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Kanazawa street at sunset

Kanazawa street at sunset

(All photos by my husband. My hands were busy pushing a stroller.)

I returned recently from two weeks in Tokyo, Takayama, Kanazawa and Kyoto. The trip was sublime, even with a not-quite-three year old in tow. It is an experience that is remaining with me, impressions and images vivid in my mind even as I have been fully sucked back into the whirlwind and mundane aspects of regular life. And I can tell these will stay with me for a long time, with my self as an observer of the world, as a student of an art form, as a parent and as a writer.

Three things resonated with me the most, the first of which was the attention to detail, the thought put into the smallest of things. Everywhere were umbrellas available for borrowing, and bins for drippy ones post use. All restaurants we frequented, no matter how un-childish, immediately set out plastic utensils and bowls for the little one. All toilet seats were pre-warmed. (Well, that’s a whole other topic–the intricacies of the toilets or “washlets” and the many functions they can perform.) Every room we stayed in was equipped with a Zojirushi hot water maker, ready on demand with water for tea (with different settings for green and black). There is a focus on service, even outside the service industry. People came up to us to offer help, to give up their subway seats for the children. And I could wax rapturous about the ekiben, the bento box lunches made and sold specifically for train trips.

All this spoke to me of a people aware of their surroundings. A week after our return, I sat at the Muse & the Marketplace writing conference in Boston listening to acclaimed literary critic James Wood give a keynote talk in which he focused on the notion of the writer’s ability and mandate to “seriously notice” the world around her, and I thought about how much more the Japanese seem to seriously notice their surroundings, and care about them, than Americans overall. (Pardon the generalization, but I trust you understand what I mean.)

Takayama cherry blossoms

Takayama cherry blossoms

Which leads me to the second strongest impression I had in Japan: aesthetics reign. The emphasis on presentation–of spaces, of food, of nature, of objects, of oneself–and the importance of doing things right and getting to their essence was a delight. And I realized how much I value this. I may never have articulated as much to myself, but I understand now that a focus on aesthetics is something I have always appreciated, for better or for worse. From the way I used to set the table in my childhood home, folding the napkins into fans and arranging the tomatoes and cucumbers into designs on the lettuce, to the way I fear sharing some of my writing, even before writing it, because it won’t be sufficiently well-crafted. Sometimes I wonder in frustration why one should bother to make an extra effort, but now, having been to Japan, I see how such an effort, on a larger scale, can be transformative. The small, ten foot square gardens in front of the most modest of homes, with their thoughtfully arranged stones and moss and maple tree, are delightful enough, but then look at the Kenroku-en garden in Kanazawa, and how everywhere the eye turns it is met with magnificent compositions, and one is almost overwhelmed by the magical aesthetics of it all.

Kenroku-en garden in Kanazawa

Kenroku-en garden in Kanazawa

The timing of this trip, along with these realizations, has segued most serendipitously into an exercise: crafting a writer’s mission statement. With a juggle of responsibilities and minimal time to write–the plight of most writers–I want to ensure that I deploy my resources on those activities that will get me closer to what I truly want to achieve as a writer, and that necessitates, unfortunately, that I figure it out and articulate that goal to myself. (Admittedly, this provides a good opportunity to put off actual work on one’s manuscript, under the guise of an otherwise productive and useful endeavor.) As soon as I was over the incapacitating jet lag of our trip, I sat down to think about what really drives me to write fiction, and adhering to a strong sense of aesthetics figures strongly there. The Kenroku-en garden is like an ideal to strive for, a magical place that engages the senses, where the sum of individual and carefully crafted parts adds up to a wholly immersive experience.

Garden at Denpo-in, Tokyo

Garden at Denpo-in, Tokyo

With current writing projects focused on India, people in unique societal positions, history and art, this third aspect of Japan grabbed at me and won’t let go: the very aliveness of and respect for history and tradition without any compromise to the advances of modernity. In the midst of high rises and neon (arguably not really advances) will be nestled a gorgeous shrine, set about with lovingly shaped trees, swinging lanterns, and incense sticks whose spirals of blue smoke are a testament to the attentions of living souls. In the bustling streets, in front of a convenience store, will be a trio of kimono-clad women going about their business of simply living. In the traditional townhouse, or machiya, that we rented in Kyoto, stunning in its simplicity, was a wooden soaking tub, a mainstay of Japanese cleansing rituals.

