The butterfly effect

A dear friend reached a writing pinnacle last night, a near-perfect choreography of dialogue, action, description and voice. Her characters all but leapt from the page, my affection for each growing with every beautifully-crafted word. Sentences flowed with melodic ease - and despite my best efforts, I could find little to critique.

It's the kind of professional writing I'd expect to see from a well-seasoned (and published) author.

But Donna isn't published. In fact, the pages she provided for last night's critique session are, essentially, the first draft of her first real attempt at writing a novel.

Did your stomach just do a jealous roll?

Let me put it into perspective.

Turn the clock back six months. I met Donna, a bubbling, blonde beauty, at my second ever critique group meeting. She presented us a single chapter - with terrible formatting, a myriad of typos, a complex vision of an un-orthodoxed story and only basic understanding of how to write a book. But underneath the surface we all saw the raw talent - and Donna's true potential.

Like most writers, her confidence started out shaky. Even her critiques were delivered with the tell-tale vibration of insecurity. She would be the first to admit that pointing out another writer's flaws (even the minor ones) Stressed. Her. Out. Our group was new - and the safety and comfort a solid critique circle requires for success had yet to be established.

But Donna wants this.

To say we've been hard on her is a slight understatement. After each meeting, she went home with a new craft rule, a variation of a plot twist, a new formatting requirement - and, I'm sure, a burning desire to flip each of us the bird. Especially me.

If she did curse me, however, she did so under her breath. Every week she brought back pages that incorporated the new rule - better action words, a deeper sense of point of view, neat dialogue tags, appropriate metaphors. In the last six months I've witnessed jealousy-inducing coffee-shop epiphanies, brilliant problem solving, and an improvement of writing quality that is nothing short of staggering.

When each of us quit writing or submitting to the group for personal reasons, Donna never missed a beat, demonstrating the kind of belly-fire I've only heard about in the past. When life turns upside down. Keep writing. When you don't feel like it. Keep writing. When your muse is being uncooperative, kick him in the butt, even if he IS wearing Spandex and rocking out to old 80s hair band songs. And keep writing.

While the rest of us skewed the weekly submission deadline to facilitate a myriad of excuses (Husband is taking me____, Stepdaughter needs help with _____, My muse is being a ________), Donna submitted every Friday before 3 p.m. - because that was the original deadline.

I've watched Donna field harsh criticism and deflect defeat, look self-doubt in the eye and slam the door shut on insecurity.

And I've witnessed a transformation of writing so beautiful I can only compare it to the spellbinding emergence of a butterfly from its comfortable cocoon. In these past weeks, Donna has not stepped from her comfort zone, but leapt (with a smile) - and the result is mind boggling.

Donna's book is mere chapters away from completion. I am so honoured that she has trusted me to be a part of this process (from start to finish) and there will be no greater joy than watching her share her transformation with the world.

I'm so proud of you, Donna.

LYaWBPuFY


The Book In My Bag Today: Altar of Eden, James Rollins

Satisfying the muse

I've heard cravings can often be satisfied by merely glancing at a picture.

Others take a much longer stare.

Sometimes you need that time to memorize the image so you can revert to it whenever overindulgence seems imminent. Instead of reaching for the dark side and giving into temptation, a photograph might suffice, right?

Especially if you're on a weight loss program.

You did know I was talking about chocolate, right?

The Easter Bunny all but missed my house this weekend (the single chocolate treat is currently being coveted by my stepdaughter) - so I missed a bit of delicious indulgence. This year, I couldn't gorge on mini eggs, marshmallow peeps, or a candy silhouette of Bart Simpson.

Yet.

I'm well aware that all of that Easter goodness will start hitting the sale racks today - and since I'm knee deep in revisions, I'll be tempted to indulge. Unacceptable.

To combat such impulse, I've selected a muse that conforms to my usual shallow standards, but also performs a second duty. Whenever I feel the urge to buy chocolate, I'll pull up this picture instead. And stare at it - for as long as it takes to satisfy me.

For hours if necessary.

Care to join me?

The Book In My Bag Today: Altar of Eden, James Rollins

Book 23 - Dime Store Magic

As far as supernaturals go, witches aren't my favourite. My adoration for them kind of ended after Practical Magic and reading Nora Roberts' Three Sisters trilogy.

But in Dime Store Magic, author Kelley Armstrong creates sympathetic characters in Paige and her young charge Savannah. Which is a good thing since I was a bit hesitant to read this book once I learned it didn't focus on Elena the werewolf (Bitten) but rather I character I hadn't fallen in love with in Stolen.

As with all of her books, Armstrong has a way of making you feel as though you've living the story rather than reading it (tight psychic distance as Steve Berry would point out) and in Dime Store Magic there was much for me to relate to - like the dynamics between Paige and Savannah.

Savannah reminded me of my stepdaughter, and Paige's struggle to walk that fine line between "guardian" and "friend" is reminiscent of my life. I may have even picked up a few tricks (grin).

