Creativity at three o’clock in the morning

One of the blessings of my life is that I usually sleep well at night—and frequently in the daytime too. But last night about three o’clock, I woke and then my busy mind kept me from falling back to sleep. I’ve been known to write great fiction at such times, but the story line either disappears or falls apart when I try to reconstruct it in the morning. Last night I wanted to remember everything.

For years I’ve toyed with the idea of writing a memoir, but I never could wrap my mind around it. The closest I came was my first cookbook, Cooking My Way through Life with Kids and Books. I divided my life into four cooking phases, although now I’d add a fifth. But ten years ago, the phases were childhood in Chicago with a British menu of meat and potatoes, Texas and two new foods—Mexican and Jewish, the casserole years when I raised four children as a single parent with little money to spare, and the years of the empty nest, when cooking really became prominent in my life as I experimented and entertained often. Today I’d add the years of the hot plate, because as most know, I cook on a hot plate or in a toaster oven these days. But that really was a book about food, not my life.

I’m not convinced my life is interesting enough to recount, though others seem to think it is, with raising those four children alone as the central adventure. And maybe it was interesting, and I just didn’t recognize it as I lived it day to day. There were of course gray days but there were many more filled with laughter and even silliness. Warm memories. 

I’m in a small, close-knit online writers’ group where the women mostly write memoir, and one thing I’ve noticed is that most memoirs deal with overcoming a serious problem—frequently addiction or the addiction of a child. We have one woman writing about losing her husband too early to a brain tumor, and another whose ex-husband stole her children. I look forward to those books, both of which are headed to print. But my life pales in comparison. I just haven’t had any big major problems.

So last night I hit on an idea: My Life with Dogs. For too long I lay awake, creating a list in order of the dogs who have meant something in my life. I came up with close to twenty—a pretty good record for eighty years. Oops, I just thought of one more and added him to the list, a dog I had less than a month but one I will never forget. And then I had to memorize the list, so it didn’t get away from me in the morning. That of course might well end up a book more about dogs than me, but it’s worth exploring.

My mind progressed to blog topics and came up with two—you’re reading one now, and the Lord willing you’ll read the second tomorrow night. There was a list of emails I should make today, and again I had to memorize it so that it didn’t get away from me. I am pleased to report that I have committed the list of dogs to a computer file, put the blog topics on my calendar, and sent the emails.

All of this deep thinking took until well after four, but I have a trick for those rare nights when sleep eludes me. I get up and go to the bathroom, whether I need to or not, come back and take two Tylenol. That somehow seems to break the cycle of sleeplessness. True enough, this morning it was 6:40 before I knew it and then I only knew it because Sophie wanted to go out. I got her safely back in the cottage, and next thing I knew it was 8:15—more than time to get up and write down all my three o’clock thoughts.

Excuse me—I think I’ll go take a nap.

The book that was snake-bit

Apologies in advance for a whiny post, but my latest Kelly O’Connell Mystery, the eighth, Contract for Chaos, was snake-bit from the beginning. The manuscript was finished, ready to go in June, with publication scheduled for early September. That left the summer for advance publicity.

I was “under the weather” most of the summer, so lethargic I barely turned on my computer. My publicist was distracted by severe illness in her family—she has nothing but my most sincere sympathy. Blogging and review opportunities were missed—I just couldn’t bring myself to write much. Contract didn’t get much attention, though I shared its terrific cover when I could.

Then I tangled with Amazon. I thought I was posting the book for advance orders before September publication; instead, they listed as published June 18—which calls to mind that old saying, “IF a tree falls in the forest and no one is there to hear it, does it make a sound?”—and the listing said, “Limited availability.” Limited! I wanted to scream, “No! Lots of availability! Come one, come all!”

 Today, there was to be a guest blog, one I was rather proud of. It dealt with what a character looks like. I suppose most authors envision their characters in their mind—you must in order to get an adequate description. But you rarely actually see them. This time, I sent the designer several descriptive passages about Keisha, Kelly’s idiosyncratic assistant, along with a request to have her in the cover art. Thanks to artist Sherry Wachter, the art work came out spot on—Keisha was every bit as flamboyant and larger than life as I’d written her, and I was delighted to have put that into words in a blog post.