Kimonos in Kanazawa

Kimonos in Kanazawa

Kyoto machiya

Soaking tub, Kyoto 

Kyoto machiya

Last night, as I was singing to the little one before bed and after her own bath, I overheard a conversation between eight year old K and her father. After the usual prodding, K was going through the routine of cleaning up her belongings in the common areas–sweater flung across the armchair, sneakers tossed in the general direction of the closet, Scotch tape and paper scraps from her craft project involving a stuffed baby kangaroo on the counter–before retiring to her lair, I mean, bedroom.

K: Why do I always have to go around cleaning up every single little thing?
Father: Remember when we were in Japan, and things were so neat and simple and organized, and how much we all enjoyed that?
K: Yeah. (Her intonation rises, implying the unsaid: What’s your point?)
Father: Well, wouldn’t it be nice to bring a little bit of that into our own home?
K: But we’re in America!

I wonder if she meant that as in “We’re not in Japan” or whether it was more of an observation about America itself. Regardless, isn’t that why we travel? To experience and assimilate new ideas, new aesthetics, new perspectives? What experiences in other locales have had a long-lasting impact on your life or work?

Shirakawago

Shirakawago

 

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An original manuscript page from J.G. Ballard's CRASH, found at http://www.fountainpennetwork.com/forum/index.php?/topic/164727-j-g-ballards-pen/

An original manuscript page from J.G. Ballard’s CRASH, found at http://www.fountainpennetwork.com/forum/index.php?/topic/164727-j-g-ballards-pen/

There is true magic to be found in good editing. If you are a writer hesitating in the least about spending money on an editor, I say this to you: Do what you can, and spend what you can afford, for the best possible one. It’s the single greatest thing you can do for your work.

In order to get my manuscript in as tip top shape as possible, I conducted some extensive research and found a gifted editor who also turns out to be a gem of a human being. His name is Steven Bauer, and you can find him here. I may have worked and reworked my manuscript for years, all the while receiving valuable feedback from critique partners and writing teachers and agents, but nothing has come close to the depth and breadth of the insight I received from this editor. And now that I am going through the line edits, I see unfolding before me pure wizardry.

In the interest of full disclosure, I’ll admit I’ve always been a sucker for playing with words. In eighth grade, our English teacher gave us “précis” exercises, paragraphs we’d have to whittle down to a set number of words without losing any of the meaning. I reveled in this challenge, and in the satisfaction of coming in just under the word limit. Perhaps this is why, just a few weeks into joining Twitter, I’ve come to enjoy the 140 character limit so much. The challenge is all the greater for the purist (stick in the mud?) in me who shies away from the usual text speak abbreviations, of the “R u going 2 go thru b4” ilk, although I greatly enjoy and admire folks who have found their own, creative ways to put colloquialisms into short form, à la @djolder.

Anyhow, I’ve spent the last few days going over every single edit that the above-mentioned fabulous editor marked up. This was his second reading; the first resulted in a 20 page developmental report which, in thoughtful and articulate prose, summarized the plot, themes and characters of my novel with breathtaking clarity, and highlighted a few very important issues which were holding the manuscript back from being the best I could make it. Best of all, it contained concrete suggestions for how to fix the problems, thus leaving me encouraged and chomping at the bit to get down to work, rather than despondent at the massive morass of undefined work ahead.

This current round of edits constituted the line edit of the revised manuscript. Some pages were chock full of tiny suggested changes, and I accepted every single one. When three pages went by without any edits, my heart leapt. Either the writing was tighter, or it was just strong enough to lose the editor in the “continuous dream” of which John Gardner writes, and make him forget his red pen. Here’s an example of a paragraph that stands much improved after his touch:

Before:

My heart jumped at this, for I wanted nothing more than to greet the morning alone in the quiet of the temple, without his shadow over me. I skipped out of the room, then tiptoed past Ma in the kitchen. Something gnawed at me inside, the way it did when Bapu did, or made me do, something of which I knew Ma did not approve. But this time I pushed that feeling aside. I parted the bead curtain at the front door as quietly as possible, but not quietly enough to escape Ma’s hearing.

After:

My heart jumped, for I wanted nothing more than to greet the morning alone in the quiet of the temple, without his shadow over me. I skipped out of the room, then tiptoed past Ma in the kitchen. Guilt gnawed at me, as when Bapu did, or made me do, something I knew Ma did not approve of.  But I pushed the feeling aside and parted the bead curtain at the front door as quietly as I could.  Ma heard me anyway.