Paige is a normal young woman - despite being a witch and the Coven leader. She worries about her weight and whether she'll ever find a boyfriend. She takes Savannah to school, tries to fit in with the PTA, volunteers, and keeps pre-made dough in her freezer for emergency feel-good cookies.

So when the locals start petitioning for her to leave town and strange black magic surrounds her house, Paige isn't entirely equipped to deal with the drama. Her "dime store magic" isn't strong enough - yet - to protect everything she holds close to her heart, and her Coven sisters have left her to fend for herself. Eventually she gives in and enlists the help of (gasp) a sorcerer names Lucas Cortez.

While Lucas - the eventual love interest - is a great sorcerer and friend to Paige and Savannah, especially during a custody battle caught in a whirlwind of magic and controversy, I didn't fall in love with him. Even at the end. He comes off as a bit wimpy and the description felt a bit lack-luster. But I suppose not all of Armstrong's heroes can have the raw sexuality of Clayton, Elena's phenomenal mate.

I'm taking a break from the paranormal for a book (or two) but when I return, I suspect it will be with another of Armstrong's novels. She's a brilliant writer and Dime Store Magic was well worth the time invested in reading it. I'm just sorry it's taken me so long to discover her!

42 Fools for April

My teenager often joins random *groups* on Facebook. Most of them make no sense - to me. Apparently, if you're 13 years old, you completely relate to and can sympathize with the phrase "Hello, I am 12 and what is that?" Yes, there's a group for that.

There's also a group for: I Hate When People Stare at Me When I'm Eating, My Dreams Always Make Sense and then I Wake Up and It's Like "WHATTTT!!!", and Ex-Boyfriend Gets Owned by Ex Girlfriend's Dad on Status Update. Wow!

"Become a fan" is kind of like new-age peer pressure - support for something that doesn't require actual action. You don't really have to get your Dad to *own* your ex on his status update, right?

Unless the group is overtly inappropriate, I turn a blind eye. A quick peruse through my teen's friend list confirms she isn't alone in her random group-following ways. But if something piques my interest, I'll sometimes take a deeper look.

So imagine me trying to ignore this one: 42 Ways to Drive Your Parents Nuts.

Joined - cough, cough, ahem - the day before April Fool's Day.

I like surprises, really I do. But not the kind of surprise that suggests my kid stand over my bed at four in the morning and say "Good morning, sunshine" -  kind of Jack Nicholson-creepy, don't you think? Or how about the surprise of going to the mall together and her shouting "No, I am not going to make out with you Mom." That's number 9.

After reading the list, I find myself questioning a few inquiries over the past few days. Did she ask about super glue because number 29 suggests crazy gluing your finger up your nose is a good way to drive parents nuts? And if I give in to buying ice cream cones, will she really stick one to her forehead and pretend to be a unicorn like number 34 says to do?

She already likes to "roar" (or rather, rawr) like a dinosaur, but might she begin saying "moo" at the end of an introduction? Am I destined to have every question I ask responded to with a quote from Twilight? Was that annoying tapping at my bedroom door last night the result of following instructions from number 15?

I figure the best line of defense for such potential April Fool's gags is offense, so I'm memorizing the list. If she takes a bath and yells "I'm drowning" I might not race to the bathroom, but rather double check with stealth. And if I hear the toilet flush, I won't assume she's giving herself a swirly. Sushi's fish tank is far too small for her to pretend to snorkel in. (And though it's not officially on the list, I have to assume she won't go through with her threat to eat Sushi when I'm sleeping...)

I will not be alarmed if she runs around the house naked, or sings at the top of her lungs in her underwear, or tells me she "sees dead people." I will not judge her for flicking on and off the light switch before muttering (in awe), "Oh, I get it." And if she pastes a sticker to her chest that says "I'm a retard" I'll pat her hand in understanding rather than launch into a discussion about inappropriate labels.

Just to be safe, though, I think we'll spend this April Fool's Day indoors. I'd hate for a random stranger to witness my stepdaughter slithering or swimming on the floor, talking to her pen, eating her hair (while muttering I don't feed her), or wearing a lamp shade on her head.

It's bad enough she's asked me to bake cookies for her 20 (imaginary) friends.

Happy April Fool's Day.

The Book In My Bag Today: Dime Store Magic, Kelley Armstrong

Book 22 - Where the Truth Lies

My amazing friend Rocky sent me Where the Truth Lies almost two years ago, with a note indicating he'd read this book a couple of times, thought I would enjoy it, and encouraged me to give it a read.

I didn't.

It's not that I don't trust his judgment. Rocky knows me pretty well - better than most, I'd venture - but for some reason the cover didn't entice me, the story blurb on the back didn't grab me, and the rest of my TBR pile was filled with paranormal romance or Nora Roberts, the "safe" reads I'd come to lean on when time was of the essence.

