Take All Chances

This post originally appeared at author Crista McHugh’s blog on November 30, 2009.

Today’s topic is lessons I’ve learned about being a professional writer. After “butt in chair, fingers on keyboard,” the most important lesson I’ve learned is to take every chance.

That means a lot of different things, and all of them are important.

First, take every chance to write. If you’re waiting for a lovely long summer to spend holed up in some mountain cabin crafting the best novel of your life, you might be waiting for a long time. Some writers can take writing retreats, and some write novels in long outpourings, and some benefit from deadline pressure, but for many writers, life interferes and we have to write when we can, even if “when we can” is fifteen minutes while waiting for the bus. It’s pretty amazing how many words you can accumulate when writing in tiny increments, so long as there are a lot of increments. At one point in my life, I wrote several thousand words in a notebook, accumulated over a couple of weeks of adding a paragraph in every spare moment. Even a sentence here and there is progress. I’m a tortoise, not a hare. But we both reach our deadline in the end. The words have to go on the paper.

Second, take every chance to write something new and submit it. You never know what genre or style of story you might be exceptional at writing until you try. Sometimes a call for submissions will spark ideas that otherwise never would have crossed your mind. New ideas make new connections in your mind and often result in something unexpected and wonderful, that could enrich your future work or at the very least keep you from boredom and burnout. In addition, submitting to new markets opens new doors. The story or novel might sell or might not sell; but regardless, your writing and your name went in front of more sets of eyes, different eyes than had seen your work before. You never know when that might pay off. Years later, one of those editors might be editing an anthology and remember the story they rejected. It might be perfect for their new project.

Third, and this is related to my point above, take every chance to submit your work. Short stories in particular can be published in multiple venues over the years as various anthologies go out of print, or reprint anthologies request submissions. Selling a story a second or third time is, essentially, free money. You did the work once and were paid. Each additional sale is not only more money, but another chance for your name and your work to be seen. Stories you haven’t been able to sell might not be unsalable stories in the long run. The market changes and editors come and go. Periodically, it’s worth it to pull out your oldest unsold stories and search for potential new markets. I had a couple of stories on hand for literally years before I found appropriate markets. One of those stories led to me acquiring an agent.

Finally, take every chance to make friends, both online and in person. Writing is a lonely business, and you need all the support you can get from people who understand. Some call this “networking,” but I think of it as necessary. It’s a necessity, though, that shouldn’t be a chore. Make contacts with people whom you like, or who interest you. Don’t hunt people out solely because of what they can do for you, with no plans to do anything for them in return; it’s not the best foundation for the future. Share progress and information and calls for submissions. Be a good friend. Form networks of friends. And you’ll all be able to help each other.

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Looking Backwards

I’ve been looking at the statistics for this blog, and selected some of the year’s most-visited posts for your delectation.

My Favorite Girls Dressed As Boys – romance edition.

Nifty Stuff That Ought To Be In Romance Novels.

Normative Heterosexuality and the Alpha Male Fantasy.

Georgette Heyer Recommendations.

The Intricacies of Marriages of Convenience.

Online Promotion – Is It Worth It?

The Romance Formula Myth.

Erotic Journeys and Bodice Rippers.

Where’s the Sexual Line in Shapeshifter Romance?

Writers Never Run Out of Blog Topics.

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Visiting Leah Braemel’s Blog

I’m a guest today over at Leah Braemel’s Blog, chatting about some of my writing goals for the new year.

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Setting and Characterization Through Food

This post was originally written for the Romance Junkies blog.

I love food, both eating it and reading about it, and that interest sometimes translates into my work. I use food for several different purposes, most notably to establish setting and to deepen characterization.

My book The Moonlight Mistress is set in the early days of World War One, and there are scenes set in Germany, England, and France. Not only did I take into account local cuisines of those places, and what people might ordinarily eat in 1914, but what might be available to eat in the specific situations I was portraying.

For instance, in an early scene, two characters are trying to escape Germany. They stop in a small town and buy “sausages, cheese, fresh bread, a thermos of strong coffee, and bottled beer and lemonade,” even though the French character would really rather have croissants. This idea is revisited when they’ve arrived safely in France: “She could really have croissants, with thick creamy butter and clots of strawberry jam.” In fact, they get buttered rolls and an “omelette…dense with soft cheese and thin ham and fines herbes,” subtly giving an impression of safety through plenty of good, fresh food.

So far as characterization goes, the character Crispin likes a particular kind of chocolate, “nutmilk choc,” and it appears several times, as a gift from his sister and when he shares his favorite with others. This is a fairly simple use of food as characterization.