See how those slight changes make the paragraph so much stronger? And here are a few specific ways in which to get rid of extraneous words:

Things swirl together, they don’t need to swirl around together.

You don’t have to feel your way around the room, you can just feel your way around.

A single bell on a piece of string is also a single bell on string.

Don’t focus your mind on something, just focus on it.

Don’t listen to the sound of bangles, listen to the bangles.

Sit on the ground, don’t sit down on the ground.

 

It seems obvious to me now, as I read these examples, but when you are immersed in 98,000 of your own words for the umpteenth time, trying to make sure the story arc is complete, the main characters have changed, the dialogue is smooth, the tension is high, there’s very little of you left to pay attention to the extra words. But that’s what an editor is for.

 

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Ancient Jain temple inside Jaisalmer. Photo by Sangeeta Dhanuka (Wikimedia Commons)

Ancient Jain temple inside Jaisalmer. Photo by Sangeeta Dhanuka (Wikimedia Commons)

In Rajasthan, a five year old child is likely never to have seen rain. For centuries, the monsoons have been elusive, and it was no different when I was young. So it is understandable that when I was born during the first rainstorm in so long, some considered me special. In the royal palace of the citadel not far from our home, the walls of children’s rooms were, and are still, trimmed with black and blue cloud designs, so when the gods finally did send rain, the little ones would not be afraid. But for others such as my brothers and sister, who grew up looking at thatched roofs and endlessly blue skies, the day of their first rain can mean an intensity of both fear and hope.

I have no doubt that I now possess an unusual gift, but it came late in my life. I began as all children do, accepting of my lot for it was the only one I knew, and living by the decisions my father made for me. When I was old enough, I began to understand that I could shape my own path. And although I struggled greatly along the way, the gods must have approved of what I chose to do with it, for many, many years later they gave me this gift. I am not sure why they acted as they did, or how they chose what knowledge to grant me and what to keep concealed. Was it a moment of selfishness on their part? Was it for our dance? For humankind? Or, possibly, just for me? Whatever the reason, knowing now the minds and hearts of some of those close to me when I was a child allows me to tell this story. It is not the story of me alone, but mine alone to tell.

www.faintpromiseofrain.com

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A notice came home a few weeks ago: “This year, all third, fourth and fifth graders will become published authors!” My first, and admittedly petty, thought: Oh, great, rub it in, why don’t you? My second thought: What? They want the parents to type out the 8-page stories? But underneath it all, I found the idea sweet, and fun, and creative. The children are to write at least 8 pages (in Word, the notice to parents pointed out rather pointedly) and submit an accompanying 8 pages of illustrations. The books will be printed and bound, many copies made, and there will be an author party. Well, I guess if I can’t quite plan my own yet, I should enjoy my daughter’s!

I’ve watched K agonize over this project for over five weeks now. I supposed “watched” is misleadingly passive a word for what I’ve done. Until today, I tried to limit my involvement to just making sure she paces her work, prodding her a few times a week to work on a page of writing or a drawing. Each time she’s groaned, sighed, reluctantly schlumped or stomped up the stairs after trying to find various lame excuses which don’t fly with a mother who would leap at the suggestion that she hole herself up in her room and work on her story.

The project is due in a few days, and I’ve set an earlier deadline—three days earlier, to be precise—for her to turn over her handwritten pages to me so that I’m not stuck typing them up at the eleventh hour. Some might say I’m projecting my own odd characteristics on my child, forcing her to complete her work faster than required by her teacher. I was, after all, the exceedingly odd college student who turned in her Master’s thesis a full week early so that it wouldn’t ruin my Spring break. Maybe I am projecting, but since I’m the parent overseeing this project, and since it requires my involvement at the end, I believe this is my prerogative.

Yesterday, she seemed to enjoy her writing time, and returned from her room smiling. I decided it was safe to poke a bit. What type of story is it? She looked at me blankly. You know, I continued, you were telling me about different types of books: historical fiction, informational, fantasy, all those categories. What is yours? She shrugged. I dunno. Just a story. Ok, I thought, that’s fine. Spurn categorization. Good for you. It’s all just a marketing gimmick to figure out where on the shelves—assuming there are still shelves– to place your book. I decided against asking if she’d thought about the plot ahead of time, outlined the scenes, developed her characters. Is she an outliner or a pantser? Good grief, I said to myself, she’s 8 years old! Just let her write whatever.

