Journey's End


Well, it's done. Or done enough. I'm calling it done. After 623 pages, 170,000+ words, four major characters, three villains, two faithful horses, a sweeping cast of minor characters both good and bad, a little magic, a little swordplay, a lot of blood, and a bit of sex, drinking, cursing, and blasphemy, my novel "Ravenmarked" is finished.

I don't know how to feel. When I said I was done before, I really wasn't. I think I wanted it to be done, but I still felt restless--unaccomplished. It didn't feel complete. The characters weren't developed enough, the plot wasn't strong enough, and the writing still needed work. I think it was half-baked.

Now... It has a golden crispy crust on it. The apples inside are sweet and tender and cinnamony. It's ready for a good dollop of ice cream on the side--some maps, a sweet cover, a few icons, a glossary--and then it would be something I could be proud of. Something I want people to savor and enjoy with a cuppa whatever they wish.

Only...

I don't.

What do I want? I want to walk down the aisle of Borders and see my name right there between C. J. Cherryh and David Eddings. I want to log onto Amazon and read that someone stayed up all night reading my book to see what happened next. I want someone to walk up to me at a book signing and say, "you know, Ryan Reynolds would be perfect to play the part of Connor Mac Niall in the movie."

But I don't.

In the end, I wrote this book for me. This is Connor Mac Niall's journey, and Mairead's, and Igraine's, and Braedan's, but it was ultimately mine. And now, with the journey done, at the end of things, I'm satisfied.

Time to get back to my life. I have a business to reinvigorate, children to raise, a house that needs some serious care and feeding, and a husband who, while supportive beyond expectation, would like to have his wife back. I have scouting and church and commercial writing and more books than I can count that beg reading. I have scrapbooks that need updating in a big way, numerous coffee dates that must be fulfilled, and a treadmill that seriously needs to see my feet more than once a month.

When Frodo returned to Bag End, he was different. He couldn't stay there. Maybe I won't be able to stay, either. But I have to go back, at least for now. And in the meantime, "Ravenmarked" will stay neatly tucked away on my hard drive, taking up space but remaining hidden from all but a few carefully chosen eyes.

And I am satisfied.

Crossroads

I'm about a month away from finishing a new draft of my novel. One month. I've given myself until September 1 to finish it. I think it will be "done" before that. And while I suspect that all writers have this nagging sense that their projects are never really DONE, my gut is telling me that within the next month I will have taken it as far as I can take it without professional help. (This time I don't mean a psychiatrist.)

Remember how you felt about a month before graduating high school? Elated, excited, ready to get out on your own and into the world, ready to do great things, pressured with last minute assignments and requirements and tests, sad about saying goodbye to good friends, happy that there were some people you'd never have to see again, terrified that you might actually be completely inept and OMG THEY ARE HANDING ME MY DIPLOMA AND I AM NOT READY FOR THIS!

It's similar to how I feel right now. I've worked on this baby since November of last year. The ideas have been churning for a few years. Everything has changed several times, but I'm actually pretty satisfied with how it's turning out. But now -- what the hell do I do with it? I feel like a kid ready to graduate who has no prospects beyond June -- just a vague sense that I *should* do something, but I have no idea what.

Am I ready for the majors? I doubt it. Am I ready to query and seek an agent? I don't think so. Should I work on craft more? Probably. Always. Should I keep tinkering with this damn thing? I don't think so.

Good heavens... You thought I had angst about the direction of the book itself. Nah, that was nothing. Now here I sit with a nearly completed novel and NO IDEA what to do with it. I've called it "done" before. I've tried to ignore it. I can't resist it.

So what do I do?

Sit on it, I suppose. Put it in a drawer. Let it take up space on my hard drive. I dunno... I can't really picture anyone reading it. That's not a statement of self-deprecation or lack of faith in my ability as a writer. It's just that I can't picture anybody reading it. I don't know why.

I've done this before -- finished book-length stories and set them aside. I have two of them sitting in manuscript boxes in my closet. They are both completely unrelated to each other and what I'm working on now. I've created characters, led them through events, given them endings, and cried when I finished because I knew I had to say goodbye. I sense that same thing happening again. While I know this novel is far better than either of the other two from years ago, I still think there's something permanent about the way this is coming to an end -- something similar to what I did before.

