PRACTICE, NOT PERFECT

I know what you’re going to say. 

          BAD Blogger.  Bad, BAD Blogger!

          You are justified.  Life’s been nuts but that's nothing new. 

          With RWA Nationals a mere six weeks away, I’m getting uber excited and splurging on new luggage.  A cute mid-sized, state-of-the-art thing that rolls like a Lamborghini and has a trillion interior pockets.  (Yessss!)

          A reward for work done during the radio silence, I’m proud to report that in the last month I've:

·        Revised my current manuscript

·        Fact-checked the MS details

·        Worked out a pitch

·        Framed out brand concepts

·        Updated my website

·        Considered new author photos… then went with the old author photos

·        Read books on craft

·        Drafted the new WIP

·        Started on the finished MS synopsis.

          Okay, more like air-stabbed the synopsis screen with a pen while going, “Rheet! Rheet! RHEET!”, but I consider that progress. 

          From what I’ve heard, many authors find the synopsis to be a challenge, and I must be a weirdo because I like the revisions phase better. 

          It’s the point where I get to fill in the gaps and flesh out the characters.  Granted, you can write in the wrong direction sometimes and get stuck, but at least you have material to savage and work with the broken scenes.

          With all this going on, in addition to my work and home responsibilities, time got away from me.  More than flew, it wind-tunneled, which got me thinking.

          Time is something you make, not the other way around.

          When there’s so much to do, all of it requiring undivided attention, the clock slips away... 

           I felt like I needed  more focus, and browsing my favorite book store I picked up a book on how to become more mentally disciplined.  My Look-a-squirrel! attention span pleased to find a self-help guide that was only ninety-eight pages long.  

          Based on the new age premise of “staying present”, the book centered on the art of practice, of rehearsal.  It talked about how all the activities that you’re skilled at are gained through time and applied effort.

          You think of a child learning how to fold towels for the first time.  A middle-schooler sitting at a piano, testing out the keys to the steady beat of a metronome.

          When learning you’re allowed to experiment, to mess up. 

          The more a writer sits down and writes, the more skilled they become. 

          They ask the question, How could I best describe this?  The everyday snapshots of life providing a writer the words, phrases and voice to tell a story.  

          A simple principle, it's easy to forget.  We get busy, distracted.

          And I sense a fear in writers sometimes.  They get caught up in the expectation that their product be literary, admired, break-out-of-the-starting-gate, they forget that it's the application that makes the work good. 

 

           If you write everyday, about anything:  The dog you saw out on a walk that morning.  The flawless rose that just bloomed in your garden.  The jerk who cut you off in line at the grocery store—the practice will make you better. 

           It made sense. 

           Once I made it past page sixty-six.   *sheepish grin*

           And I've pinned the lesson up in my mind while I walk through the maelstrom of publishing prep.  

           I want to entertain and engage readers. I want to be recognized and admired by my peers. I want the boons that come from all the hard work.

          But first I must dream and tinker and write.  

          Because quality stems from practice.

          - SNG  :0)

   

             

          

THE NORMAN ROCKWELL

Note:  See the post prior for back story.  ;0)

A few years after I’d visited the MET, I’d heard that the National Museum of Art in Washington D.C. had Norman Rockwell’s THE FOUR FREEDOMS on display.  On loan from another institution, I made the trip downtown only to discover that I’d missed the exhibit by one day.

“The paintings aren’t here anymore?” I asked, crestfallen.

“No, they’ve been sent back to the Rockwell Museum in Massachusetts.”

At the time I hadn’t traveled much, and after my fateful encounter with the Monet I wondered if I should even be allowed around priceless pieces of art again.  But my curiosity got the better of me, and I added “See a Rockwell up close” to my resolutions page the following year. 

Early in January 2005 I found myself on the internet researching my vacation to Stockbridge, MA. While planning the trip and reserving a small room at a privately owned inn, I baulked at the fact that I’d never visited New England before.  It wasn’t like the thirteen colonies were that far away, all of them slightly north of MD, and I’d never ventured out to see them before. 

The fact struck me as sad.  I know a writer’s work is solitary, but seriously.  I needed to get out more.

And Stockbridge was a lovely place; a small town with brick colonial houses that anchored the rolling expanses of grass. Clotheslines dripping with freshly laundered cotton, it was so picturesque.  I can still taste the fresh bread from the main street bakery. 

          And I got to see a real Norman Rockwell.  God, I loved that trip. 