So the post this morning showed the cover (above) and talked about the agrarian myth as it relates to two previously published small-town novels: The Perfect  Coed and Pigface and the Perfect Dog. The agrarian myth, the concept that life in small towns is somehow more simple and pure, is really hard to relate to an urban novel about racism, complete with neo-Nazi protestors and snipers with deadly aim.

I’m not even sure if I should share that misplaced post wide and far or not. You suppose it would do the two earlier novels any good—or simple confuse people? Or worse yet, make them think I’ve finally gone off my rocker?

As you can tell, my health is better, my lethargy gone, and I’m energized—but frustrated. Sure, this is a subtle plea for each reader to rush to order Contract for Chaos. But more than that, I wanted to explore and explain how delicate and complicated indie publishing is. You can’t just put your book out there and forget it—it becomes like that silent tree falling in the forest, lost in the forest of books that are published daily. Authors often spend more time marketing their books than they did writing them. Gone are the days when you wrote, and a publisher publicized.  It’s enough to make a person take up scrubbing floors. Remember Erma Bombeck? Writing in pre-computer days, she said a blank sheet of paper always gave her the urge to scrub floors.

I’m going back to defending the Alamo. I guess some day I’ll have to explain that. Suffice to say now, I’m working on a book about the second battle of the Alamo.

A day in my life on wheels

 What do you do all day when you can’t put any weight on one foot? Well you scoot around the house on a walker. The big problem there is that walkers are designed to be pushed forward. If you put the seat down and ride it, as I do, you have to go backward in order to steer with any effectiveness. Great exercise for leg muscles—in fact it mimics an exercise I did in physical therapy. Hard to carry a plate of lunch, but I’ve learned to put my lunch in a small baggie and put it in the basket behind me. I can even put a cup of hot tea there, though this morning I got splashed and thought at first that something had stung me. Only thing that doesn’t work is wine—after dumping two glasses on the kitchen floor, I’ll not try that again. But I can scoot with a glass of wine in my hand, because it’s pretty much hands-free steering. Your feet point you in the right direction.

And while I’m on the subject of exercise—I’m getting upper arm strength pushing myself up from the chair. Hardest transition is from chair to commode and back again. And in the night last night as I swung that heavy boot into the bed, I thought what a Herculean feat it was.

I’ve been sleeping a lot and let inertia overcome me, but this morning I was up and dressed—well, teeth brushed and hair washed—and at my desk before nine o’clock (of course, I went to bed at eight last night). Today I’ve done email, Facebook, written not one but three blogs, and read a bit. Will read more tonight.

Food is problematic—I’m not much interested, though I do better if someone prepares something and hands it to me. At lunch today, my brother and sister-in-law came, bringing burgers which I declined. But Cindy fixed me a bowl of cottage cheese and a big glass of wine—and I was a happy camper. Tonight I cut up leftover steak into bites and put it in a baggie; washed raspberries that were fading fast, and that was dinner.

Company is the most welcome part of my day—and other than John and Cindy, I’ve had none today. Yesterday for a brief while there were three people here for happy hour. Sophie is my great companion. She sleeps with me and cuddles in the bed, her front paws proprietarily over my arms. And she wanders from room to room as I scoot, watching me with a puzzled expression. I’d be lost without her company.

I don’t know how long this will go on but I’m aware I must be prepared to scoot for a while. I’m sure the routine will change—maybe I’ll even be inspired to start another book. Also I should get to the point that the swelling in my foot goes down and the pain disappears, so I can walk in the boot. That’s where I was until last Wed., but the boot was too tight and the foot kept getting more and more painful.

A huge mistake...and a joy

Last night, in one thoughtless keystroke, I overwrote all the back-up of the blog posts I’d made since early January. I’ll blame it partly on Word for updating the program but it was truly my fault. I knew all along I was pushing my luck to keep so many posts in one file, but on the other hand my blog posts, if compiled into one book, would rival War and Peace or Moby Dick. So this will force me to go back and winnow—but not tonight, thank you.

