As I write this, it is the last morning of summer. My yearling kittens are crouched in the garden, watching a squirrel on the fence make his way through the face of a sunflower, methodically plucking out striped seeds with his tiny hands, cracking their shells, devouring the [...]]]> Posted at Writer Unboxed this morning

As I write this, it is the last morning of summer. My yearling kittens are crouched in the garden, watching a squirrel on the fence make his way through the face of a sunflower, methodically plucking out striped seeds with his tiny hands, cracking their shells, devouring the kernels. There are piles of hulls, here and there, through the garden, where I have tied the flower heads to the fence or a branch or a gate. Light angles at a long angle, illuminating the withering squash, the tired corn. As I drink my tea, I’m a little melancholy, knowing that this season is turning. It is such a particular summer.

They all are.

One of the things that has come up in formatting my old books for publication in e-format is the recognition that they are fruits of the years in which they were born. This might seem a simple, clean observation—well, of course they are, you might say. In 1993, the peaches were good and there was a lot of rain, and there were certain political events that influenced my views and ideas. Music always shapes and influences my work, so the popular tunes of the time will add spice and flavor.

When I began the work of going through these books, written from about 1990 through 2000 or so, I never planned to rewrite them in any meaningful way. I have so much work flowing through me currently that that spending time on finished, whole work seemed a bad use of time. It is important to me to update glaring tech issues that date the material in negative ways—changing Walkmans to Ipods, for example, and updating language to reflect the moment.

But even reading to do that much is almost impossible, I find, because they hold too much of me, of my life. It is as if the fruit of those months or years of writing has been bottled and turned to wine that now carries the most powerful notes of that period in a way that I almost cannot bear. READ MORE>>>>>>

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For three years, I wrote a column called The Care and Feeding of [...]]]> “Life can’t ever really defeat a writer who is in love with writing, for life itself is a writer’s lover until death – fascinating, cruel, lavish, warm, cold, treacherous, constant.” — Edna Ferber

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For three years, I wrote a column called The Care and Feeding of the Girls in the Basement. It was a chronicle of my day to day struggles and rewards with the writing life. Much of it was written during an enormous transition in my life.  The column was written for a group of professional, commercial fiction writers. (NINK, for those who might know it.)   To my surprise, the columns were quite popular, and I really enjoyed writing it, but after three years, I’d written plenty and gave it up.

The story might have ended there.  Except that people kept telling me that they had kept the columns to re-read. They gave them to friends who were feeling discouraged.  And because the newsletters are private to the organization, they did not have a wide circulation. Aspiring writers never saw them.

So I decided to collect them for writers–aspiring and published alike–who might find a laugh or inspiration or encouragement in them.  There are two volumes of columns, but my ebook genius and I are collecting three books of the most popular class materials for release in the fall.  (First, the contemporaries to which I’ve regained the rights–stay tuned).

Without further ado, an excerpt from Book #1

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AN EXCERPT

Beginner’s Mind:   Keeping the Faith
from The Girls in the Basement

Talk on one of my email loops has been exploring the changes and ups and downs we all experience after five or ten or thirty years in this business.  Several writers are discouraged by crushing career news and financial setbacks and the challenges of living as a writer.

The discussion led to questions of faith.  How do we keep going? How do we recover that fire?  Where did it come from in the first place?  And how did it get lost?

Writer Raphael Cushnir says the dark night of the soul comes to all of us in different ways, but the emotions we experience during that dark night are all the same. A long-time writer who is struggling with reinvention or renewal is struggling with a disturbing set of questions. Was she wrong, all this time, about her vision? Is he, after all, a fool for loving this work, just as cousin Harry and his mother and Aunt Jane have said? Should any of us try to make this our life?

While this discussion was going on, I was also talking with a friend who is beginning to sell to non-fiction markets.  He’s been in the music business a long time and wants to write for a living so he can stay home with his wife and daughter.  He’s a pretty talented guy.  He’ll probably make it, and the writing life can’t be any worse than the music life. We had lost touch years ago, long before he actually made it into the music world and I made it into the writing world, and through the delights of the Internet, we have been spending many happy hours talking about old times and new.

And writing.  He always understood creativity.  Writing now burns in him the way songs once did.

He sent an email (from Ireland. I love writing that: my friend in Ireland. Very nice of him to end up there) that poured out his desires, his path thus far, what he thinks he might be understanding, what he has yet to figure out.

His longing filled me with a bitter-sweetness, a swift wish to return to the beginning, to the magic.  I find myself feeling cautious in my replies, as if he’s just fallen in love and I’m an old married hag, reluctant to douse his fever.