This is where the rubber meets the road. This is where I fish or cut bait. Paint or get off the ladder. Yada yada yada......

So what do I do? I don't know. Maybe in a month I will. Stay tuned.

At What Price Story?

There's not enough room in this house for me and my Angst. I think we're going to need an addition for the Muse, the Editor, and the Angst that accompany my writing.

I'm working on revising the end of my novel, and it's going... okay. I like the general direction the new ending is going. I've spent more time developing characters, and while the same general things happen in this new ending, it seems that it all flows more naturally from the characters now. The events are deeper and more meaningful in their lives as well, and I think they seem a little less like an ass pull on my part (Warning: language in that link. Plus you may never come back. I warned you.)

But I ran into a problem tonight -- well, not really a problem. More of... a dilemma? I don't know. In re-writing something that happens to the heroine I've introduced a bad guy who she didn't interact with before. And he did something... Not nice. At all. And I wondered... Is this just me in a bad mood? Rough day? Something I ate (crappy cardboard freezer pizza leaps to mind)?

Or is this the way the story really goes?

I've said before -- I write to find out what happens. I re-read this part and examined it for inconsistencies. Thing is, it's remarkably consistent with who this bad guy is and who the heroine is. It also sets up some things for the future of this story very well. There is a lot I could do with this one very awful thing.

At what price story? Am I sacrificing some real depth, some serious story potential, if I remove this piece? I think I may be.

At what price story? Would I only be pandering to the sensitive among us if I removed this part? Perhaps.

Sacrifice story? I don't know if I can. If the price of story is extreme discomfort for my heroine, that's real life. None of our stories are pretty. They all involve discomfort to some extreme. And we in the Christian community are big on saying that those uncomfortable things can be used by God in mighty ways. (I believe that, by the way.)

It's consistent with the bad guy's character. It's consistent with the heroine's character. For the moment, I'm leaving it in. But maybe after a good night's sleep I'll change my mind.

The Five Stages of Writer Angst

I know you've been wondering, right? Here you go:

Stage One: Euphoria. Usually occurs upon completion of a project, typically when little association with the Editor has occurred. A common occurrance at the end of NaNoWriMo when 50,000 words or more have spewed forth on the unwitting computer. Accompanied by thoughts such as "I'm pretty good at this," "Wow, that's brilliant," and "I bet everyone will LOVE this."

Stage Two: Confusion. Thoughts include "What was I thinking when I wrote that?," "Wow, this part sounds like a psychopath wrote it," and "Huh." Often characterized by a feeling of disorientation as the internal Editor tries to kick the internal Muse out of the proverbial sandbox.

Stage Three: Depression. The stage most commonly associated with writers. Accompanied by a lot of late night television, whiskey, and computer solitaire. Characterized by thoughts such as "A monkey could have written this," "Why did anyone let me near a keyboard?," and "No one is ever going to read any of this ever again. Ever." Some writers never emerge from this stage.

Stage Four: Denial. Often characterized by the writer deleting every single word associated with previous euphoria-inducing work from the hard drive of his/her computer. But not really, because he/she saves it on a Secret Directory or tucks it away on a CD/ROM just in case. Bet-hedging, insistence that the whole damn thing was just a lark and really, he/she is okay with not ever being published, more computer solitaire, and a lot of spouting of nonsensical, random cursewords characterize this stage. Again, some writers never emerge.

Stage Five: Realism. The writer wakes up and discovers that against all odds, the stinking story is still stuck in his/her head and demands to be let out. Characterized by a new fascination with self-publishing and e-books, agent and editor blogs, and publishing market analyses. Accompanied by phrases such as "I have to write the damn thing -- it's still in my head," "If I don't get this on paper I'll go nuts," "I suppose I'm going to piss off a lot of people with this," and "Maybe a few people will like it, but I guess as long as I like it, that's what counts." May come dangerously close to crossing into rationalization.