I told Jacob about it when I went to tuck him in (too far past his bedtime) and he said, “Damn, Judy!” I thought it an appropriate response and told him I was tempted to say something stronger but wouldn’t.

Besides, does anyone care about “A year in the life of Judy Alter?”

Today, after getting lots of work done, I’ve been having fun going through recipes. One of my favorite things to do is plan menus for company. Saturday night my oldest daughter and her younger son will be here for a Sunday baseball game at TCU. Christian won’t join us for supper because he’s going to do yard work all day—I suspect he also relishes the time alone and is being sweet and giving me and my two daughters some girl time. Jacob and his cousin are best buddies and will be so delighted to be together.

Back to recipes—I picked out a whole bunch, mostly things I can’t fix for Christian. My choice was a wonderful Italian tuna sandwich with green pesto, but Jordan said she and her sister don’t want all that bread. She chose salmon with anchovy butter and capers. It’s good, but Megan was in Alaska last summer, brought back tons of salmon, and may be ready for a change. I wrote her, hope to hear tonight because tomorrow is grocery day. Friday I have to stay home for delivery of my now-dry and clean couch. Today I had to stay home for delivery of my splurge—a four-drawer wooden file cabinet. We put the old battered two-drawer out at the curb last night and it’s gone—Lewis tells me it’s recyclable and that’s why people pick it up. This staying home for workmen, while far from over, is getting tiresome and a bit wearying. Today they were laying new floor in the sunroom where the original was destroyed by hail.

Wow! Talk about wandering off topic. Anyway that’s my story for the day.

Time on My Hands

I read today somewhere that readers aren’t interested in blogs about writing—those only appeal to other writers, and few of them at that. But I thought you should know that much of the writing life consists of waiting. At least, that’s where I am now. I’ve sent off the proposal for the Chicago novel and this week, nudged the publisher by following up with a marvelous endorsement from a major Chicago author. Waiting to hear.

At the first of the week—or was it the last of the previous week?—I gave the mystery manuscript, “Murder at the Peacock Mansion,” to a reader. He promised to return before the end of the month, so I’m waiting. After all, that’s not so long.

The editor of the chili book wrote yesterday with three questions, which she swore were the last. So until it’s time to promote, there’s little for me to do. And Texas Tech seems to be such an efficient press, that I’m sure they’ll guide me through promotion. And so I wait.

This week, there was suddenly some renewed interested in a children’s history of Fort Worth, a project I’ve been trying to push one way or another for thirty years and in the last ten years Carol Roark and I have collaborated on—she will do image research to accompany my text, which is drafted. So I sent the manuscript off to the interested publisher…and we wait.

Most people who are as OCD as I am would promptly get busy on another project and, indeed, I have one awaiting my attention. I have 30,000 words drafted on the second Oak Grove Mystery (following Susan Hogan in The Perfect Coed). It’s timely in our era of gun violence because it deals with open carry. But I’m reluctant to get into the middle of that when other things might call me away.

I’m well aware that a month from today school starts, and I will give up long, lazy lunches with friends followed by long lazy naps. I should enjoy this time while I have it, and to a great extent I am. For one thing I’m reading mysteries that I have let backpile—Julie Hyzy’s Grace Calls Uncle, which I reviewed on this blog recently. Now I’m reading Terrie Moran’s Caught Read-Handed, the excellent sequel to her Well Read, Then Dead. But reading is always a luxury to me…and I suffer from the itchy feeling I should be doing something more productive.

I suspect this uncomfortable waiting periods come to most writers, though many probably handle them better than I do. Meantime, I know this too shall pass. And I have a bit of cooking to do.