“So, tell me,” he emailed. “How did it happen? How did you sell your first book?”

My flood of memories may be not unlike yours. I was twenty-nine. It was November 22 (never mind the year), just before Thanksgiving.   It was a category romance I had called The Phantoms of Autumn, about a classical guitarist and a writer who met on a train journey.  My advance was four thousand dollars, which was almost precisely double my annual income as a bowling alley cook and attendant—a job I’d taken to help make sure I stayed focused on writing work—and more than enough to get my phone turned back on.

Beyond the simple facts, of course, are a host of emotions and memories.   The late nights with my headphones on while my very young sons and husband slept in their beds.  The jumble of undone housework that meant I never, ever allowed anyone to “drop by”.  The cloistered life I led during that passionate period when I had no time for anything but the books, the boys, the family.

I remembered, too, how I’d stood in my kitchen a few weeks before that magic phone call, weeping bitterly over a rejection that dashed a very real hope I’d had of making a sale to a literary magazine where the editor liked me.  I didn’t know how much longer I could stand to see yet another SASE with my handwriting on the outside, knowing it meant a rejection.  My fire, my belief in myself, was dwindling, and I didn’t know how I could keep going on like that, believing when no one else did.  When I look back, I’m not sure how I discovered the chutzpah to believe so absolutely that I would sell a book eventually.   But I did believe, with a depth of faith that—

Well, more of that in a minute.

The facts of that first sale don’t reveal how many pages I wrote trying to get there.  Thousands.  Many thousands, probably.  As you did, I’m sure. I wrote poems and short stories and aborted novels, and finished novels that were not particularly good, and journals and papers and articles that were published, first in the college newspaper (where I also had my first column), then in the local newspaper.   The facts don’t reveal how many pages I read, hundreds of thousands, maybe even millions, considering how fast and voraciously I put books away in my teens.

Telling Tom about that first sale, I found myself nostalgic for the time when I was yet dreaming.  The time of magic in the pages of every writer magazine, every tale of every writer’s first sale, every breath of lemon-scented hope that came on rejections scribbled by editors. When I spent endless hours reading, dreaming, plotting out books, scribbling new ideas. There was nothing I didn’t want to know, no stone I could leave unturned.  I thought of nothing much but writing for a living.

I’m sure you were much the same.

When I wanted to try to sell romances, I read them with a serious eye, taking them apart, highlighting the passages that illustrated the techniques the writers had used to increase curiosity or sexual tension, describe something, or create a mood.   I kept my favorites at hand when I needed to know how to do almost anything, so I could refer to the masters’ techniques.  I still remember the books I studied so intently: Rebecca Flanders had an entire section in my notebook, as did Sandra Brown.

I remembered, too, walking my five-year-old son to school in the mornings that fall.  I would say to him, with a sort of Julie Andrews, Sound of Music lilt to my voice, “One of these days, there will be a note in that mail box that says, ‘Yes, Barbara Samuel, we would like to buy your book.’”  He, small and blond and beautiful, would say, “I know!”

And he was the one, the day the call came in, who said, “Mommy, they said yes!”

(He is also the one who later said, “I will never be a writer. Give me a cubicle, a regular paycheck and health insurance.”)

I didn’t write all those things to my friend. I wrote just a few of them, to entertain, to inspire—he’s yearning so hard for book publication that his desire is a living being. After I wrote these things, I found myself tasting something in memory that I couldn’t quite capture.   Not quite hope.  Not quite dreams.  Something else.

And as will happen when I’m being Instructed to Pay Attention, I experienced a most unhappy writing week.  For one thing, the words themselves were being very, very stubborn.  I’d sit for a day and write a total of three or four pages.  It was agonizingly slow work in that beginning stretch where every detail is world building, and each new fact requires some thought.

I also had a business problem or two, and I felt sorry for myself for not getting  exactly what I wanted exactly when I wanted it.  I couldn’t seem to settle in and work, no matter how I chained myself to the monitor.  I grumpily wondered what the whole point of it all was.  Why bother? It would be much easier to open a restaurant or go lead adventure tours.

Oh, and let’s not forget that it was spring.  I’m an outdoor girl with a passion for gardens.  Who wants to sit inside and write books when there are flower beds to be weeded, roses to be pruned, trails to be hiked?  Not I.  Not when the grass is greening under a brilliant blue Colorado sky and the cats are coming in from the backyard with their fur mussed and scattered with seeds from rolls in the warm dirt.

Things felt stirred up in me, too. I was thinking of the discussion of long careers, and how to keep them going for even longer—the flexibility and lightness of attachment required, the terror of seeing how capricious the whole thing is.   And I was having this discussion with my friend (in Ireland, remember).