And there you have it. Writer angst in five stages. These can go quickly or slowly depending on the writer and the work in question, and at any given point the writer can be mired in more than one stage on more than one piece of work.

I wish psychiatrists would come up with a category for this disease I have. For now, I'll just call it writeritis.

Trying My Hand at Flash Fiction

I started a story a while back that rapidly turned into just a rambling heap and didn't really go anywhere. Inspired by this story I decided to see if I could edit my own story down to less than 800 words and still tell something of a story. Of course I've written less than 800 words many times for marketing copy or web copy or magazine articles, but flash fiction is new to me. And, it's fantasy, so the challenge of some amount of world building was there, too. Tricky, but a good challenge.

So, for your perusal and consideration, I give you "Jovari's Wells." Please let me know what you think!

_____________

Kamari glared at the sky and cursed the sun. Tausiq stood before a line of men waiting to see the Prophet. “Tasi,” Kamari said. “Lend me your waterskin.”

“Empty.”

Kamari wiped her brow. Scarred arms, tired eyes, disheveled headdresses – a line of duplicate women stood before her, stretching away from the temple and into the hopelessness of Jovari’s Wells. The wells had dried up centuries before, but the city smelled of theatrical determination to survive. Cisterned water was rationed; only those who had taken their place in the Tapestry could drink it. Scarce food, scarcer hope – the the lines grew longer every day, the scars got deeper, the Rapture more sought-after. To reject the Prophet was to reject the will of the AllGod; to reject the AllGod was to reject food, water, life.

To reject the AllGod meant exile to the Wastes.

The Willers lived out there – those who lived by choice. Those who refused to submit to the Prophet – who deemed death in the elements better than death by destiny.

Kamari shuddered. And hoped.

Temple doors opened and closed; brief coolness washed over Kamari. A man took his parchment to Tausiq. “The Prophet has spoken,” Tausiq said. He signed the parchment. “Go take your place in the Tapestry.”

Kamari signaled to next woman. “You seek guidance?”

The woman held out an arm. Scars ranged from faintly visible to silver and raised to barely healed. Kamari picked up her small knife with its bone hilt. “May the AllGod give you guidance through his Prophet,” she intoned. “May you join the others in the Tapestry.” She took the woman’s arm and found rare unmarred skin; blood dripped into a ceremonial bowl from the fresh cut and formed a small pool. She placed a clean cloth on the woman’s arm and gave her the bowl. “Go in peace.” The woman entered the temple.

Kamari’s head ached under the heavy headdress. “Tasi, I’m going to get water.”

He threw her his waterskin. “Fill mine, too.”

She entered the temple and closed her eyes, the marbled floors giving sweet relief from the heat. She tired of looking at the mosaics that told the stories of the AllGod and his Prophets. She just needed water.

Kamari filled both waterskins with fresh, clear water from the temple fountain. She splashed some on her face and wiped it with the fabric that trailed from her headdress before she returned to the heat. “Here. Next time you can fill them both.”

“I thought you’d want the break from the heat.”

“I’m not your serving girl.”

Chosen by the Prophet as Gatekeepers, bonded by ancient ritual when they were toddlers, Tausiq and Kamari weren’t brother and sister, but as good as. A serving woman cared for their physical needs even as the Prophet’s priests taught them spiritual matters. The Prophet himself remained secluded.

The temple door opened and the woman she had given entry emerged with a look of vapid peace. “The Rapture,” they called it. “Parchment,” Kamari prompted.

“What? Yes.” She handed Kamari the parchment. Blood trickled down her arm. “A Weaver. I’m to be a Weaver.”

Kamari looked at the woman’s hands – thick, calloused, meaty hands. “Are you certain?”

“I felt the Rapture.”

Kamari looked at the woman’s arms. “You’ve seen the Prophet before. Have you never felt the Rapture?”

“I feel it every time.” Enthusiasm tinged her voice.

“But you keep coming back to seek a new place.”

Doubt flickered. “What?”

Kamari signed the parchment. “Go. Take your place in the Tapestry.”

The woman’s look of bliss returned; she took her parchment and walked away back into the city.

Tausiq watched the exchange as he let another man into the temple. He motioned Kamari to his side. “What were you doing?”