I got a bit more complicated with a werewolf character, Tanneken. Her appearance, a small woman in widow’s weeds, contrasts with her sometimes savage werewolf nature. I tried to show these contrasts through the ways she eats while in a tea shop, and also show that she has recently been through a terrible experience.

For example: She…ate a madeleine in one bite, then another. She chewed, swallowed, and said, “You will not lock me up. I would kill you first.” She took one of the cream pastries and studied it a moment before popping it into her mouth. She’s very hungry, but also somewhat detached from the everyday business of it. Her words are at odds with her behavior.

The waitress set down their plate of sandwiches. Madame Claes took one and popped it into her mouth. She did not appear to take any pleasure in the food, Pascal noted. She simply ate it for fuel, like a soldier too long in the field. The point of view character picks up on the above and learns something about her.

“I prefer to strike directly whenever I am able, since my government will not allow me to be a soldier. Even though I can rip out a man’s throat in less than a heartbeat.” She picked up the last remaining madeleine and nibbled on it, delicately. And, here, the contrast between manners and words is even more direct.

Food detail also works wonderfully as contrast between the actual situation and what the characters feel. A conversation about afternoon tea takes place in a shell hole, while the two soldiers are under bombardment: “What was tea like at home, when you were a boy? Cucumber sandwiches and little cream Napoleons? Or beans on toast?” We learn much more about the characters through this seemingly innocuous discussion than we would if they had simply continued to talk about the military situation.

I’m only sad that my book is set too early in the war for me to include ANZAC cookies. Which are delicious.

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Did You Know Bach Had a Father?

I post this section from Patrick O’Brian’s The Ionian Mission because I love it for what is says about Bach (Johann Sebastian) as well as about Jack Aubrey and Stephen Maturin.

O’Brian was an incredible writer, and I think this passage shows it.

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‘[London Bach] wrote some pieces for my uncle Fisher, and his young man copied them out fair. But they were lost years and years ago, so last time I was in town I went to see whether I could find the originals: the young man has set up on his own, having inherited his master’s music-library. We searched through the papers – such a disorder you would hardly credit, and I had always supposed publishers were as neat as bees – we searched for hours, and no uncle’s pieces did we find. But the whole point is this: Bach had a father.’

‘Heavens, Jack, what things you tell me. Yet upon recollection I seem to have known other men in much the same case.’

‘And this father, this old Bach, you understand me, had written piles and piles of musical scores in the pantry.’

‘A whimsical place to compose in, perhaps; but then birds sing in trees, do they not? Why not antediluvian Germans in a pantry?’

‘I mean the piles were kept in the pantry. Mice and blackbeetles and cook-maids had played Old Harry with some cantatas and a vast great Passion according to St Mark, in High Dutch; but lower down all was well, and I brought away several pieces, ‘cello for you, fiddle for me, and some for both together. It is strange stuff, fugues and suites of the last age, crabbed and knotted sometimes and not at all in the modern taste, but I do assure you, Stephen, there is meat in it. I have tried this partita in C a good many times, and the argument goes so deep, so close and deep, that I scarcely follow it yet, let alone make it sing. How I should love to hear it played really well – to hear Viotti dashing away.’

Stephen studied the ‘cello suite in his hand, booming and humming sotto voce. ‘Tweedly-tweedly, tweedly tweedly, deedly deedly pom pompom. Oh, this would call for the delicate hand of the world,’ he said. ‘Otherwise it would sound like boors dancing. Oh, the double-stopping . . . and how to bow it?’

‘Shall we make an attempt upon the D minor double sonata?’ said Jack, ‘and knit up the ravelled sleeve of care with sore labour’s bath?’

‘By all means,’ said Stephen. ‘A better way of dealing with a sleeve cannot be imagined.’

Now when the fiddle sang at all it sang alone: but since Stephen’s departure he had rarely been in a mood for music and in any case the partita that he was now engaged upon, one of the manuscript works that he had bought in London, grew more and more strange the deeper he went into it. The opening movements were full of technical difficulties and he doubted he would ever be able to do them anything like justice, but it was the great chaconne which followed that really disturbed him. On the face of it the statements made in the beginning were clear enough: their closely-argued variations, though complex, could certainly be followed with full acceptation, and they were not particularly hard to play; yet at one point, after a curiously insistent repetition of the second theme, the rhythm changed and with it the whole logic of the discourse. There was something dangerous about what followed, something not unlike the edge of madness or at least of a nightmare; and although Jack recognized that the whole sonata and particularly the chaconne was a most impressive composition he felt that if he were to go on playing it with all his heart it might lead him to very strange regions indeed.