But then today, as she was sitting next to me working on a detailed drawing that involved jellyfish, octopuses and bookshelves, I suggested she hand me the first few page so I could start typing. She did so happily, and I started the transcription.

A fish’s new friend

Once upon a time there was a fish. Her name was Splish. She was blue and she had black fins. She was a very lonely fish. She did not have any friends or siblings.

One day, she went for a little swim. She went to the fish playground. She saw another fish about her age. “Can I play with you?” But the fish ignored her. So she played by herself. When she went home she had a very boring lunch.

 

The story goes on in this manner. Prominently featured are dinners, snack times and breakfasts, with dutiful clearing of the table by the fish. A potential new dolphin friend. Then there is “open circle” and a discussion, in this underwater class, of “calm bubbling.” There is reading comprehension and math workshop, and another snack, and several recesses, and play dates between the fish and her dolphin friend, and so on, through the week, until we get to Saturday.

K has about two more pages to go, and she’s stuck. “How about introducing a problem?” “Huh?” she asks, with that blank look and way that some third graders have, I’ve discovered, of seemingly turning off their brain. “Well, you know, something that makes the reader think oh no, what’s going to happen?” She informs me that she doesn’t like “books like that.” I say that those are the types of books many people like to read, and besides, I’ve seen her read lots of mysteries, and aren’t there problems and clues and foreshadowing in books like that? “Well, I’m not good at writing,” she says. “I’m not a writer.” “You’re writing, aren’t you?” I say. Helpful, no? She shrugs. “But it’s not my job to be a writer. Like you are.” I stifle the urge to point out that it’s not my job, either, and that I don’t yet earn money from my writing. Because I do like to think of her thinking that it IS my job.

What I do respond is that I don’t want to hear her saying “I’m not good at” something. So you want me to lie? She asks. Sigh. They’re so literal at this age. I said no, I just want you to try to believe it. Well, I don’t, she said, and jabbed her marker at a pink fish. The problem with that attitude, I said as gently as I could, is that you need to believe in yourself so that others believe in you. “You believe in me,” she said. Again with the irrefutable logic. “Yes, of course I do. Because I know you well. I know what you are capable of.”

We had veered off course. I left it at that. I’m back to just trying to make sure she gets the assignment done, to make sure I’m not typing it up at 11 pm the night before it’s due. I don’t want to open that can of worms any wider. Belief in oneself as a writer, and how much it affects others’ belief in us. Giving oneself permission to not do a good job, to write something that is not perfect (as Janet Burroway so artfully expresses in the first chapter of her book Writing Fiction which appears, inexplicably, to be out of print).  An eight year old need not trouble herself with these questions. An eight year old should just write her story about a friendship between a fish named Splish and a dolphin named Splash, and their non-adventures in ocean school in between mealtimes and snack times. At least they know to clear the table when they are done.

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What kind of sales should I expect of my debut novel if I go the indie route? This is what I am asking myself these days, today in particular as I draw up a balance sheet of estimated expenses and revenues, to help me decide whether or not to launch into independently publishing Faint Promise of Rain. Of course, part of me feels like it would be the natural thing to do, in keeping with the whole being-the-people thing, but I still need to understand the nitty gritty of it all.

With enough poking around, I was able to obtain some concrete numbers on the expenses side such as the per copy cost of printing if I do a short-print run, the shipping costs for online sales, the standard retailer wholesale discount (which I was shocked to learn is 55%) and other such data points. For other expenses, the Internet is providing me with enough examples for me to make some informed guesses, such as how much to spend on a publicist, and what editorial services should cost for a manuscript which, my agent tells me, is in good shape.

But when it came to what to expect for revenue, the Internet became my enemy . Not only because I cannot find much in the way of concrete examples of debut literary fiction sales figures, but because I am finding posting after posting filled with depressing predictions. Apparently, if I am to believe what the doom-and-gloom folks out there are saying under the guise of bracing indie hopefuls such as myself for misery, I would be lucky to sell 5,000 copies of my book. In total. Not in one year. Not in five years. EVER.