“What?”

“Why did you question her Revelation?”

“Her arms – she’s been here before.” She lowered her voice. “Don’t you ever wonder? Or think –”

“Don’t start that, Kamari. It’s the way the AllGod made it. Just sign the papers.”

“But –”

“No. You’re talking like one of the Willers. I won’t hear it.”

The Willers. She looked out across the Wastes. Distant mountains beckoned with desolate, raw hope – something that only seeded Kamari’s breast in the darkest hour, in the private coolness of her cot in the temple bedroom she shared with Tausiq.

But my place is chosen. Kamari returned to her station.

A man opened the temple door. “Go, take your place in the Tapestry,” Tausiq intoned. The man walked away, blood trickling toward his ankle from a fresh wound.

The next face, the next scarred arm. Kamari looked up. “You seek guidance?”

Happy Endings


The wonderful Sarah Lapolla asked a question this week that got me thinking about endings... She asked if a book can be great literature if it has a happy ending. (She also broke up with vampires last week; for this, she has my eternal devotion and gratitude.)

I think it's a little too complicated to classify any ending of any story as "happy" or "sad." More important, I think, is whether the ending flowed naturally from the story and the characters. I'd rather ask, "was the ending satisfying?" To me, that's far more important.

Sarah over at Smart Bitches, Trashy Books blogged about the "happy for now" ending. I love what she says about real life - no one gets to "wallow in the warm mud of happiness without any extra effort." Life is messy, complicated, unsatisfying, and confusing most of the time. Happiness has to walk alongside all of that other stuff.

My novel has a "happy for now" ending for the protagonist, but not so much for his love interest. He chooses her, but she distrusts him because of his previous choices. The next book will focus on her and her choices more. Will she choose him amidst the chaos and fear of a coming war? Hm... Wait and see...

What do you think? What are some of your favorite satisfying endings in literature? Do you like the "happy for now" ending or the happy ending or the sad ending?

I Just Had the Weirdest Sensation....

....Like maybe I might be writing stuff that's good enough for other people to read.

Huh.

So this is confidence, eh? It's kind of.... I dunno.... Ookie.

I read an excerpt from a new book that is going to be released shortly by Tor. I won't say the author's name or the title of the book, but this is a previously published, fairly successful author. My reaction to the excerpt? "Eh, it's okay." Not "OMG I HAVE TO READ THIS BOOK THE DAY IT COMES OUT!!!!" Not, "I wouldn't read this book in a million years." Just -- well, ambivalence. The writing is fine. The plot is no dumber than my own -- which is reasonably dumb at face value. The author uses a lot of dialogue, and so do I, so that didn't turn me off. I just wasn't blown away by it.

Here's what I took from that: "If this writing is getting published -- if this is good enough to make a successful author -- then MY writing is good enough."

This is my happy thought for the day. I'm going to revisit my old cheerleading habits and follow in Jessica's footsteps now: "I love my CHARACTERS! I love my DIALOGUE! I love my whole BOOK! My whole book is GREAT! I can publish ANYTHING."

Whew. That should carry me through the weekend. Have a great one, y'all.

Why do You Keep Turning Pages?

I've been thinking a lot lately about what makes a story really compelling -- what makes a story capture a reader, draw the reader in, and leave the reader simultaneously satisfied and wanting more. And as I've considered this idea, I've thought about some of the books that have really impacted my experiences as a reader and some that I know have impacted others. Here's what I've decided: You have to give the reader enough, but not too much.

What the heck?

I think you have to give the reader enough of a start that he or she takes what you've given and runs with it, creating a visual image of the protagonists and the antagonists, imagining the scenes and the conflict, and hearing the dialogue in his/her own head. You have to give enough direction that it plays out ALMOST like a movie in the reader's mind.

Rob Parnell suggests it's about questions -- posing questions in the story so that the reader must keep going to get the questions answered. A refreshing reader's perspective on what makes her keep turning pages is offered by Laura Miller of Salon.com.

What about you? What are some of the most compelling novels you've ever read? Why were they compelling?

Who's on First? Or Third?