During a pause in his evening letter Jack thought of telling Sophie of a notion that had come to him, a figure that might make the nature of the chaconne more understandable: it was as though he were fox-hunting, mounted on a powerful, spirited horse, and as though on leaping a bank, perfectly in hand, the animal changed foot. And with the change of foot came a change in its being so that it was no longer a horse he was sitting on but a great rough beast, far more powerful, that was swarming along at great speed over an unknown countryside in pursuit of a quarry – what quarry he could not tell, but it was no longer the simple fox. But it would be a difficult notion to express, he decided; and in any case Sophie did not really care much for music, while she positively disliked horses. On the other hand she dearly loved a play, so he told her about….

[from pp.47-48, 154-155 of The Ionian Mission, Patrick O’Brian].

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Charlotte Mew, "The Cenotaph"

The Cenotaph

September 1919

Not yet will those measureless fields be green again
Where only yesterday the wild sweet blood of wonderful youth was shed;
There is a grave whose earth must hold too long, too deep a stain,
Though for ever over it we may speak as proudly as we may tread.
But here, where the watchers by lonely hearths from the thrust of an inward sword have more slowly bled,
We shall build the Cenotaph: Victory, winged, with Peace, winged too, at the column’s head.
And over the stairway, at the foot–oh! here, leave desolate, passionate hands to spread
Violets, roses, and laurel, with the small, sweet, tinkling country things
Speaking so wistfully of other Springs,
From the little gardens of little places where son or sweetheart was born and bred.
In splendid sleep, with a thousand brothers
To lovers–to mothers
Here, too, lies he:
Under the purple, the green, the red,
It is all young life: it must break some women’s hearts to see
Such a brave, gay coverlet to such a bed!
Only, when all is done and said,
God is not mocked and neither are the dead
For this will stand in our Market-place–
Who’ll sell, who’ll buy
(Will you or I
Lie each to each with the better grace)?
While looking into every busy whore’s and huckster’s face
As they drive their bargains, is the Face
Of God: and some young, piteous, murdered face.

— Charlotte Mew

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Rumi, "Love Is the Master"

I’ve always thought this poem would be a great background or theme for a romance novel.

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Love is the Master

Love is the One who masters all things;
I am mastered totally by Love.
By my passion of love for Love
I have ground sweet as sugar.
O furious Wind, I am only a straw before you;
How could I know where I will be blown next?
Whoever claims to have made a pact with Destiny
Reveals himself a liar and a fool;
What is any of us but a straw in a storm?
How could anyone make a pact with a hurricane?
God is working everywhere his massive Resurrection;
How can we pretend to act on our own?
In the hand of Love I am like a cat in a sack;
Sometimes Love hoists me into the air,
Sometimes Love flings me into the air,
Love swings me round and round His head;
I have no peace, in this world or any other.
The lovers of God have fallen in a furious river;
They have surrendered themselves to Love’s commands.
Like mill wheels they turn, day and night, day and night,
Constantly turning and turning, and crying out.

–Mowlana Jalaluddin Rumi

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Father Christmas, 1914


Christmas, 1914: Father Christmas putting presents in soldiers’ boots.

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Be Like a Bug

“All that energy we expend to keep things running right is not what’s keeping things running right. We’re bugs struggling in the river, brightly visible to the trout below. With that fact in mind, people like to make up all these rules to give us the illusion that we are in charge. I need to say to myself, they’re not needed, hon. Just take in the buggy pleasures. Be kind to the others, grab the fleck of riverweed, notice how beautifully your bug legs scull.”

–Anne Lamott, Bird by Bird: Some Instructions on Writing and Life

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Alas, Poor Wallis

I’m on vacation until the new year, but I set up some blog posts anyway. There will be a slight lack of introspective musings on writing and genre in them, but hopefully some entertainment value.

Behold one of the most amusing examples of dialogue I have ever read.

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“Wallis,” said Maturin. “I am happy to find you here. How is your penis?” At their last meeting he had carried out an operation on his colleague in political and military intelligence, who wished to pass for a Jew: the operation, on an adult, had proved by no means so trifling as he or Wallis had supposed, and Stephen had long been haunted by thoughts of gangrene.

Mr. Wallis’s delighted smile changed to gravity; a look of sincere self-commiseration came over his face, and he said that it had come along pretty well, but he feared it would never be quite the member it was.

–Patrick O’Brian, The Fortune of War

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