I was also teaching an on-line voice class to a small group of very talented aspiring writers who are struggling to understand their vision and song. Their hunger to publish reminded me, too, of how important to me it once was to cross that line.

Where is our faith? How do we tend it during a dark night of the soul?

We need to try to hold on to a beginner’s mind, a beginner’s passion.  When it becomes difficult to remember why we’re writing books,we should go back to the beginning. What did we dream about? What did we hope to accomplish?

In the beginning, we’re open to a dozen answers to whatever question might come up. We’re willing to fly, reinvent, start over, try again, always burning to have our words read.   As we become experts, however, we can become entangled in the desire to be read a certain way, to receive certain rewards.

I don’t discount the difficulty of this business.  It’s brutal, and only the most resilient survive.  But those people do, and it’s worth considering how it happens if you want to be one of them.

As I type this, Julie Andrews is singing in my head: “Let’s start at the very beginning…” Which makes me think I should go watch The Sound of Music again. It’s one of my favorites, hopeful, uplifting, happy.  It’s all about perseverance under difficult circumstances. Another one I like is Fame.

What are some of your favorites?

Are they favorites for the same reason? Has your faith faltered? What can you do to bolster it? What can you do to go back to a beginner’s mind? Become reborn? Believe?

Well.  Turned out that he landed [...]]]> Last week over dinner one night, Christopher Robin said, “I think you need to take me out to get bacon for breakfast on Saturday morning.”   I said, “Sure, okay. Why?”  He said, “No reason,” in that sing-songy little voice that says there is a reason.  But I’m patient.

Well.  Turned out that he landed a bonus and knew I’d been wanting a little camera to stick in my pocket because my cell phone camera is so bad.   We picked out the most adorable little Nikon CoolPix, which ends up being about twice the camera we now have for 1/4 the size and 1/4 the price we paid three years ago.  So goes technology. 

There is a LOT to learn, so I’m going to shoot something new every day until Ifigure out all the features.  This is one from yesterday.   Jack was making snow angels.   (And remember, he wants you to know he has a STARRING role in Lost Recipe.  Not that he’s vain or anything.  Just beautiful.)

Really, if you had a dog that looked like this, wouldn’t you make him the star, too?  

Anyone asking for a camera for Christmas? Buying one for someone else?

You can preorder at Amazon or Random House (not [...]]]> Oooh, the time is getting closer my friends! Elena’s book actually has a release date, December 30, and cover art for both editions. And now you can see that you will be able to buy it either as a trade or mass market paperback:

You can preorder at Amazon or Random House (not yet available through B&N). Or sign up for a one-time reminder via email here.

EDIT PS  I posted this in the comments, but it belongs here, too:  Oh, Lost Recipe definitely has a love story at the core.  It’s a very sexy book, too, on so many levels.  Many of the comments so far have been along the lines of, “whew!”

But how could it not have an erotic edge, with all the food and love and rediscovery going on? What do you want to do when you fall in love with life again? Make love to it!

Far more worthwhile were the stories I heard along the way, and the tags [...]]]> This is me, starting out this morning in Dillon, Colorado on the second leg of the Avon Breast Cancer Walk in the Rocky Mountains. As you can see, the scenery was well worth every single step, all by itself.

Far more worthwhile were the stories I heard along the way, and the tags I read on the backs of other walkers: This is for my mother. Sister. Best friend. Myself. “The beautiful brown-haired woman walking next to me.”

Miles walked: 39

Blisters: 3

Sunburn: none, since I took care of my high-altitude sunburn much earlier in the season. Excruciating sunburns I saw on pale skin unused to this sunshine: many

Pictures I erased because I thought I looked too fat for public consumption: 5

Women I met who had had double mastectomies, thereby making me ashamed of ever worrying about how I look instead of how healthy I am: 3

Favorite sign: Big or small, save ‘em all, which just made me giggle for ages

New friends I made on the walk: 5

Fundraising total: $1936, largely due to you, all of you out there in blog land and reader land. THANK YOU SO MUCH!!!

The story of the weekend:

As we approached the finish line, a young woman next to me said, “This is your first walk, right?” I said it was. She smiled and said, “don’t be surprised if you cry.”

I think I was too tired to cry right then, honestly. I wasn’t thinking about anything except the ice cream they promised was waiting at the end, and taking off my shoes and finally going home to sleep in my own bed after almost ten days on the road.

But now, as I try to sort through the images, the moments, the stories that will somehow sum up what this is all about, I find myself enormously emotional and overwhelmed. I think of the woman, with her spiked, streaked hair, who was walking in front of me at one point. We started talking. She told me about her sister, Cookie, and said today would have been her birthday, if she had not died of breast cancer seven years ago in her early 40s.