I walked through the Norman Rockwell Museum in awe of his style, the perfect lines of paint so different.  Monet painted his landscapes in the moment before the light of day faded.  Rockwell used precise, thin strokes.  His paintings looked like antique photos, snapshots of the past.  I was awed by the flawlessness of his work, its perfection.

          Walking slowly, I spent hours that day just analyzing his craft.  Thinking that an artist, whether they’re a painter or a writer or a hat maker, all develop a style based first on how they were taught, and then by what experimentation and experience has taught them.

          I perused the paintings losing myself in the art.  And I felt proud.

I’d checked off my resolution – I’d seen a Rockwell up close.  I’d seen almost all of them! 

I witnessed how amusing GOSSIP is in person, how GIRL AT A MIRROR reminds me of every little girl who dreams of being a mature woman someday.  How TRAFFIC CONDITIONS pokes fun at the little unexpected incidents in life. 

I spent forty-five minutes looking at the sunny yellow of the new bride’s dress in THE MARRIAGE LICENSE.  The reserved expression of approval on the old registrar’s face stealing my heart.  I think that one will always be my favorite. 

Each of the paintings hung on brightly lit wall space inside of wide rooms, the lines on the hardwood floors marking where you were to stand. 

Thinking back to the Monet, I left my camera in its bag. 

And while I remained mindful the entire time, something about THE TRUMPTEER did me in. I couldn’t help but see it closer, leaning in my eyes focused on the amazing merging of color on the fridge of the chair.  All crimson and carmine and cardinal…

A minute passed before I acknowledged the footsteps coming towards me.  Entranced, I didn’t back away as the lady from security inclined next to me, ear-to-ear, mirroring my stance.

          Holding my breath, I waited for her tell me that I was standing too close, that I shouldn’t be breathing near an American work of art.  That I was infringing on the rules.

When she spoke her voice was gentle, soft R’s saying, “Notice his use of red…”

          I grinned like a little kid—she was cool.

 The guide, Mary, told me all about the painting and explained Rockwell’s painting style.  He’d start with a charcoal drawing—the framework of all his paintings—and would maneuver the paint in layers over several weeks and sometimes months.  He punctuated with red, his signature color, his thumbprint.

          After touring the room I turned to her.  “Will you show me the FREEDOMS?” I asked.

          Without hesitation she held open her arm and escorted me to the largest room in the museum.

         

          I went to bed that night with art drifting through my dreams. 

Did the greats ever mess up when they were learning? I wondered.

Did Monet ever have a moment when he thought, “No, that is just isn’t right—” and started over? 

What about Rockwell?  How much trial and error did he go through before he became so flawless on canvas?

Similar to the editing process, there is no doubt that writing is an art.  Pick up any book and get a glimpse of an author’s style. 

          What does this author “paint” with?  Subtext? Metaphor?  Narrative voice?

          What structure choices were made to tell this story in the best way?  How did they learn that?

          Much is gleaned from books but more is learned from experience.  If you’re going to be good at writing, it takes practice.  You will have those drafts that really suck and you have face the reasons why.  You learn the rules to know where they bend, and break them only if the fissure serves a strong purpose. 

Great artists have had years of trial and error—plenty of first drafts and spilled paint.  In writing it’s dropping the words down in their raw form and then molding the coarse description into a clear story.  

It’s love of the process, not the final product that’s important. 

          That is what I love about storytelling.  Writing holds a memory just as a painting does. 

Do you remember a moment from a book you read long ago?  Is it just as fresh in your mind as when you first read it?

A bridge over water lilies, a couple signing their marriage license—what is your moment? 

Will you capture it?

-         SNG

I FLASHED A MONET!

Mentioned in one of my public bios is one of my many *facepalm* moments.  I can’t deny you the full story, but know the embarrassment remains…

Several years ago I had taken my sister on a trip to NYC to celebrate her birthday.  After we arrived, she turned around and surprised me with a trip to the MET to view my all-time favorite Monet painting BRIDGE OVER A POOL OF WATERLILIES. 

Man, it was spectacular in person.  A Japanese bridge in a spring with a water lilies stretched out underneath. The pastel colors and dabbed brushstrokes were mesmerizing, the style of Monet’s hand speaking over the span of time and distance.

I was desperate for a picture.

In the name of packing light, and unbeknownst to me that we were going to be visiting my favorite work of art, I’d brought my bum-around camera, the point-and-shoot having one button to control all its functions, which included disabling the flash. 

(If you see where this is going start cringing now.)