And this is where turning to the Internet can be so destructive. It’s like allowing yourself to drown in a sea of information regarding an illness, and all its possible horrible ramifications, and how it could, it just might, ruin your life, and how in some cases it will cripple you, and how there are support groups to help you cope because otherwise you might just want to end it all now. You read the discussion forums of those who are suffering and while your heart goes out the them, you quake at the prospect of ending up like them. Ok, perhaps this is an exaggeration, but I see it this way: I could choose to throw in the towel and declare that there’s no point for just 5,000 copies, or I could stand tall and say: 5,000 is nothing to sneeze at, and in any case, I can easily beat that. (And the illness metaphor is not totally gratuitous, as I’ve had some experience in that realm.) The darn thing is, I do believe I can beat that. Five thousand copies? That seems like nothing to me! I think of the connections I have in the dance world, in the Indian community, all the people I know who revel in literary fiction, the fact that India is, for good reason, a popular setting and topic in fiction, I think of all the people who have told me my manuscript is beautiful (thank you!), the fun ideas I have for promotion, and 5,000 seems more than feasible.

And yet. Those glum predictions hang over my head, because now that I have read them, I can’t un-read them. Despite feeling confident in my manuscript and my marketing ideas, there is a voice in the back of my head asking me why I have the hubris to dismiss the cautions of people who purport to know more than I do about the ins and outs of publishing. But then, in the nick of time, the Internet comes to my rescue. Because therein is the beauty of the Internet: it can, in one day, in one hour, mete out despair and hope in equal measure. One of my go-to sites for realistic, supportive advice and ideas regarding publishing, Grub Street, posted this entry just today by Terri Giuliano Long entitled “Indie success: hold on to your dreams.” In it this writer takes us back to when she was, essentially, in my shoes, believing 5,000 copies would be her ideal, through her indie publishing experience, and her sales of 120,000 copies in the past twelve months. And that is when I knew to stop trawling the web for information. I’d found what I wanted.

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A fellow writer recently emailed me, asking about my “process” for researching and writing my book. (It’s always flattering to be asked such things when I haven’t yet been published. Really, I want to ask, you care about how I produced my manuscript, little me without a publishing contract yet? It reminds me of a recent experience I had, while meeting with my terrific writing group at our usual haunt, the bar side of a local restaurant. We were discussing one of our manuscripts, and our server, who was not our usual server, having perhaps overheard some salacious or bizarre snippets of conversation relating to the material we were reading, shyly asked us what we were doing. We are critiquing eachother’s manuscripts, we replied. Really, she asked, her eyes wide in amazement. You’re authors?! Two of us, in our usual self-deprecating way, hastened to say well, no, we are writers. The third one of us clarified: we are not yet published. Our server scrumpled up her eyebrows, held out her hands to the sides, palms up, and said: Huh? I don’t see the difference. I mean, you’re still bad-ass!)

Anyway. My process for the first book was a haphazard mish-mash of cobbled-together fumblings, in which I guiltily allowed myself to indulge in spurts, amid freelance work and baby and co-founding a non-profit organization. I was blundering in the dark, unaware, at first, that I was even researching a book at all. Now that I am fully invested in the research for the second one, I see that there are several stages, and they are akin to the stages of learning to swim. Like so:

Contemplating the allure of the water from the safety of land: Little bits of a story idea, of a different world, have landed on you, like droplets of water, on a summer day, leaving you wanting more. The water shimmers, entices. It is hot out, prickly hot, and the surface calls to you. The clouds are reflected in it, undulating slightly; it doesn’t look that deep. How refreshing it would be to take a dip, have a change in setting, explore this other world. You’ve heard there is a whole universe under there. Coral and colorful fish and strange anemones with scarlet tentacles. A pelican dives in, head first, and emerges with a fish. Other people make it look so easy, gliding through, cutting the surface with their arms. And fun! Splashing around, laughing. Standing on their heads, their feet waving, then toppling. Some of them wear snorkel masks, and you wonder what they see. You want to see it, too.

Pelican on Soliman Bay, Mexico

 

Near drowning: You jump in. Take the plunge. You launch yourself into, say, nineteenth century India. Immediately, you are overwhelmed. There is such a vast immensity of information available. Gasping, coughing, you gulp some of it down. You reach out and try to grab at anything you can hold onto. You read everything, or try to. You jot down a lot of facts, many of which you know you’ll never use, but you don’t yet know which ones those are, and you suspect the ones you don’t bother to record are the ones that will be critical to your story. History, politics, journals and diaries, newspaper articles, novels, academic papers, books on daily life, architecture, food and customs, sweeping summaries and minute details alike. They all swirl around you. You enter search terms willy-nilly into Google and Google Books, Amazon, Wikipedia, local library catalogs. You feel hopeless, yet determined. You keep flailing, hoping not to swallow too much water. It stings your nose and your eyes.

