Fifty Shades of Rain

In Japan there are over fifty words to describe rain.  Yesterday, as I sat at my desk looking outside and watching the rain fall, I remembered rainy season in Japan, and the way the rain would fall straight down to the ground in endless, relentless, heavy streams. 

There is a word for that.  Ooame.   That means “heavy or big rain.”  But it wouldn’t have been fuu because that is the kind of rain that combines with wind and blows around.  Yesterday there was no wind at all, and the curtains of rain reminded me so much of the rainy season that I could almost feel the way it used to splash around my feet as I ran for the train, or the way it sounded on the big umbrella that was my constant companion for the month of June every year I lived in Japan.

It rains a great deal in Japan, which could explain the need for so many words.  Japanese people are also excessively fond of talking about the weather, and there is a lot to talk about.  The heat (atsui!), the humidity (mushiatsui!), and the cold (samui!), and those exclamation points are absolutely necessary.  When it was hot in Japan, it was scorching.  When it was humid in Japan, it was like breathing in liquid air.  And when it was cold, due to the lack of central heating in the first apartment I lived in, it was pretty darned frigid. 

But that isn’t all there is to it.  The Japanese are masters of the onomatopoeia.  When I say “It is raining fuu fuu,” I can almost hear the wind blowing and the rain crashing against my window.  For a language that can be amazingly vague (Subjects and direct objects?  Please. Who needs ‘em?), it is also astoundingly descriptive.  They bring the term le mot juste to a completely different level.  Finding that perfect word isn’t just an endeavor to them; it is an art form.

We should carry this into our own writing.  Why use tired when you can use exhausted, broken-down, narcoleptic, done for, spent, drained, tuckered out, drooping, dead on one’s feet, played out, drowsy, or pooped?  Tired might work, but why settle?  Add layers and subtle beauty to your writing by searching for the word that isn’t just good.  Look for the word that is stupendous, marvelous, and superb.

And the next time it is raining, look outside and find a way to describe it to yourself.  Is it a chilly rain, or a driving rain, or merely a drizzle?  We might not have fifty words for rain in English, but there are infinite possibilities for how you can describe it.

Alone or Lonely - A Tough Call

I’m an extrovert.  I love being around people.  I adore human interaction.  I’m as happy to throw a party as I am to attend one.  That is how I am, and how I’ve always been, and there isn’t much I can do to change it.

I’m also a writer, and writing is a solitary and somewhat lonely profession.  It involves long hours spent by myself, wrapped up in something that only exists in my own mind.  I love being a writer, and I crave the quiet hours necessary for the creative process, but sometimes I just really want to talk to someone else and get out of my own world for a few minutes.

Enter social media – my gateway to contact with other living breathing humans that can be achieved without leaving my desk.  Facebook, Twitter, and even good old fashioned email are wonderful tools for me to use as a writer, but also as a person who needs to occasionally hear from someone who is not a character living inside of my head.  

Recently I attended my first writers’ conference, Pennwriters 2013.  It was a great experience.  I learned a great deal and made a lot of new friends.  But even better for me, it gave me the chance to be around people while still working at my craft.  That contact energized me.  It made me feel happy and excited and almost a little giddy.  I’d missed being around people in a work related setting.  I hadn’t experienced that in a long time.

But as I looked around at the others in attendance, I realized that not everyone was experiencing the same euphoria as me.  Many people were walking around with pained expressions on their faces, like this entire situation made them feel uncomfortable.  Some people looked sullen and miserable.  Others looked like they might want to curl up in fetal position with their hands covering their ears to block out the noise. 

They were the introverts.  I could spot them a mile away.

Writing is a great profession for introverts.  Conferences almost cause them physical pain.  The human interaction and socialization that energizes me drains them.  By the end of the conference, some of them were literally running out the door to escape.  It wasn’t because the conference wasn’t a valuable and useful experience for them – they learned as much as I did.  But it was much harder for them than it was for me, and I appreciate the personal and emotional sacrifices they made in order to attend. 

Introvert or extrovert, it doesn’t really matter.  We all do what we must to succeed as writers (or as accountants, or as artists, or as whatever).  I wish I could say I had a magical formula that would help introverts enjoy a writers’ conference, but I don’t.  Nor do I have anything that makes it easier for an extrovert to sit in front of a computer all day.  You simply do what you have to do to produce the best writing you possibly can.