A recent comment from a writer friend on my Facebook page got me wondering: As a reader and/or a writer, which do you prefer -- first person or third person narration?

I confess: I don't like first person as a reader or a writer. My basic issue with first person as a reader is a trust gap -- when I read in the first person, my trust radar automatically goes on and I wonder if the person is telling me the truth. I realize this may say more about my own personal trust issues than about first person narration, but I think that there is a link. Narration from the first person POV should engender trust with the reader, and a lot of things can really wreak havoc with that trust. If the first person's voice is inconsistent or unauthentic, trust issues crop up.

As for writing in first person, I have a very simple reason for not wanting to do it: My characters whine too much. I hate whiners. I certainly don't want to create them.

Tara Harper gives a good overview of both forms. Stuart Evers of "The Guardian" discussed the problems with first person narration back in 2008. And just so you don't think I'm playing favorites, read Bill Bowler discuss the pitfalls of third person narration.

What about you? Do you prefer first person or third person narration -- in your reading or your writing? Why? What do you like/dislike about either form?

Characters are Like Onions... Or Parfaits...

I have this great friend who is like an onion. I'm pretty sure I thought of her as an onion even before Shrek told Donkey that ogres are like onions. Every time we get together, a new layer of her personality or past reveals itself through conversation. Bear in mind that this is a friend I've known for over 20 years, and still I'm discovering her backstory.

I'm discovering the importance of backstory in my writing. When I started writing this novel, I had a vague picture in my head -- a few images, one character, a little bit of a world. The first draft was shallow, thin, watery. I went back and did some character sketches, delved deeper into the world and wrote more of its history, and discovered something really interesting: The person I thought was the main character was, in fact, more of a catalyst character. While she's vital to the plot, she's actually the person who acts and is acted upon to change the main character.

I wrote more. I studied the main character. I picked my husband's brain and tried to figure out what makes a guy tick (I don't think I've got that figured out yet). As I wrote, I discovered that the hero's story was an internal struggle more than an external struggle. There are external forces influencing him, and he has a task/quest that must be completed, but the real story is about him overcoming his own prejudices, assumptions, baggage, and emotional/intellectual/spiritual/physical blockages that prevent him from embracing who he really is. At least I hope that's what I'm conveying.

I've gone back now and written pretty much the whole life story of my main character from the time his parents met to the time he finally left home for good at the age of 20 or so. He's had a lot of crap thrown at him. When he talked about it in the novel, I didn't realize the depth of emotion he had. When I wrote it as backstory, interesting emotions and reactions and details emerged. He's more of a person now. For the good, I think.

I also found it interesting that when I wrote his backstory, I alternated between his mother's POV and his POV and included scenes with other minor characters who might crop up now and then in the book series (note my optimism). As they all talked, I uncovered details that I can use when refining the novel to make the plot thicker and juicier.

The intriguing thing is that I've discovered the girl I thought was my main character really didn't have much backstory. It was easily summed up in a few paragraphs simply because she had such a sheltered upbringing and was still fairly young when the story started. Now, because of her experiences in this novel, she has more of a story to tell. Book two belongs to her; the blank page she was when book one began has been written now, and book two will tell how she grows and changes and makes choices that drive her to where she needs to be.

So, when all is said and done, I will have probably close to 50,000 more words of backstory about my main character. What will I do with it all? I don't know. I might use some of it to help build my platform -- publish snippets online or use it as teasers to get people interested in my story. I might use some of it within the novel in "flashback" form (even though I HATE flashbacks). Mainly, it's been a remarkable exercise in uncovering the layers of this character.

Linda Rohrbough discusses the importance of backstory in this article, and K. M. Weiland shows how to work the art of iceberging.

What about your characters? What are they not saying that you need to hear?

How much is too much? Dialogue, that is...

New plan: Wondering Wednesdays have arrived! This is where I ask you to tell me what you like in the stuff you read. (Okay, it's kind of a dorky name, but you know what I mean, right?) Please, please, please tell me what you like to read, what attracts you to a story/novel, and what you want more of.

So, Question Number 1: How much dialogue is too much? What balance do you like to see between narrative and dialogue? And would you rather an author err on the side of dialogue or narrative?