Treading water: After a while, you get the hang of keeping your head above water. You maintain the shoreline in sight, remember what this is all about. You manage to control your arm and leg movements. Vague story elements start to form. Not just India, but the city of Lucknow. The courtesan and merchant quarters. Not just the nineteenth century, but the years just before and just after the Great Rebellion. You manage to look down into the water and catch sight of identifiable shapes: a clump of rock, a tuft of sea grass. Some of your characters start to come into focus, and this helps dictate the specific settings for your story. You don’t yet see the details, but you begin to imagine them. You go from “he’s an artist” to “he’s a musician” to “he’s a sarangi player.” You are able to eliminate some of the sources for being irrelevant, and to replace them with others which you now know will be highly relevant. You organize the resources and the research—perhaps you use Scrivener—and you make lists. Many lists.

Doggie paddle: Now you are actually making forward progress. The plot starts to form. Getting from Point A to Point B. This is the exciting part, where you realize you are not only staying afloat, but you are swimming! It may be a basic form of locomotion, low on the totem pole of swim strokes, with a silly name, but it is a bona fide style. And now the development of the story feeds the research, and vice versa. You have direction. Instead of researching all festivals and religious celebrations of the time and place, you zero in on the specific one that will feature in your story, the one during which the betrayal, or the discovery, or the moment of forgiveness will happen. Instead of researching all forms of architecture and buildings, you picture and describe the specific ones your characters inhabit. You study maps, learn the layout of the setting. Now you know that it would take a good thirty minutes to walk from your main character’s home to La Martinière, the boys’ school across the river. Now you know that the shore is not that far away, and that you can keep up this doggy paddle thing for quite a while.

Front crawl: You hit your stride. You control when you come up for air. You cut through the water with purpose. You outline your scenes, and start writing some. Now you get into serious specifics. Someone is growing flowers on the roof. You look up exactly the types of flowers likely to be growing there, and the birds that will peck at the seeds. You imagine a specific meal, the food on the dishes, how it smells. You picture what your characters are wearing, feel the fabric, choose the colors. You go from “some European shopkeepers in Lucknow took orders for frivolous objects for their customers” to “Monsieur Carnonge insisted that a cucumber slicer be acquired for him from the latest shipment of European goods that had arrived that morning from Cawnpore by hackery.”

Scuba diving: This is it. You have your tank of air strapped onto your back, and you immerse yourself in this new world. You are no longer overwhelmed by its vast immensity, by the multitudes of lives teeming below you. You know how to navigate it. Now you can take your time, float a while, seek out nuggets of fact or possibility that others unfamiliar with the terrain would miss. There, in that clump of rocks, there is a crevice that you now know is likely to hide an octopus. (What? An octopus in Lucknow?!) You dive down and hover, peering in, slowing your fins, controlling your bubbles, watching, and you are rewarded by a pulpy display of tentative tentacles. Hello, you say in your head, and you smile—insofar as you can do so with your lips stretched around the regulator—delighted with your discovery. Momentary euphoria.

Until you have your first draft critiqued. But that’s a whole other story.

Yours truly diving off Harbour Island, Bahamas, many moons ago.

 

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People ask how I do it—children, freelance work, dance, volunteering, home and meals, writing, but the fact of the matter is, the secret is, very often I just don’t. And when I don’t, it’s the writing that is the first to go. (Well, except for when Next Doors is providing the meal, in which case I can happily let go of the cooking knowing a fantastic dinner is on its way.) Anyone in my situation—and I know that means a lot of people– will understand this. I know I am not alone, and usually I manage to cope, but there are times when I start to despair that I’ll ever get two sentences down for my next book. Because the problem that I have now recognized is that I can never manage to enter and then inhabit the world of my book, across the world and nearly two centuries ago, long enough to get the muse going. How do other writers in this predicament do it, I wonder? And why have I set myself up to place my next story in a setting that requires me to transport myself into another world? (Well, that’s a whole other story, one that David Rocklin touches on in this post on Beyond the Margins.)