But if anyone has a magical formula that would help me avoid wasting time on Facebook, please pass it on.  I need it. 

Judging Books and Covers

I attended my first writers’ conference today, Pennwriters 2013, and I was pleasantly surprised.  I met some wonderful people (not a Negative Nellie in the bunch), had a great time, and learned a few things, too.  But one of the most important lessons I learned had nothing to do with what was being taught in the classroom.  It was about judging people, and having preconceptions as well as misconceptions.

I took a class on creating a website today.  It is something that overwhelms me, but it is something I will have to do.  Having a web presence and being actively involved in social media is not an optional activity for writers in today’s market, it is mandatory.  I have conquered Facebook, Twitter, and even blogging (well, sort of), but the idea of creating a website still fills me with fear. 

Before the lesson began, the instructor asked us to introduce ourselves.  I hadn’t really noticed it before, but I suddenly realized that most of the people attending were older than me.  In fact, they were much older than me.  The oldest person in the class proudly told us she was ninety years old.

Now I have a ninety two year old grandmother who I love to death, but she probably thinks a website is something a spider might design.  I couldn’t imagine her sitting in this class.  I wondered what this ninety year old lady was doing here, and I tried to guess what sort of writing she did.  I was fairly certain it had to be some sort of memoir writing, probably for her grandchildren.  I was dead wrong.

“I write about French history.  I wrote a book on 17^th century French history that was published, and I’m currently working on a book on the 19^th century in France, which was a very volatile period,” she said.

I was suddenly glad I had forgotten to mention in my own introduction that my first book was about a cheerleader from outer space. 

Another elegant older lady introduced herself, and I decided to try the fun “Guess Her Genre” game again.  I decided she must write non-fiction, most probably something about local history.

I was wrong again.  She was an artist working on a graphic novel.  Suddenly I realized a terrible truth.  These old people were much cooler than me. 

I had experienced some trepidation about taking this class.  Lately I have felt more than a bit overwhelmed by how much I have to learn.  But when I saw that ninety year old woman embracing this new information with curiosity and an eager desire to learn, I was ashamed.  I’m half her age and I have teenagers who can help me.  It is time to stop making excuses. 

We all had something to learn in that class, and we all had something to contribute.  I came away with more confidence and some practical and useful advice about creating a website.  I also learned something a great deal more valuable. 

Each of those writers in that room had a story to tell, and each of those stories was equally important and unique.  Today I remembered something I thought I’d learned a long time ago, which is not to judge a book by its cover.  Unless you take the time to open that book up and have a really good look, you won’t ever know what treasures lie inside.

 

Negative Nellies

In every profession, they exist, especially the arts.  They are the nay sayers.  The doom and gloomers.  The miserable masses.  They are the people who tell the young musician he’ll never make it.  They tell the talented artist she should study something “practical.”  They tell the acting student to get ready to wait tables.

 

Among writers, however, these Nellies seem to be even more certain of your impending failure.  They are so certain, in fact, that if you aren’t very careful (and extremely confident), you might start to believe it, too.

 

Writing is a very personal experience.  You are baring your heart, showing a part of yourself to the world that may not be the nicest, kindest or best part.  You have to be brave to be able to do that, but it can also make you feel very vulnerable.

 

I was invited to join a writers’ group once, and I was very excited about it.  I had barely begun to write at this point.  In fact, I had just submitted my first short story to a magazine.  After reading a great deal, I’d learned that agents and publishers were inclined to look more closely at your work if you had a publishing history of some kind.  My credits of creating a few advertisements for Japanese architectural magazines when I lived in Japan a very long time ago were not exactly the kind of history that interested them.

 

I went to the meeting, which was held at one of my favorite places, Barnes and Noble.  I saw it as a good sign.  With my notebook in hand, I was nervous, but hopeful.  I had so much to learn, and I was certain the people at this writers’ group would be a great resource for me, a support group.  I was wrong.

 

The writers sat around a table, eying me with suspicion.  They were not what I expected, although I didn’t think I had expectations.  With one or two exceptions, it looked like an aging hippie convention.  It was a group of women with long grey hair, slovenly clothing, bare feet shoved into flip flops and miserable expressions on their faces (which were completely devoid of any make-up, by the way).  None of that mattered to me, but I immediately came to the conclusion that these people did not look like professionals, and they certainly did not look successful.