A little ART 101: paintings that are over a century old are crafted using far more organic materials than what’s available today, so exposing a classic oil painting to bright light has an eroding affect.  One synthetic burst of light can take days off the lifespan of the art.

I knew this.  And yet I had to find some way to control the camera.

I stood there struggling with the single-button.  Checking and re-checking that the little lightning bolt icon had a circled slash over it, meaning that the stupid flash was turned off.  One minute I’d see that it had the slash, the next the lightning bolt was back. 

This went on for five minutes.  Driving. Me. Crazy. 

Going through the de-flash steps again the circle-slash finally stayed, assuring me that I’d nixed the response.  I’d put the thing through so much scrutiny by then, the only remaining test was to actually take the picture. 

I pointed the camera at the masterpiece a depressed the shutter…

And the damn thing lit up the whole room.  

Tears welled as people around the room stopped to stare at me.  As the guard stationed at the door started my direction, I handed over the camera as if surrendering a discharged gun.

My freak-out lasted as I kept mumbling, “I flashed a Monet – Ohmygod!”

Opening his mouth the guard closed it again as he waited for my panic attack to subside.  After several minutes of my chatter he finally said my sister, “When she’s done hyperventilating, tell her not to do it again.”

And so here it is – the priceless piece of art I slighted. 

To this day I can’t think of it without chest pains. 

Please don’t judge me.

THE SPACE BETWEEN

          I swear that there’s a psychic link between writers sometimes, this mental wavelength to which we all sync.  It’s especially helpful when authors share their problems and solutions. 

After a week of drafting I kept tripping over areas in my manuscript where the particulars were taking up too much space on the page.  Later that week I smiled when a fellow author in my writing group said that she had also been struggling with “too much detail.”

          I think everyone is familiar with this pitfall - "So-and-so walked over and flipped on the light." 

          Do we have to write that part?  Can I describe it without so much detail? 

         Those are the points when over-description creeps in and you-the-writer try to avoid bogging the story down.  The challenge is when and where to describe. 

In good writing there are natural gaps.  Spots where you-the-reader are not specifically told that something happened, but from the flow and diction you know it did without the author having to spell it out.

          Rolling the concept around in my head, I went to my personal Facebook page to find an example:

In an attempt to wean off Sbux I switched to their hot cocoa which is sans coffee. In a moment of experimentation the other day I asked for an additional shot of expresso.

Omgoodness. New favorite.

#defeatsthepurpose but #YUM

             
          Here you see that I had a hot chocolate, but nowhere did I say that I drank it.  The action is inferred based on the fact that I enjoyed it.  

          That’s the kind of good gap you want in your story.  A seamless transition where the reader knows it occurred without a whole lot of over-explanation.

          The gap between action and reaction is not really noticed because its exclusion keeps the story concise.

          On the flip side, too brief a description can come across as abrupt and clipped, leaving out viable information.  The mood of the scene plays into it as well.  If the scene is the action-packed culmination of the book, things are happening fast; there any added explanation may slow everything down.

It's tough striking the right balance, but with a little practice it will fall into place. 

Some unspoken actions are right where they need to be, in the space between. 

-         SNG   

TECHNOLOGY and the TIMES

          After I “unplugged” last week, my return to the digital world took a few dips.

          As a both a consumer and a writer I think all people tend to hold on to the technological advances and systems that we like. And like any consumer accustomed to their tried-and-true, I’m a little hesitant to jump into a new technology unless I know its pros and cons, although there’s a lot of cool advances out there.

 A quick story to illustrate this is back when I was attending college part-time at night.  For eight years straight I packed lunches, budgeted my amenities, and dedicated all my free time to homework.  Things like online video games and high-speed internet were coming into their own at this time, but as I didn’t have the inclination or budget to invest in them, I went upon my merry way without all the fancy stuff.  The funny experience came after I graduated and attempted to reenter the world following my time school-driven seclusion.  

          Feel free to laugh as I confess that at the time I owned a tube television, a gift from my fifteenth birthday, the square monster living forever in TV years before it exhibited signs of impending demise; blipping and flashing towards the end. 

          Making my once-every-five-year trip into the go-to warehouse for home appliances, the store’s branded colors of yellow and blue blinded me, all the shelves displaying flat screens with Price is Right shaped stickers reading five hundred bucks or more. I felt intimidated, like Alice in Technologyland.  

          Looking around for a white rabbit—uh, a blue shirt—a nice sales rep exuded a saint’s worth of patience as I directly asked if they had any tube TVs left.  At first I wondered why the guy was leading me over to the kids section.  The mystery was quickly solved though as I blinked at a tiny tube with a plastic Jack Sparrow lounging on top, then over to its bubblegum pink neighbor, another small box sporting mouse ears and a big, polka-dot hair bow. 