Take the other day, for example. It was not even a particularly, remarkably complicated day. Just an average one. But even with one child attending school and one with a sitter for a the morning, I was not able to extract myself from the household scene until 9:30 am, almost three full hours after getting up. There were lunches to make and pack, a full breakfast to cook so we could have a solid meal and some family time to get the day going, negotiations about attire appropriate for the weather and school activities, the spare crib to set up for the Next Doors child who spends Wednesdays with the sitter as well, dinner logistics to arrange, and so on.

When I finally managed to retreat upstairs with my twice reheated tea, leaving two babbling toddlers with the sitter, I found a slew of emails pertaining to my dance group’s performance, including logistics relative to costumes, the cues for the lighting and sound techs, the order of the dance items and more. I skimmed them, responded to as many as possible, and turned off my email program so as not to be distracted by the notifications of new mail. I averted my eyes from the pile of envelopes and papers in my inbox marked “To Deal With Now” which was leaning precariously because of something lumpy buried somewhere underneath, the identity of which I have not tried to elucidate for fear of causing an avalanche of papers that might reveal long overdue bills.

I put my teacup down and wondered if I should, instead of drinking it, go upstairs to practice my dance piece, then decided not to because a serious practice would then entail a shower, and the whole process would seriously cut down on my already dwindling and precious work time. Instead I turned on the music to the piece and went through it a few times in my head. Better than nothing, I told myself, although I still felt guilty. Guilt is a large part of trying to do so many things: one is never fully satisfied with the level at which one is managing to do any given one of them.

Finally, after running the gauntlet of aforementioned toddlers in my living room, I escaped to a coffee shop, settled in, was distracted for a while by the conversation at the adjacent table which I started mining for ideas for another story. By the time I opened the book I’d been toting around for days, a book that looked like it would yield some good research, it was 11 am.

I was right—the book I launched into, singer Sheila Dhar’s Here is Somebody I’d Like You to Meet, was, despite its unwieldy title and dreary cover, engaging, funny, smartly written and full of colorful anecdotes which drew me into the world of Indian classical musicians in the early to mid 1900s, their eccentricities, their art. (See her obituary here. I wish I could have met her in person.) I felt myself slip into that world, and ideas for my own characters started forming. I jotted down some notes, noticed that I was doing so, smiled to myself, then glanced at my watch. And the whole mood was instantly lost. I realized I had only one hour until school pick-up, and that before then I needed to check into my work email for edits to a cover letter for an overdue federal grant proposal. Ugh. I started despairing as to when I’d have another chance to enter that world and recapture the source of story and character ideas. (It’s now over a week later, and that chance has not yet come.)

This is the true challenge of the writer: to be able to create (or re-create) and inhabit a whole different world, to have lengthy and complex experiences in it, to see it in all its detail, and to fit all this into just an hour or two of actual existence. That space is like a dream, one that one can conjure up at will, in which a whole day’s events are compressed into a few minutes of sleep time, or like the cloud at the top of Enid Blyton’s Magic Faraway Tree which holds within it an entire universe in which Fanny, Jo and Bessie can have fantastic adventures with Moon Face and Saucepan Man, but be home in time for supper.

I want one of those clouds, one of those dreams. I want a place I can jump into for an hour, and experience ten hours of ideas and adventures. Someone mentioned to me recently that I should apply for a MacDowell Colony fellowship, and so I looked it up, and watched this video, and realized this is it. What a magical-sounding place, where for two weeks (more would be impossible considering children and such) I could be given a studio in the woods, quiet time, lunch delivered in a picnic basket by a kind soul on a bicycle, and the evening company of dozens of other artists with whom conversation would spark ideas and creativity and energy. I could get a year of work done in fourteen days. Of course, there’s the minor issue of being selected from amongst the thousands of applicants each year. But I think I’ll try. If not that one, which is so highly selective, than others, as long as they are open to all sorts of artists, not just writers. In a year or so, when a draft is hopefully well underway and Little One is bigger, I think I’ll try to enter that cloud for just a wee bit of time, and see what happens.

And now Little One is about to wake from her nap, Big One has been chatting at me for a while, and it’s my turn to make dinner. At least the grant proposal is in.