 

I decided not to judge.  Writing is a solitary business, and I myself spend a great deal of time in yoga pants with a shawl wrapped around my shoulders and no make-up on my face.  In fact, that is what I look like at this very moment.  But I am at home.  Alone.  Dressing well and appropriately is not caving to society.  It is presenting yourself as a serious and professional person.  Dressing like a slob in public does not make you a better writer.

 

But I digress.  When they asked me introduce myself, I did.  I told them I had just submitted my first short story and the name of the magazine.  All of them began to shake their heads, almost simultaneously.

 

“You’ll never get published in that magazine.  It is impossible to break in.  You won’t even hear back from them,” said one of the women.

 

Then it began.  The attack of the Negative Nellies.  They talked, and talked, and talked about how many times they had been rejected (hundreds).  They said getting published was impossible.  They spoke quite personally of their own heartbreak and frustration.  I felt bad for them, but when I began to feel their negativity creep under my skin, I had to distance myself.  Their failures were not mine.

 

There were a few success stories in the group.  One lady had been published in a magazine that shared shocking stories sold under the premise they were true.  She hadn’t been paid yet for her work, and said the magazine was famous for not paying their contributors.  Another woman, the huge celebrity of the group, had an agent and had published an e-book.  The hippie woman with a giant pink kitten emblazoned on her t-shirt sitting next to me explained that it was erotica.  It made me feel a little depressed.  These women had worked and slaved for years, and yet the only thing any of them had really achieved was a smut book.  It was sad.

 

I left Barnes and Noble dragging my feet.  Even the smell of the Starbucks wafting through the store was not enough to make me happy.  I kept hearing their words in my head.  You’ll never get published.  You’ll never get published.  When I saw the rows and rows of published books on the shelves, I straightened my spine and told that voice in my head to shut up.  I didn’t know anything about these women.  They might be lazy.  They might be incompetent.  They might lack talent.  And I told myself again, their failures were not mine.

 

I went home more determined than ever, even if it was just to prove them wrong.  And the next day, when I opened my mailbox, I had a reply to my short story submission.  It was a handwritten note from one of editors of the magazine.  She told me she liked the story, but it was too long.  She asked me to cut down the word count and resubmit it.  It was a short little note, but it made all the difference in the world. 

 

I did exactly as she said, and we sent the story back and forth over the course of a few months.  Finally, she felt it was ready to present it to her boss, and her boss would decide if it would be published or not.  Her boss declined, but it really didn’t matter.  I had crossed some sort of personal hurdle.  Just that one editor believing in my story was enough.

 

Eventually I sent in seven more short stories to different magazines and contests.  Two were published.  Two received Honorable Mentions.  Another hurdle crossed.  I never went back to that writers' group.  Once was more than enough.

 

Don’t listen to the Negative Nellies in your life.  It doesn’t matter if you are a writer or a painter or a candlestick maker – do what you love, and do it to the best of your ability.  With enough hard work, skill, and a bit of luck, things might just work out for you.

 

I saw one of the Nellies from the writers’ group the other day.  She asked me how the writing was going, and I told her.  I’d signed with a fabulous agent.  My first book was on submission.  Everything was going well.

 

She shook her head.  “That really doesn't mean anything.  I have to warn you, it is very hard to get published.”

 

At that moment, I realized I was almost completely immune to Negative Nellies.  I’d built a sort of coat of armor around myself to guard against their jealousy, spite, and even their nasty, negative vibes.  I wasn’t angry with her.  I pitied her. 

 

She smiled and offered me one last piece of advice as I turned to go.  I heard it very clearly, as well as the sound of desperation in her voice.  "Don't get your hopes up."

 

I smiled right back at her and said, “Too late.  They already are.”

Fooling Myself

I am the master of fooling myself, mostly because I am so easily fooled.  I set my clock five minutes ahead, and always forget.  The good news is that I am rarely late for anything. 

 

When I clean the house, I never even think for a moment, “I’ll clean every inch of this place today.”  Instead, I reassure myself, “I’ll just clean this one little area.  That is all.  No more.”  I know that once I clean that area, I’ll be in the mode and clean the rest, but I can’t tell myself that from the start or it will never happen.  I have to trick myself into doing it.

The same thing goes for my writing.  If I would look at how much I have to write, how far I have to go to finish a book, then I would probably never start.  Instead, I tell myself, “I’ll sit down and write for one hour.  That is all.  No more.”  Normally what happens is I’ll look at the clock and somehow two hours have passed before I even realized it, and I’m locked in writing mode for the rest of the day.

