloCon, who coincidentally, is exactly that person in my life.  (Plus, it's the holidays, and I've got plenty on my plate, so I'm allowed a bit of a blog-cheat.)

---

I’m in a car in the middle of nowhere on a deep, deep back-country road. Flash floods and washed out roads have forced my journey home off the main highway, and then off the side road. I’m literally in a moment one plot-point away from being a horror movie cliché. But it’s cool, because I’m riding shotgun with Stina Leicht.

All right, here’s the sitch: We were both on panels at ComicPalooza in Houston, scheduled for a last-panel-of-the-con slot at 5pm on a Monday. My wife had to drive home early, so I asked Stina for a ride back to Austin, and she was happy to oblige. So we get into Locksley—her blue Miata—and hit the road. Problem: there’s been serious flooding in Austin, and the heavy storms are making their way to us. Our respective spouses are texting us, “You might want to stay in Houston” messages. But we’re both thinking A. the storm is coming to Houston, so that’s not a better choice and B. no, we want to get home. And this is Stina Leicht I’m with. She’s navigated the choppy waters of the publishing industry, including the implosion of her first publisher, and came through with two Campbell nods and brand new flintlock fantasy series hitting the shelves. Rain ain’t gonna stop her.

The first time I saw Stina was ten years ago at the ArmadilloCon Writers Workshop, my first time attending it. I was sitting in the room, surrounded by strangers and feeling a bit intimidated, especially with that panel of professional and experts at the front of the room. And then this woman walks—nay, strides—into the room like a gothic warrior intent on conquering. But, you know, cheerfully. She walked right up to that panel of experts and said hello. And I thought, “I don’t know who this woman is, but she’s clearly the champion of this workshop.” I was right about that—she finished up the con weekend getting a manuscript request from the Editor Guest of Honor. That’s not something that happens very often. Actually, having been involved in the workshop in varying capacities for the last decade, I don’t think it’s happened since.

Stina took over coordinating the ArmadilloCon Writers’ Workshop shortly after that, which is how I got to know her. In running the workshop, she repeatedly showed her dedication and commitment to learning as much as she could about her craft, and then turning right around and sharing what she learned.

So, back to riding through that storm (spoiler: WE LIVED)—we just about made it to LaGrange when our phones lit up with TORNADO WARNING SEEK SHELTER. Stina pulls us into a gas station for a few minutes while we check the radar. The worst of it is just ahead of us, and past that? Clear sailing. If we just get through it.

Stina’s car, Stina’s call: “Let’s wait for the rain to be less… horizontal.”

Fifteen minutes later, gravity starts behaving again. We push through the downpour and past the other side. The sun is setting ahead of us, filtered through a heavy blanket of orange clouds and lightning across the sky. It’s a gorgeous alien horizon, and we talk about Ray Bradbury’s All Summer In A Day.

Then everything stops dead. The highway is flooded, and the troopers tell us to turn around. When asked for the best route to Austin, we get a shrug. I go into navigation mode and find us an alternate path that, near as I can tell, is clear. Rural country highway, but it’ll get us there. There’s already been hell and highwater, so we press on.

See, that’s the thing about Stina. She charges full-tilt. She’s not fearless, but rather looks the fear in the eye and beats it. She stood at the Gates of Mordor—or rather, the gates of traditional publishing— and proved her worth. But then she turned around to those behind her and said, “Hey, look, it can be done. Come on!” That’s what she did running the Workshop for seven years. And after a couple years of reading my stuff, she said, “You don’t need to be taking this workshop anymore. You should help me run it.”

She knows that the real secret—the honest to goodness this-is-how-you-do-it secret to succeeding in this business—has nothing to do with special clubs or handshakes or having the right cousin. It’s about doing the best damn work you can do.

Take her first two books—Of Blood and Honey and And Blue Skies from Pain. She didn’t just say, “I’m going to write about Ireland in the Troubles, so I’ll watch In The Name of the Father and get to it.” No way. She did the work. She read primary sources. She emailed people who lived through it. She took classes in the Irish language. She did everything in her power to make those books right. That’s how she works. They don’t give two Campbell nods to just anyone.