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I questioned for a while whether to write about this on my blog. Would editors to whom I am, via my agent, submitting my manuscript be put off by my discussion of literary fiction and technology? By pondering aloud whether to pursue an e-book route or not would I be pushing potential publishers away?  But I think not. It is just a discussion. I have made no decisions. There are far too many factors and unknowns, and more than anything right now the question of how to get my story out into the world, given all the possible channels and structures, is more confusing than anything else.

Nathan Bransford, blogger and former literary agent, put up a thought provoking post a few days ago titled “Why are so many literary writers technophobic?” He cites a number of literary writers’ comments—ranging from musings to rants—regarding ebooks, social media and the Internet. Ray Bradbury, Jonathan Franzen, Zadie Smith are among those he mentions. His post elicited 69 (to date) responses, some of which are quite insightful and raise the notions of fear of change, academia, generational differences, mass culture, use of time, distraction, complacency and all kinds of other elements that may be contributing to the divide that seems to exist between writers of “literary” fiction and the adoption of new technologies.

I would love to see my book in print, a physical object, with a beautiful glossy cover and satisfyingly papery pages. Something I can bring to dance and writing events, pull out of my bag and leave in high traffic areas, sign and hand over to a friend or colleague or stranger. Something that a person can read on a subway and flip over to show the title to the person next to her who asked what she is reading. But I know this is not the only way to share my story, and I care immensely about getting it out to as many readers as possible. Thus I’ve been trying to educate myself on the various options that exist, the various publishing mechanisms that might be appropriate for distributing the story.

As a part of this effort, I attended a multi-hour session on ebooks, offered by Grub Street, the fantastic Boston-based center for creative writing. And while I entered the room with the notion that I could easily embrace the ebook thing, I left wondering if that is indeed the case. Two things happened to me during those hours: 1) I learned the nitty gritty of turning a manuscript into an ePub file, including the disheartening fact that one has to strip the manuscript of virtually all formatting, including any paragraph breaks not related to chapter breaks, any tabs or intendations, any centering of quotes or poems or other material not presented in simple paragraphs of prose. Talk about reducing the aesthetics of a book! Does this make me old-fashioned? I truly wonder.

The second thing was that I ran into a straight-talking, honest and successful agent who has been kind enough to read some of my chapters in the past, and when she found out which workshop I was attending, she said, verbatim: “Don’t do an ebook except as a last resort. Your book is too good. Your manuscript has only been on submission for 5 months? That’s nothing. Give it at least two years.” Wow. There is so much to parse out of that statement. I don’t even know where to begin.

One: an ebook as a last resort. This at a time when the blogosphere is rife with examples of writers, some of them already successfully published traditionally, who are choosing to go straight to ebooks for their next work. What to make of this?

Two: “Your book is too good.” Well, that is very flattering, for sure, but what does it mean? And what about trying to find a way to have an ebook AND a print book simultaneously? Surely that shouldn’t be a “last resort?” What was the agent really saying? Was she echoeing the phenomenon that Nathan Bransford was highlighting, of “literary” fiction—and presumably readers of such—not being aligned with technology?

Three: “Give it at least two years.” Well, this I can undersatnd. I’m willing to wait until I find what I feel is the right method to release my book. It took me eight years to complete, why should I rush now? And that gives me time to work on the next one, so there can be less of a gap between the publication of the two. (Yes, I’m ever the optimist.) This is the one part of the statement that resonates with me.

These are truly interesting times, my friends, in which to try to publish. And on an ending note: my mentor and one-time professor and employer, Paul Levy, most recently the CEO of Beth Israel Deaconess Medical Center, put out his own book via CreateSpace just a few days ago. It’s a print book, not an ebook, but he has self-published it. In his words: “Entitled Goal Play! Leadership lessons from the Soccer Field, the book presents insights from sports, health care, business and government to help leaders get better outcomes.” Paul Levy is an unequaled leader with an illustrious career, including positions such as Director of the Arkansas Department of Energy, Executive Director of the Massachusetts Water Resources Authority and Executive Dean for Administration at the Harvard Medical School. One would think that he would easily get a deal from a traditional publishing house. He certainly has the proverbial “platform,” including a widely-read blog. (http://runningahospital.blogspot.com/) And yet, when asked why he didn’t choose that route, he says: “Publishers offer me nothing. They expect me to do all the publicity.  I have my own outreach arms.”

If this is true for non-fiction, why such a perceived difference for literary fiction?

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