Some writers look for word count.  They plan on writing a certain number of words a day.  I’ve never really tried to do that.  I feel better finishing a chapter or a scene.  Different methods work for different people.  Find what works for you. 

I have heard it said that the most important thing you can do as a writer is plant your bottom in a chair.  That is the truth.  It doesn’t matter how much you research or read or learn, if you don’t put your bottom in a chair and write, you won’t get anywhere.  And the only way to get better as a writer is by writing, and writing, and then writing some more. 

I’m getting close to the end of the manuscript I’m working on, and it’s getting tricky.  When this happens, I use another method to fool myself.  I tell myself that I won’t plan to write anything new today.  I’ll just go back and reread the last few chapters to make sure I’m on the right track.  Ahhh.  That takes the pressure off.  It means I won’t have to think of something brilliant and new to write.  The funny thing is, as soon as I reread those chapters, I can suddenly see exactly where I want to go, and it makes me want to start writing more.  Before I know it, a new chapter is complete and my book is that much closer to being finished.

Do what you have to do to get your bottom in that chair and write.  It might be setting a time or a word count.  It might be something else.  But just thinking about writing will get you nowhere.  You have to commit yourself at least to starting, or you will never finish.  Just a few pages.  That is all.  No more. 

 

Try it.  It works.

 

And I Ran - Because I Must.

I ran this morning.  I’m not a great runner, and I’m not very fast, but I felt like I had to run, today of all days.  After what happened yesterday, after the horrific photos I saw that will be forever burned into my brain, I slipped on my running shoes and headed to the park. 

I’ve been making every excuse I could not to run lately.  My hip was sore, my knee was wonky, my back has been bad, but none of those excuses could stop me today.  After seeing the people who lost limbs and loved ones and even their lives, I felt like I had to run, because I was still able to run.

It was a chance to escape from the news, from the ceaseless loop of the same tragic images being played over and over again.  It was a chance to escape from the internet and the constant barrage of racist and hate filled conspiracy theories and panic induced lies.  It was a chance to escape from my own thoughts, from imagining how it felt to be standing and cheering one minute and broken and bloody the next.  Running gives me clarity and peace, and it was something I needed today.

Yesterday, my twelve year old was trying to comprehend the scope of the tragedy.  We were at physical therapy when we heard the news.  He is recovering from a broken ankle.  There were four TV screens mounted on the wall in front of his exercise bike, each showing things that no twelve year old should ever have to see.  I tried to point out all of the brave and wonderful people who were rushing to help the injured.  I spoke about the policemen and the firemen and the ordinary people who stepped in to do what they could for the victims.  I told him this was what was beautiful about our country. 

As my son asked questions, I tried my best to both answer him honestly and yet comfort him.  I don’t know if I succeeded.  The truth was, these were questions no child should ever have to ask, and my answers were insufficient.  There are no good answers.  Such hatred and cruelty is simply incomprehensible to anyone except for the vile sort of animal who would perpetrate such a crime.

I looked around at the faces of the other people in the gym, as they watched in stunned silence.  They were all in various stages of recovery from different sorts of injuries.  All I could think about was the people who’d been injured in Boston, and what their recoveries would be like.  After the initial euphoria they would feel at surviving, soon the reality would set in.  They would spend countless weeks and months in a place like this before they could even begin living their new “normal.”  Their lives had changed forever in a single moment.

I carried this with me as I ran this morning.  I ignored my inconsequential aches and pains and ran further and faster than I have in a long time.  It felt good, and empowering, and I was grateful for my two strong legs that could carry me anywhere.  I’d lost appreciation for them somewhere along the line, but now I had it back.    

I will run again, and I will keep running.  I’ll never run a marathon.  I’ll probably never even run a 5 K.  But every time I run, I will think about those minutes in Boston, and remember the people who can’t run anymore.  And I will run - for them.

I Always Feel Like, Somebody's Watching Me....

Every year in our town there is an annual spring ritual that takes place.  We see the buckets go up on the trees while it is still cold and snowy outside, and our excitement begins to build.  We know that good weather and plates full of pancakes are just around the corner.  Maple syrup time is upon us.