 

Dry spell

While much of the country freezes with subzero temperatures and the East labors under a heavy snow fall, North Texas is getting off fairly easily. This morning I bundled for extreme cold in jeans, my warmest sweater, and a quilted down jacket. And I really felt cozy. Well, at least at first. I swore when I came home at 10:30 it was colder than when I left at 9:00. And tonight it's to be 18--that's really cold for us. But by Saturday? Sixties. As someone said, Mother Nature seems to be off her meds.
For me, this funny weather is a dry spell, though I'm not sure the two are connected. I wonder if most writers don't go through these dry spells. Oh, I've been busy--writing blogs, guest blogs that are scheduled after Murder at the Tremont Inn launches Feb. 27, editing the neighborhood newsletter, making my presence known on Facebook and even exploring Twitter and Pinterest a bit, though I've ignored them for weeks, even months.
I've been busy socially. I'm a big believer in keeping up friendships and in the fact that it takes an effort--so I've been out to lunch and dinner a lot. In fact, tonight is the first night since last Sat. that I've had dinner at home alone. You know what? Eating leftovers (even from last Sunday) is kind of fun. I'v got a fire in the fireplace and a book to read.
I have 10,000 words done on a new novel...but then I got distracted by another project I really wanted to move ahead on. Besides, I have no contract on this newest one, no deadline. I don't usually write to deadline so that doesn't bother me, but I feel that I'm resting, gathering strength to plunge into a new novel. My horoscope said today that news in the next week would give me a burst of new energy. I guess I'm waiting.
There's another stumbling block--I've got a 450+ page novel to review, and I don't like to plunge into my own novel while my imagination is caught in the world of the one I'm reading. As is not unusual for me, I started this one thinking Why did I agree to review this? Now, almost a hundred pages into it, I'm getting hooked on the story. Don't know if that's good or bad--shouldn't take a hundred pages to draw me in.
Enough rationalizations about why I'm not writing. Do you have reasons you put off doing things? I think we all do. But if you'll excuse me, I'm going to spend the rest of the evening reading my book.

The good kind of a day

Today was one of those days--not outstanding but good. I wrote two guest blogs (for July and the new Kelly O'Connell Mystery, Danger Comes Home) and felt my morning had been productive. This evening a good friend who calls me her big sister came for supper. It's not often in mid-June that you can enjoy the front porch, but it was a lovely evening, and we had wine out there. Mary talked about how fortunate and blessed she feels in her life (even though she's widowed) and that made me think the same about my life. She also brought greetings from an acquaintance who said she loves my books and my blog--thank you, Vicki!
I fixed a tuna pasta for supper--sort of started with a recipe and went from there. I meant to put asparagus in it, but the asparagus had gone south, as had the zucchini with which I was going to make appetizer crisps--rolled in butter and parmesan and then baked, they're heavenly. We had tuna pasta, too heavy on the anchovies (my fault) and salad with the hearts of romaine Mary brought. The tuna was not a recipe I'll keep, even with my fiddling with it.
Then we sat on the porch again for a last glass of wine. Mary is a pinot grigio drinker, while I'm devoted to chardonnay, so she always brings her own wine. Tonight she decided she'd leave the rest of the bottle for Elizabeth, but she had a devil of a time putting the cork back in. She whittled over the garbage can several times, finally got it in, and went to put it in the fridge, when the cork popped out again. More whittling, than back in the fridge. This happened three or four times, but she was a woman on a mission and wouldn't give up. I was laughing but when I asked if I could take a picture she said no. Guess it's not very dignified for a professor.
A good day because I felt I accomplished some meaningful work, because I enjoyed Mary's company, and because she made me realize all over again how blessed I am with all the good things in my life--family, meaningful work, friends, a safe and comfortable home.
And her fight with the cork gave me a good laugh.
 

First draft blues--or is it relief?