Here's a fun blog entry in defense of dialogue. Author Caro Clarke has a good article on the value and use of description. And here are a few prompts for creating settings that propel your novel forward instead of bogging it down.

Post your answers to my question here or on my Facebook page. I want to hear what you have to say!

Love, Hate, and Writing

Anyone who has read any of this agonizing journey of mine can probably tell that I have a love/hate relationship with this blog. I've deleted and restored it about three times. I agonize and wring my hands and wonder if it's even the right thing to do. For the moment, at least, I'm back, and I'm going to try to be more consistent, less anxious, and a little more fun about what I blog.

First, the novel... I put it aside for a while. I did. I put it away. I even zipped up all the files onto a CD and hid them from myself and deleted them from my hard drive. But after a few days, the siren song was too strong, and I started pulling up the back-up files from long ago. I started tweaking this and re-writing that, adding new and deleting old, and before long, I was sucked right back into that world. I spent much of yesterday writing new stuff to deepen the plot and character development.

On reflection of the first-ish drafts, I decided that I may have missed the main conflict of the main character's life. Or maybe if I didn't miss it, at least I didn't adequately define and develop it. I've started adding more detail around his life and choices and motivations and such. I don't know if this will help or hinder, but it makes me happy.

Second, on writing fiction in general... I tried to put the writing away. I tried to shun the muse -- I tried to put it all aside and tell her to stick her pencil where the sun doesn't shine. Unfortunately, my head couldn't leave the characters I've created alone. Even at night I would dream about them -- minor characters, even, not just the main ones.

And then last week, I was cleaning out a closet in an attempt to keep from writing, and I found a box with an old book I wrote many, many years ago. Different characters, different world, different story, but there it was: My writing, my voice, my creation on paper. And it made me remember, again, that I am just this way. I was made this way. My head creates stories; it's just who I am. It's as much a part of me as green eyes and brown hair (highlights by Bridget).

The reassuring part? After skimming the book I wrote those many years ago, I realized that yes, writing thousands and thousands of words *does* improve one's writing. Even if what I'm writing now is crap, it's less crappy than what I wrote fifteen years ago. That's a good thing.

So, I'm back at it. I'm writing for the fun of it, if nothing else. Even if I'm the only person who ever reads it, it makes me happy, at least. Cheap therapy, at least. That's something.

So there it is... Love -- for the craft, the characters, the story. Hate -- for the craft, the characters, the story. And writing -- such as it is -- the joy and the pain and the ache of it. One of my favorite quotes sums it up nicely: "There's nothing to writing. All you do is sit down at a typewriter and open a vein." (Walter Wellesley "Red" Smith)

Back to bleeding all over my laptop now...

I'm back. I think.

So, I'm back. It's been a while. I had to take a break from a lot of things for a while, and then I sort of went down the rabbit hole while I fiercely edited my novel. Now it's really getting close to being marketable -- I hope -- and I'm in agonizing mode. I have one storyline/arc to edit -- not happy with the characterization in it -- and then I am going to force myself to submit it. I am. I promise.

My friends and family have given me so much encouragement over these last five months. But now, I'm finding myself in serious agonizing mode. One of the things that's giving me so much angst is markt niche. Aside from this book falling into the general category of "fantasy," I don't know how to characterize it.

I have a vague fear that I'll be ostracized or called on the carpet by my church acquaintances for this book. It's high fantasy, so it's set on a totally different world where things could, in theory, fall under totally different rules, right? But I fear that people will object to a lot of things in this book. There is a fair amount of pagan leaning, swearing, drinking, innuendo, and semi-off-screen nookie. Am I going to hell for this? I hope not.

I also fear, though, that I might alienate the non-Christian reader as well. There is a clear line between good and evil, there is an omnipotent off-screen Creator, and there's a good deal of biblical imagery and such.