I should have listened to Rocky.

Where the Truth Lies is one of the most compelling books I have ever read, and O'Connor, an up-and-coming journalist tasked with writing a tell-all book about a handsome showbiz team, is likely the most memorable protagonist I'll ever meet.

This isn't a complex plot. In fact, as Rocky and I discussed just last night, the story threads are pretty lightweight - an unexplained death, two potential killers, an interesting love triangle, and a sexy romp through show biz in the 70s.

On the other hand, the characters are anything but simple.

In O'Connor, author Rupert Hughes, has portrayed a tart, gutsy protagonist who will do just about anything to get her story. Not that I approve of everything she does - as a former Journalist, I was shocked, and sometimes disgusted, by how deeply O'Connor is compromised. But this is fiction, and O'Connor's moral code doesn't have to mirror my own.

Similarly, singer Vince Collins and comic Lanny Martin, are living the high life - on the edge. Holmes doesn't pull any punches with dialogue, scene description, even general attitude. I blinked in shock more than a few times at the sheer guts of some of the words.

But I kept reading. I read past the discomfort. I pushed through the saggy taffy middle (albeit small). I swallowed any debate about "broken" writing craft rules. Why?

Quite simply, Rupert Hughes IS the master of voice. I'll never question its importance again. I might even actually "get it" now - because O'Connor's is so distinct, so deliciously sassy and real, that I was utterly seduced from the very first page.

aMUSEing discipline

Immediately after watching The Ninja Assassin, I turned to my handsome husband and declared: I want to be a Ninja.

I've had some time to sleep on it, and of course, what I meant to say is that I want to be as good at something as this week's muse avatar Bi Rain is at being a Ninja...or fine tuning his almost 30-year-old body to such chiseled perfection.

Practice.

That's what it all comes down to - whether you're training for the Olympics, learning a new martial art, trying out a new recipe, getting in shape...or writing a book. Practice and discipline. Not the kind of scary "yes sen-sai or die" discipline demonstrated in The Ninja Assassin, but certainly a commitment to 'get er done.'

Or in my case, that means sitting my ass in the chair after applying a hefty dose of Bum Glue.

In this really great movie, Bi and his fellow assassins must work through pain without flinching and intensive training without collapsing. They must consider their mortality without fear. Ok, so that's a bit more real-life drama - and blood - than the typical novel-writing process, but the lessons are similar.

Life shouldn't get in the way. Keep writing.

Practice. Practice. Practice.

Oh, and maybe try doing it in the dark - seems to work for the Ninjas.

The Book In My Bag Today: Where the Truth Lies, Rupert Holmes

Book 21 - Horns

Have you ever wondered what people really thought about you? When stripped of societal niceties, is it possible your friends - and even your family - might not think all of those wonderful things you've been led to believe?

For Ignatius Parish this isn't a nightmare, it's a reality that begins the morning he looks in the mirror and discovers two horns protruding from the top of his head. At first he believes they aren't real, but rather a figment of his alcohol-fuzzied imagination. After all, he's never recovered from the violent death of his girlfriend and despite being cleared of guilt, he knows there are many who still think he killed her.

But he soon learns that not only are the horns real, they give him an eerie power that will help solve the mystery of his beloved's murder. Ig can make people tell him things - even the stuff he isn't prepared to hear.

In Horns, Joe Hill has created a protagonist that will make you feel sympathy for the devil. While the horns themselves could be cheesy, Hill's description is so vivid, and the emotional attachment so well done, I could almost feel them protruding from my own head. For the first couple of nights I went to sleep thinking of Ig - and awoke touching my head with trepidation.

Hill's first book, Heart Shaped Box (HSB) , was a New York Times Bestseller - but I almost didn't pick up Horns. Despite a fabulous first chapter, HSB failed on the follow through for me. I spent much of the book waiting for something to happen, and even though Hill is a great writer, the plot fell short.

No so with Horns. I bought the book after reading the first chapter (I know...but gamble I did), a single paragraph that enticed me to pay for the hard cover. The plot is rich with parallels and subtle messaging and peppered with the kind of creepy gore that would make his Dad proud. (Sidenote: Though Hill is Stephen King's son, he has made it clear he would like to stand on his own writing merit. He does so, and then some.) Not being a fan of snakes in the first place, I was morbidly fascinated by one of the creepiest scenes in the book - picture Ig and more than a hundred poisonous vipers. Even as I think of it now, I shudder.

Hill's love of music is conveyed in this book with often subtle brilliance. One liners, adapted from popular rock lyrics, stand out with comedic grace, making me laugh out loud. You can even pick up some great rock-and-roll trivia if you're paying attention.

Which I was. To everything, including seemingly effortless wordplay.

Although Ig is a little like the protagonist in HSB, Hill distinguishes between each of his other characters but provides a thread of commonality and reveals a little of the devil inside. Every one of us.