With the first Blue Plate Mystery, Murder at the Blue Plate Cafe, just uploaded as a digital book to various platforms, I just yesterday finished the first draft of the second in that series. So far I'm calling it Murder at Tremont House, but that's tentative. (Kelly O'Connell fans, don't worry: A Kelly O'Connell Mystery, titled Danger Comes Home, will come between the two in the new series, next July.)
Meantime I'm trying to analyze how I feel about finishing that draft, after many nights of lying awake with plot threads going through my mind. Most writers feel great joy but I didn't. I think the biggest feeling I had was relief, as if a weight was off my shoulders. I knew how it would work out--and it did. I think it's okay but such a decision is far down the road. I also feel a bit blue, like I'm saying goodbye to characters I've lived with for a long time. Of course, that's silly--I'll be going back to them a whole lot in the months to come. But it's a funny feeling, almost like I should start the third book in the series right away--which is of course the last thing I want to do.
Next step is to send it to my favorite beta reader. His critiques are thorough, to the point, and offered without mercy. He always finds the good, and then digs in and tells me what bothers him in a work. He's priceless. But he's out of town, so I can't whisk it right off to him.
Besides, I have one final scene in the epilogue to write--no, please don't get me involved in a discussion of whether there should be epilogues or not. I like to end the book on a fairly dramatic note and then tie up the loose ends. And I've done all but one "loose end"--it maybe the hardest scene to write because it will irrevocably change the direction of the next Blue Plate Mystery. At any rate, I find myself dragging my heels about the scene. Tonight, I've promised myself.
I read a Facebook post tonight by a writer who had cut her first draft from 115,000 words to 107,000 but still had scenes to write. She said she doesn't know how anyone writes a 65,000-word novel. I do. This one, in draft, will probably come out about 62,000 words. I long ago faced the fact that I write short. When others moan that 450 words isn't enough for a book review, I sometimes wonder whatever I can say to take up 450 words. Maybe it's a blessing. I've know writers who, when asked for four pages submit twenty and act wounded when you request cuts.
Meantime, the age-old question: what am I going to do with myself while waiting for the critique? Maybe go back to the book of blog posts that an editor suggested. It's my fall-back project, and I can't be without a project.
A TCU English major was assigned the duty of interviewing an author and her teacher suggested me. She came by tonight--a delightful young woman--and one of her questions was, "Why do you write?" My answer? "Because I can't not write."

Charging ahead

A book is the greatest gift you can give a child

I seem to have rushed headlong into 2013 without a backward glance. It's only January 5, and I have a deskload of projects and am feeling the pressure of work--started a new novel and want to do something on it every day, a book to review, blogs to write, Facebook to keep up with as well as I can, and an edited collection of my blogs to work on for possible publication with a small press--their request. Trouble is I set my own goals and deadlines, and then have trouble convincing myself that the pressure I feel is self-generated, and the world won't end--nor will my career--if I don't make those deadlines. I think it's part of being a compulsive personality--I've never really learned to piddle well.
The novel is waking me up at five in the morning, my mind full of plot ideas. This morning I almost go up at six, but I really resent getting up before seven. When I got up though, I wrote down key words so I'd remember all those ideas. I now have enough to write way more than my daily thousand-word quota--but when will I find the time?
This morning was taken up by the mundane--empty the dishwasher, take out the garbage, water the plants, grocery store, dollar store (doesn't everyone have to have new hangers for the closet?), and do my yoga--first time in a week, and I could tell I was stretching muscles that had been stressed and not stretched. I've had a lot of company this week--last batch tomorrow--which means I've been on my feet and my low back hurts. Yoga was almost painful but I trust helpful.
Reading back blogs has been interesting--I find that I didn't used to feel obliged to post on my blog every night, and I may go back to that. My new plan is to post in the mornings, along with doing all other busy work such as yoga. But I'm trying to pull out the blogs that have to do with writing and collect them for a book on a writer's journey--haven't asked the publisher about this, but I shall in due time. My brother wants me to pull out all the blogs about family, and I think what discouraged me on the project was trying to do both at once. So yesterday I started with just culling posts or excerpts from posts that had to do with writing, and I got through about six months. But I have a long way to go--I've been blogging since July 2006.
On a sad note, my oldest son, Colin, and his family had to put their dog down today--a wonderful "island dog" they got as a puppy fifteen years ago on Grand Cayman. He'd had a great life-a Lisa said, he'd lived in three countries and two states--but was painfully arthritic and a malignant tumor had recently been diagnosed. No matter how much you know it's the right decision, it's a hard one to make. And particulary hard on young children--they were showering the dog with love with this morning and giving him more Begging Strips than was probably wise. I like to think he's running on the beach now, just as my Scooby is herding sheep in some heavenly pasture. I've heard it said that when you die, all the dogs you've ever loved are waiting to greet you.
And on a frustrating note, Blogger has changed the way they insert pictures, and I can't add the picture that I wanted to this blog. I wish they would stop "improving" things.