I'm a Christian and I'm actually pretty conservative, socially and fiscally. But the truth is that when I write, I write the stories that are in me to tell. Sometimes those don't fall neatly into church dogma (and certainly not Southern Baptist doctrine!). My hero is fractured and has a checkered past. He drinks, he swears, and he's not been the most faithful with his affections (to say the least). One of my villains is actually not that bad a guy -- misguided, and he does bad things with good intentions, and he's rakish and a bit of a cad, but he's got a tender heart that's been wounded a lot. He has a genuine love for his country that my hero doesn't share. He's redeemable.

(Momentary digression -- there are several villains, and one of them is very clearly irredeemable and totally evil. But in this first book, he lurks in the background just to influence people. This makes him more threatening, I think -- it's harder to fight evil that you can't see. Okay, back to more hand-wringing...)

While I absolutely agree that there is a place for very clean Christian fiction, and I don't begrudge anyone the opportunity to read it, I also think there is a place for fiction written by Christians to illustrate bigger themes -- themes such as sacrifice, redemption, forgiveness, loving others above yourself, and doing good works. Those are the lessons Christ taught. Those are the things we need to talk about to others. If fiction written by Christians can illustrate those themes with less-than-perfectly-clean stories, isn't that a good thing? If those themes appeal to a wider audience than the one sitting in the pews on Sunday, isn't that what being salt and light is about?

Maybe -- and I'm not saying this was my motivation or my idea when I wrote this book -- but maybe fiction that illustrates biblical themes can be a "gateway drug" to finding out more about faith in Christ for the seeker who wants to know. And if it's not, maybe it can just be a damn good read. Either way, I'm okay with that.

So, that's my vent/rant/worry. Back to agonizing over my book and query letter now. Let the hand-wringing commence.....

Am I really a writer?

What makes a writer? Does publication make a writer? How much? Do you have to have written a book, published a book, sold a certain amount of books to be considered a "real" writer?

Maybe two nights without enough sleep, a hubby on the road for business, three kids down with a stomach bug, and a fair amount of client work keeping me from the novel has just put me in a general funk... And I confess that a recent passing comment from an acquaintance has put me a bit on the defensive about what I'm doing with my novel... But I find myself today ruminating on the idea of being a "real" writer.

Am I a real writer? I've been making up stories as long as I can remember. In early elementary school, I was fascinated by the Walt Disney version of "Peter Pan." I wanted to be Wendy -- or maybe a less annoying version of Wendy who Peter would prefer to visit. I used to add to the Peter Pan saga every night in my head as I fell asleep. The next night, I'd pick up at the last thing I could remember and keep the story going. This was my habit for at least two years, I'm sure. And I still do this -- I still fall asleep "writing," making up stories or working out plot problems or developing characters. The movie plays in my head till I fall asleep, and then I start again the next night.

I've always been gifted with language. English was my favorite subject; history was a close second. I remember in high school doing a grammar pre-test and scoring so high on it that the teacher didn't have anything to give me for work. Since she needed to grade me on something, she gave me advanced assignments. I was always a pretty decent speller, too. I would rather write essays and reports and stories than do almost anything else.

In my oddly disjointed career path, I've worked in a lot of administrative positions, but I always ended up with the writing assignments that needed doing. In my last "real" job before I had my first child, I worked as a marketing assistant for a small consuting firm and worked on a fair amount of marketing and ad copy for the company. After a couple of years of damage control with small children, I started freelancing for businesses; that was in 2003. Since then, I've worked on marketing copy across a dozen or more industries, found a semi-regular gig as a contributor to a construction magazine, and ghostwritten for executives around the world on book chapters and articles. I've also had three short stories published in "Cup of Comfort" volumes, which I suppose is the closest I've come to being a "real" writer.

So now we come down to it.... I'm working on this novel, this beast that has taken over my life since November, and when I mention it, I get mixed responses. By and large, most people are impressed on some level, if not at the writing itself at least at the output and hard work that is involved in writing something book-length. But then there are other responses....

The "In't that sweet?" response: This is the look -- the one that says, "aw, how cute -- the little gal thinks she can write a book!" I think this is my least favorite. Please take me seriously. I assure you, I am dead serious about finishing and publishing this book.

The "Really?" response: This one involves a shocked expression, a raising of the eyebrows, a tilt of the head that suggests a kind of "Seriously? You?" kind of attitude. Yes. Really. Me. I really am a writer. I've been doing it for years. Now I'm just putting the story down on paper.