          Okay, newsflash.  Tube TVs are obsolete.  It’s all Hi-Def and wide-screen and the size of a school bus now.

          I walked away with information about some of the new models, sticking with my rule of never making a big purchase without sleeping on it first.  I kept my die-hard relic of a tube until December at which time I received a moderate, perfect-for-me flat screen for Christmas.  It’s HD and compact, and with all luck will last me another fifteen years. By then I’ll have married a prince of a man who comes with his own kick-butt home entertainment system.  ;0)

          And if not, TVs aren’t my end-all.  I utilize them for basic cable and watching DVDs.  Because I'm a writer, my must-haves are the latest computer operating system and a hi-tech cell phone. Both of which I upgraded last week. 

I have a dictionary that docks to the document I'm writing.  Visual voicemail.  Consolidated contact history.  MS editing on the fly.  *Fistpump* Yeeesss!

I’ve been living the life… Until I decided to unplug.  Then I noticed that I have wires to pull.  A LOT of wires.  Attached to my keyboard, to my speakers, my video camera, my monitor... Too many.

In my techno-naïveté, the bare-bones, basic monitor that came with my computer failed to include integrated speakers, which I would have looked for if I’d known.  A combined camera seemed like a superfluous feature at first, a way for teenagers to video-conference friends sitting next to them.  If I want to see and talk to someone I’ll call, text, or get in the car and visit.  So until I had a legitimate reason, like to talk to my CP an ocean away in another country, the service didn't appeal to me. 

        It boils down to quality and function in my mind.  The technology needs to benefit people in personal ways and it needs to be consistent. 

        That minimalist future with flying vehicles and wireless everything?   We’re there. 

And it's hard to choose between what bells and whistles will last and what is unnecessary.

So the need for an all-in-one monitor prompted my bi-decade jaunt back into the warehouse.  The motif had changed, no yellow, more gray, making the place feel cavernous.  The reps were just as friendly although my problem was again, hard to fix.  There are wireless keyboards, solar ones even, to which I may invest.  But wireless speakers are as rare as tube televisions now, and with the need of a camera and certain screen resolution requirements, I may need to succumb to the current tech standard if I want to lose the wires.

Or I can keep it as it is, no harm in that either.

You know how technology is, you wait six months and the new takes over. 

So what is your favorite technology?  Any systems that you wish had stayed?

Let’s blog about it. 

- SNG  :0)

OFF THE GRID

You ever have those weeks where life gets MAD-crazy followed by relative peace?

Last week was a pendulum swing.

With the launch of the new year, my 2013 started off with learning the ropes of several volunteer positions to which I'd been elected.  The first week was understandably a lot to take in, learning the systems and job requirements, and for a brief moment I wondered if I'd taken on more than I could handle.  But once I agree to something I'm committed, plus things were sure to settle down once I got the hang of them.  

A new year full of new beginnings and jobs also had me thinking it the perfect time to upgrade my cell phone.  I'd just reached the end of my previous contract and a slew of new phones had just hit the sales market. The planets were aligned with fate, destiny, a call from above!

Pan to the middle of crazy-week:  My inbox full of correspondence that I couldn't access because the phone I'd purchased, the device that held such promise according to reviews I'd read online, turned out to be a dud; the screen locking up horribly when performing basic functions.  

The self-made communications mess forced me to lean heavily on my PC, the time I'd reserved for working on volunteer board-member stuff quickly rerouted to land-line phone calls and help desk chats to troubleshoot why a brand new cell phone had to freeze up ten times in an hour.  

Precious could-be-used-for-work hours passed in a blur as the OS company offered the online FAQs forum saying, "consult the maker."   The maker said, "Talk to the software company."   The software company said, "We only handle music downloads, try your cell phone provider."  The buck-passing coming full circle. 

The trip 'round the world in thirty helpless desks left me wanting to whack my new phone with a rubber mallet, the return in purchased condition clause be damned.  

Then I stopped and took a deep breath. 

Why did I do this now, of all times?  I thought. 
So much back-and-forth, what a waste of energy. There had to be a better way.  

A solution pinged through my overheated brain, the message clear:  UNPLUG 

I mean, what were the disadvantages of stepping back?  The world would keep spinning, tweeting, e-mailing and Facebooking without me.  The massive scroll through I'd do to catch up when I got back wouldn't be that bad. 