The Maple Syrup Festival is held every year at Brady’s Run Park.  It is a community tradition that started when I was small, and has now turned into a major event.  People wait in line for hours and hours for a plate full of pancakes loaded with syrup from our local trees.  The pancakes are great.  The syrup is even better.  But the best thing of all is watching the people in attendance.

I recently began watching the TV show “Duck Dynasty.” It was done under duress.  My sons thought it was hilarious, I was forced into watching a few episodes, and soon I had to agree with them.  The show was very interesting, mostly because the characters seemed so foreign to me, and sort of exotic.  I am from the north, they are from the south.  My idea of an outdoor adventure is, well, probably waiting in line for pancakes at the Maple Syrup Festival.  They seem to spend most of their time in the woods.  I don’t like guns, shooting, hunting, or camo, and that is all they do.  I’m not fond of facial hair.  But I am a linguist, and I love listening to the cadence of their speech.  I enjoy hearing their views on things, which are so different from my own.  And I love waiting in anticipation for Uncle Si to say something crazy, yet profound, and completely butcher the English language in the process.

Since I began watching this program, however, I have made a rather extraordinary discovery.  There are a whole lot of people in Beaver County, PA who look like (and dress like) the people on the show.  I might seem naïve, or maybe even snobby, but I think my eyes sort of brushed over these people before.  They blended into the whole patchwork of strangeness that makes up this part of Pennsylvania (called Pennsyltucky by some of our non-native neighbors).  Recently, I’ve been noticing these people, and some of the other rather interesting characters around here.  I watch them, I remember them, and I store them away for later to be used as potential characters in a book.  This is an important skill to have as a writer, and it is also extremely entertaining hobby (for me, at least).  The Maple Syrup Festival is the perfect opportunity for this kind of people watching. 

Everyone is strange.  Everyone is a potential character.  But the strangeness I saw yesterday almost reached epic proportions.  There were the "Duck Dynasty" people, and the Goth people.  The kids with Mohawks, and lots of people with chains attached to their wallets.  There were people who looked like they belonged in motorcycle gangs and others who looked like they were preparing for some sort of zombie apocalypse.  There were little old ladies in Keds, and little old ladies dressed as frontierswomen – with bonnets, long skirts and shawls.  Someone was randomly setting off cannon blasts.  It might have been the squadron of Civil War Union soldiers I saw marching past.  There were some jugglers who looked like escapees from a RenFair, and some hybrids – a "Duck Dynasty" guy wearing camo but with silver beads woven into his beard (very Johnny Depp/"Pirates of the Caribbean"). 

We were excited when it was time to eat our pancakes, and lucky because we didn’t have to wait in line.  My youngest son was part of the entertainment, so we jumped right on his celebrity bandwagon and got to eat in a special tent.  He’s in a rock academy that performed between a group of kids doing Broadway show tunes from the local performing arts school, and a barbershop choir made of people ranging in age from ten to close to ninety. 

 

The Broadway kids wore matching t-shirt, jean, and even matching sneakers.  The barbershop guys wore perfectly pressed white shirts, black vests, black pants, and bow ties.  And right smack between these two groups was the rock academy.  Our kids were not dressed alike.  Some looked like rock princesses.  Others looked like they had found whatever they were wearing on the floor that day and had thrown it on as they ran out the door.  And, in true rocker style, I suspect (in fact I know) that some of them had even slept in their clothes the night before.  Eclectic?  Yes.  Entertaining?  Definitely.   Even better, it shows the depth of community involvement in this and every event in our town.

In the very elite “Entertainers/Crafters/Volunteers/ Misc.” tent, I sat next to a guy dressed like a forest ranger.  He might have even been a real forest ranger.  I’m not sure.  My grasp of reality was a little skewed at this point after seeing so many people dressed in costumes.  He didn’t say a word, he just sort of growled as he held up his plate repeatedly for more pancakes.  It didn’t match the demeanor of the cheerful “Smokey the Bear” patch on his jacket. 

We also sat next to two very lovely and talkative teenaged girls, a pleasant and welcome change from Ranger Reclusive.  As we were eating, one of them turned to me and said, “Did you see all the people in costume?”  I told her about the Civil War soldiers, and we shared a laugh, so I knew she understood.  I asked if she noticed how many people here looked like they could be on “Duck Dynasty,” and her eyes got huge in her face.  “I swear I just saw Uncle Si a few minutes ago,” she said.  “My friends didn’t seem to understand how funny that was.”

Hmmm. She did get it.  I guess I’m not the only one who is watching.