So, our country highway was also washed out. I figure out a new route to get us around that, but we are going deep into Nowheresville with this detour. Now it is totally dark, and the cell reception is spotty. We’re a breakdown and castle away from Rocky Horror territory, which we comment on. Then we miss a turn, leading us to a dead end where we see a sign that makes us both burst out laughing.

GRAVEYARD

We turn back around at get back on track, eventually getting to a clear part of the main highway and back to Austin. Three hours later than we originally had hoped, but no worse for wear. We had gone through the gallows humor phase of our trip by that time.

“I mean,” I said once we were in the clear, “If we had died together, it would have boosted our careers. Well, at least mine. I’d have been the Ritchie Valens to your Buddy Holly.”

Fortunately, you’ll have Stina Leicht around for some time to come. Even still, you might want to pick up Cold Iron and pre-order Blackthorne now. 

Early Influences

The obvious answer to this weeks question is: my first editor. But, because I have previously posted about what I learned during that time, allow me to step back even further, to a time before writing was a career and lingered still in that space where hopeful peeople stash their dreams.

My senior year of high school I returned to public school after six years in a private religious school. It was at this time that I met Mr. Grandy, my creative writing teacher. It was a great class; instead of the standard English class with increased difficulty offered at the private school, I finally had a class where what mattered was applying what I had learned bby diagramming all those horrid sentences.

It lasted only the last semester of the year, but it was the best part of school. We wrote and made a movie, we followed class prompts for assignments, and we got to work with fiction. The teacher took note of my work which tended to be much longer than the assigment dictated, and after we talked some he asked if he could take a look at what I had written. Delighted, of course, that someone wanted to take a peek at my words, I said yes.

This was the first time someone other than family or friends had read my work, and since he was a creative writing teacher I figured he knew what he was talking about, so when he came back with nothing but encouragement, I was happy, stunned, and motivated.

That stayed with me for years.

Before my first book was released, the publisher sent me two advance copies. I jumped through some hoops but found and contacted Mr. Grandy. It had been 17 years since I'd last seen him, but he remembered me and he agreed to meet me at the local Barnes & Noble. He brought his wife. I brought my mom. I gave him one of my two copies, signed on the thank you page where his name was first. We had a fantastic time that evening, talking, catching up. It meant the world to me to share one of my advance copies with him because he was the first person who made me feel like I really could do this.

I will always be grateful that he went the extra step and took my work home to read over the weekend. He didn't have to do that, but because he did and because he encouraged me, I held on to that.

I hope you all have a wonderful Thanksgiving with your nearest and dearest, and I hope that you remember those who encouraged you and that you take it upon yourself to offer genuine encouragement to others.

Blessed Be.

Early Influences: The Naysayers

The person(s) most influential on my early writing career:

The Naysayers

I've met a lot of them. Some of them were probably spot-on about my questionable talent. A few were just assholes. Most likely didn't care enough have a thoughtful opinion. "Can't" is easier than "can." "No" is more convenient than "yes."

Alas, I'm stubborn. I was raised by an awesome family who said I could achieve anything I set my mind to.

Nannynannybooboo. Sticks & stones. I'm not giving up. 

All I needed was a clue. I'd happily work to earn success. I would learn. I would improve. I would do what it took to get what I wanted. Still will. Still do.

Somehow, I'd managed to get a degree in English Writing without learning a damn thing about the publishing process. (This was in the days long before the Internet and Self-Publishing. Back when personal computing was breaking into the mainstream.) Query letters? Synopses? Pitches and hooks?  I didn't get those answers until I joined Romance Writers of America (RWA). Gods bless 'em, they were the only group who accepted unpublished, utterly clueless aspiring authors into their ranks. They gave me the information I desperately needed, supplied avenues for networking, and set me on a path of continual learning to improve my craft.

It's been a while since I've penned a romance, but the generosity of the Romance community is something I still hold very dear.

Hat tip to the naysayers. They'll always be there. Pushing me to be better. Ensuring I enjoy every moment of proving them wrong.