The hiatus might even be...refreshing.

So I did. I purposely stayed away from all internet and maintained a healthy distance from my crappy cell phone for twenty-four hours. 

I didn't go to bed angry.  I went to bed grouchy and without mallet—uh, malice.

The next day I stuck to my vow of slowing down, no pushing.  

In life you bend or you break. The times you feel rigid is when you're most liable to snap, but the answer is simple—don't.  

I've had moments like that with my writing all the time.  Times when I felt like a coil wound too tight. To get my head out of it, I'd roll my shoulders back and think of fluid, pliant things.  Flexible, yielding and bendable.  Emotional bamboo.  

After the disconnect I visited my computer once, solely to research whether anyone else had reported problems with my model of phone handset.  Within thirty minutes I discovered that there were bugs in the first batch in question and the maker had issued a software update to fix the freezing issue.

Returning to the store I opted to replace the handset, just to be on the safe side, then shared the software update directions with the service rep, so that it could help others with the same problem.  Forty-five minutes later I left with a working phone that thankfully has yet to display any of its predecessor's dysfunction.

The week of chaos was followed by crickets as I adjusted to the new pace of my assignments, and delving back into the digital world, I didn't miss too much with the absence.  Nothing that couldn't be handled upon my return, and the break taught me something valuable.

When the world gets too busy there's no harm in taking yourself off the grid. 

Simply ease up and let go. 

-SNG 

HOT AND COLD, STOP AND GO

          According to the calendar, the days will now start growing longer but I can’t help but shake my fist at winter.  It's COLD.  And dark.  

          Did I mention cold?

          While I don’t believe there are any bad seasons, summer's unbearable heat and sticky humidity at least comes with the trade off of more sunlight.  I like to take long walks whatever the weather, but the cold months make you rise with sun, reluctant to leave the comfort of a warm bed, only to leave you captive inside during the few hours the sky offers up its vitamin D.

          It’s the time of year in which you compress, pull in and purge. 
          You discard the accumulations from the previous year, sift through what doesn’t serve, and let it go so that you may start afresh in the New Year.

         

          My writing time is likewise evaluated.  It’s cut back, condensed and more rigorously scheduled.  The content of what I’m drafting is no different, but as with all art its environment has an influence.  It reminds of those points in a novel where you can see where the author is moving at a steady clip, cruising along.  The tone and pace and feeling all flowing, then you start the next paragraph.  It seems drier, a little stiff.  Not as dynamic as two sentences ago.

          I suspect that is the break—the pause when the author had to stop and come back later to pick up where they left off.

          Like times of the year, writing involves spans of high productivity as well as periods where the writer must stoke the fire to keep it going, we must take extra pains to “warm up” in order to get it all done.

         

          Yesterday I bundled up, utilizing my limited day time, and headed out to do my normal walking circuit near my home. 

          Beautiful in all her seasons, nature presented the scents that come with hibernation, displayed shades of brown thick with muted reserve.  The air crisp, I felt it bite at my thighs through my jeans, pushing against me as I moved, proving how hard it is to achieve a level output in winter. I paused here and there to re-tie a sneaker worked loose by my layers of clothing, adjust a glove, shield my reddened cheeks with my scarf.  Everything took more energy, more effort. 

          Arriving home, the heated foyer that greeted me felt like a sauna, my skin tingling everywhere.  Unwrapping took extra time, a production leading to extra laundry at the end of the week, extra money for a gym to cover days when I can't make it outside. 

          Settling down at my computer, I looked at the tail end of the last bit that I’d written.  I strive to leave off in the middle, at a point of action.  It encourages me to jump back in right away because it’s not a vague beginning or some droopy area.  It’s the center, the “keep going” spot.

Looking at it, an odd thought sprung to mind.  I wondered if a reader of my book would someday be able to pick out my stops and starts.  Would they feel the tone in the writing?  Reading the words, would they sense that this part was crafted on a cold December night?

 I won’t know until I’m done, but I am curious.

          This writing gig teaches me new things every day.  

Sticking a foot out from underneath a swath of covers each chilly morning, there are days I would love to stay in bed where it’s cozy; wish that routine tasks didn't require twice as much power to get done. 

But I will say this, the tingle that comes with doing the work is worth it.  At times it will feel like you’re moving at a snail's pace or stuck at a standstill, but don’t become discouraged.   Generate heat, keep moving and stop only when you need to.

Even when the day feels over, put in the time.
          Face the cold with hot, and the stop with go.