The "Huh, maybe I should do that" response: I don't mind this response, because really, who am I to say who can write a novel and who can't? Please, go for it. I want you to write. But don't assume that it will be easy just because I did it. It's the most agonizing, painful, wicked, challenging, soul-sucking, soul-feeding, awesome, euphoric, exciting, and rewarding thing you'll ever do outside of parenting children. But it is not a journey for the faint of heart. Trust me.

So, if you want to respond to me with one of the above, that's okay -- I don't mind. But whatever you do, PLEASE don't imply that I'm not a real writer. I am. I promise you. Published or unpublished, I have 500 pages of poor, fair, decent, and/or brilliant work to prove it. It has a beginning, middle, end. It has characters. It has dialogue, setting, scenes, chapters, and all the other necessary ingredients of a "real" story written by a "real" writer.

I hope to heck I am a real writer. If not, what the heck am I doing all of this for? Yes, I'm a writer. A real writer. And I'll keep plugging away at this thing till I feel like I can call it done and send it out to a "real" publisher for "real" readers to read. Being a writer isn't dependent on publication. It's dependent upon sitting down, opening your heart, mind, soul, or vein, and putting quill to parchment, pen to paper, fingers to keyboard, or whatever. Yes, I'm a writer. A real one.

**BIIIGGG GULP**

I did something momentous last night. Nothing that will move mountains or end wars or make my kids stop fighting.... Still, momentous for me.

I gave the first six chapters of my novel to my husband, a.k.a The Man, to read. And then today, I gave the same six chapters to my BFF to read.

All of sudden, I have this weird euphoric distaste for my writing. I don't really know how to feel. It has been a very long time since I have opened myself to constructive criticism this far on my writing. I gave the chapters to the two people I can trust more than anyone else on earth, but still -- criticism can be a tough thing to hear.

I have a pretty thick skin when it comes to my writing. I've had a few short stories published in the "Cup of Comfort" anthologies, I write fairly often for a construction magazine, and I have regular assignments of various types from my freelance clients. I don't mind having other people provide input on my writing as a rule. I'm not a possessive writer; one of the reasons my clients like me is that I'm easy to work with.

BBBUUUUUUTTTTT..... This is the big one. The whole enchilada. The real deal. What am I going to say when they give feedback? Can I take it?

Yep. I can. Because utimately, with these people who I trust to give constructive criticism, they can only make it better. It's still my work, after all; if I don't like what they say, I don't have to use it (though I probably will.... In some fashion...)

So, the momentous day has arrived -- the day I begin to share for critique this piece of my soul that has been a labor of love so far. Childbirth? Please. Did that four times, and it's a piece of cake compared to writing. This -- this -- is hard work.

Time for one more BIIIIIIIG GULP. **DEEEEEEP BREATH** Well, it's out there now. And time for me to go to Chapter Seven and keep slogging away.

Backstory

I've run into a few issues with my novel... Not major, just things that need to be clarified. I'm not very good about writing backstory or history or character sketches before I start a story. I know a lot of authors do extensive pre-work, but I just prefer to let it all unfold as I go. But now, I have to push the pause button on the writing/editing process. I'm a little stuck. I need to go back and write some backstory.

I actually like this right now. I could look at this as a stumbling block, challenge, or barrier to success, but I think I was supposed to write everything I've written up till now before stopping to do this backstory bit. The history and mythology of the world I'm creating has been rolling around in my head for ages, but only by developing characters through the narrative and dialogue that I've already written have I discovered the pieces I was missing.

When I first came up with this book idea a few years ago, I pictured only a few characters. I've discovered a whole new race in the writing process, and I've discovered a whole new arm of the magic of the world. It's been an exhilarating process, but now that I've discovered them, I need to do a little anthropology.

I think that's what appeals to me about fantasy -- the anthropology of it. More about that another day...

I'll have more about the backstory later. I think I may publish some of it to my Facebook page -- or maybe here -- I don't know. I'm really just making this up as I go along. It's what I do best, after all.