I am an athletic person and in love with walking, and this was hard work for me. So I was deeply moved by women I saw who were struggling to finish the first five miles, much less all of them. That takes courage and bravery and a lot of fortitude. There were athletes, too, stringy and strong, powering through, encouraging others to keep going, keep moving, believe. A woman of nearly 70 has now walked almost 100 walks and raised 3 MILLION dollars. Imagine how many lives her efforts have prolonged or saved.

Tonight, I am exhausted and my dog is not leaving my foot until he makes sure I’m not leaving again soon. But this was one of the most rewarding things I’ve ever done and I will be doing it again next year. I hope some of you will think about doing it yourself.

And again, thank you so much for your support. Next year, I’ll find other sources.

An anonymous workshop for published writers—for nourishment, recommitment, reinvention and support.

Start date:  June 16, 2008*

Circles of Quiet

An
anonymous workshop for published writers—for nourishment, recommitment,
reinvention and support.

Start date:  June 16,
2008*

Length: 8
weeks

Price: $200

To
reserve your place, email me.

(As always, I am happy to make
arrangements for payment, and there will be two scholarships awarded. If you would like to be considered for a
scholarship, simply email me .)

BACKGROUND

Over
and over, I have heard tales of frustration from writers who have been in the
game a long time, sometimes a very long time, who wanted to have the freedom to
talk about their problems and concerns in a safe environment.

This
will be as anonymous as it is possible for any gathering to be. I can’t make any
guarantee that no one will ever guess your identity, but as a teacher, I will
protect your privacy as carefully as a priest(ess). Only I will know who you are. You will join the class through me, but then
you will take a new email address under whatever name you like, and join the
group email list in that name. In this
way, writers can feel free to talk about the challenges of life as a working
writer without fear of repercussions.

Each
week, I’ll post topics for discussion, and perhaps exercises, and then help
facilitate discussion. It’s is meant to be a give and take—your experiences and
ideas are important to the process. The
goal is to help each writer renew and recommit to writing.

Some of the subjects for discussion
are:

Self-esteem: how do you keep your sanity in a business
like this? Burn-out, exhaustion, and
disaster—tricks to manage the pitfalls.

Clearing the decks: remembering the
original lure into the writing business. What to keep? What to cast to the seas?

Particulars: individual
challenges.

Celebration:  really, it’s a great life
in a lot of ways (as I’m sure everyone tells you as much as they tell me).
Developing a habit of gratitude and awareness.

Pressure: business pressure, family
issues, juggling outside influences.

Staying in the game: Flexibility,
reinvention, and disaster.

Manifesto and connection: honoring
yourself and your passions while also honoring the need to make money.

*I’ve settled on these dates in particular so that those
writers attending the RWA conference in July will have a bridge, before and
after, to help navigate what can be both exhilarating and crushing, depending on
what happens.

Questions? Concerns? Email me.

Flickr Creative Commons photo by Angela7Dreams

My [...]]]> In the currently underway Voice II class, one of the exercises is to come up with your favorite fairy tale.  (From Julia Cameron’s Right to Write, btw.)   We are working on themes and ideas in our work, and the favorite fairy tale is one way to think about what themes appeal to you.

My favorite fairy tale–by far–was always Rapunzel.  Maybe this has to do with my long-hair fetish (I grew up in the Long & Silky era, and there was serious competition over who could grow the longest hair.  I might not have been the very longest, but it was very, very long, and if I do say so myself, quite splendiferous.  Certainly Rapunzel-worthy.)

But the idea of favorite fairy tale is to see where the metaphor leads in terms of theme and ideas we return to in our work.  So, Rapunzel…

….is Rapunzel.  A woman’s hair gives her the means to escape the confining tower of her life.  LOL

A woman’s hair gives her the means to escape the confining tower of her life.  Hair as a shining badge of self.   Ah–that’s it.  You have the means to save yourself, and once you figure that out, you’ll get your reward.   That sums up my books, all right. Every single one of them.

What is your favorite fairy tale? Can you see a metaphor in it about your life-theme or writing-theme?

And remember, if you want to take the class and really can’t swing it financially, throw your name in the hat for a scholarship. No matter what, there are always two students drawn from that hat, and no one [...]]]> There are two places left in the Janurary 29th class.  Read more about it here.

And remember, if you want to take the class and really can’t swing it financially, throw your name in the hat for a scholarship. No matter what, there are always two students drawn from that hat, and no one will ever know who you are. 

Without vanity, I know this class does a lot of good. It might be just what you need to start the new year on the right foot.