Variations on a Theme

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A few years ago, something happened that gave me a whole new approach to my writing.

An old boyfriend sent me an email through Classmates.com. No, I never replied. I’m a happily married woman. But it got me wondering: what if I had been a different person, if I hadn’t been so happy? What if I had made bad choices along the road that left me alone and desperate? What if I suddenly heard through the grapevine about that long lost love?

I wrote my first story on this idea, a piece called “Vicki, Existentially,” about a woman who regrets breaking up with her now-successful former lover and foolishly goes to his house while drunk one night.

I was pleased with the story, but I still felt like there was more to write. Somehow, things felt undone.

Before long, I found myself wondering how I would have felt if I were a moderately happy woman who loved her husband, but perhaps missed that special connection she and her former lover shared. Perhaps she missed it to the point that she felt compelled to meet with the former lover, in spite of their rocky past.

That one became “Now and Then,” a story about Liz, a woman in her forties who was shocked to find herself meeting her former lover, David, for drinks.

But I still wasn’t done.

I started wondering what would happen if a content, married woman was suddenly confronted with the memory of her former lover.

“The Wayside” was born, a story about a woman coping with mixed emotions when she discovers that a place significant to her former relationship has been closed.

Three stories, all of them different. And guess what—I still don’t feel like I’m done.

I'm sure this parade of stories about women reflecting on past relationships has my writing buddies wondering: is my marriage in shambles? Is my husband a jerk? I can’t blame them for wondering. I keep circling this subject like a Hot Wheel whizzing around a plastic track. But I can’t help myself. I’ve tripped across this fascinating new writing kick, a way to reexamine things by making small, but significant changes that end up changing the story completely. I call it Variations on a Theme.

This concept works on so many levels. Rewriting the same story with a different form—say, a long short story condensed down into a micro flash. I’ve even found myself writing short pieces about secondary characters in my novels, just trying to get a new view of who they really are. The possibilities are endless. Similar stories look completely different when they’re seen through a different lens.

So I challenge you: revisit a story and tell it in a brand new way. Switch up viewpoint. Change tense. Give your character a whole new fatal flaw. I think you’ll be amazed where those differences will lead you.

NaNoEdMo, Here I Come

*****

I’m a glutton for punishment. How else can you explain why I’ve decided to tackle NaNoEdMo when I already feel completely stretched as a writer, a mother and a civilized human being? When things have devolved into complete insanity, why not add one more major commitment to send me right over the edge?

The fact is, I’ve been floundering on my longer projects. I can bring myself to crank out the small stuff, but those pesky novels are languishing on my harddrive. So when I received an email reminder that NaNoEdMo was starting March 1, I decided to jump in with both feet. My hope is that NaNoEdMo will do for my editing what NaNoWriMo accomplished for drafting.

Now let’s pause to define a few terms, for those who are unfamiliar. NaNoEdMo is short for National Novel Editing Month, which takes place in March. NaNoWriMo is National Novel Writing Month, November. If you think of NaNoWriMo as the courtship, wedding and honeymoon, NaNoEdMo is the marriage that follows, the time when you see your beloved with all his flaws and work together to make your marriage beautiful.

As I was making the NaNoEdMo commitment in my head, I realized there were some major differences between EdMo and WriMo. While WriMo is about volume, EdMo is about finesse. WriMo goals are easy to define: write 50,000 words in 30 days, then stop and have a party. EdMo goals are murkier: edit 50 hours during the month of March. I don’t know about you, but my editing process involves long periods of staring at the monitor, petting the cat, checking my email every 30 seconds, maybe taking a swing over to weather.com to check the local radar. 50 hours of that could add up to a whole lot of staring and surfing, but not a lot of accomplished work.

So in the spirit of embarking on a successful EdMo journey, I submit my plan for success.

1)SET CONCRETE GOALS
-- 50 hours editing
-- 8 scenes edited
-- 50 pages of first draft edited

2)ESTABLISH ACCOUNTABILITY
Just like with WriMo, I plan to tell people I’m doing this, give them regular updates and log my progress publicly on the EdMo site and this blog.

3)CLEAR THE DECKS
This means finishing as many small writing projects as I can, sending out any submissions that I’ve been neglecting, cleaning the house to the nth degree, stocking the freezer with meals to reheat, making grandparent visits, friend visits and any other social obligations so I can push guilt aside and just work.

4)START MY WARM UP EXERCISES
Writing begets writing; editing begets editing. I know I can’t hit the ground running on a manuscript I haven’t touched in months. So I’ll read a few back scenes and put a toe in the water. After so long an absence, I need to find Beth’s voice again so I hear her clearly come March 1.

So there it is. My plan to make this tougher by pushing myself harder and reaching a little further than is comfortable for someone with my flaws and my daily obstacles. I know it isn’t going to be easy, but it’s got to be done. Or I expect everyone to let me hear about it.

No Contest

*****

I’m thinking of entering a few contests.

Now, I realize that, for most people, this isn’t much of a statement. But I’m a veritable Scrooge when it comes to contests. I have my reasons. Like the fact that most contests require an entry fee. Or that my work is tied up for long months while I await inevitable disappointment. And then there’s the staggering odds stacked against me. We all know jillions of people enter these things. I’ve done the math and I know I have a far better chance of getting my stuff accepted into smaller literary markets. The fact is, ever time I enter a contest, I know one of two things will eventually happen.

1) I’ll read the entry that beat mine and be pissed off because I honestly think mine was better, or
2) I’ll read the entry that beat mine and be so impressed that I’ll be embarrassed for even entering.

Either way, the end result is the same: I’m out my entry fee and I feel really lousy.

So why do I keep entering contests?

I think it all comes down to psychobabble. You know, all that stuff about needing validation and formal acceptance. Every writer has longed for at least a slice of that. I think what really sucks me into entering a contest is the possibility of glamour. How exciting to see the words FIRST PLACE next to one’s name! For one fleeting moment, the winner gets to be the most popular girl or boy in the senior class, the one all the other kids envy and want to be like.

Yep, it’s pitiful. A woman of my age should know better. But that’s why I throw money at contests and anti-aging face unguents and an endless stream of exercise tapes. Contests represent the chance to be something more, something new that we’ve never been before. So I get out the checkbook and the big manila envelopes. Take my money. I’ll just keep reaching for the sky.

No Pressure

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This blog has been an interesting undertaking for me on many levels, but particularly in the realm of commitment. I’ve done my best to meet my goal of posting every Tuesday. For the same reason, I take a weekly writing class. I know I have to bring something each Tuesday, 1000 of the best, shiniest words I can produce. Again, the deadline is a casual one. My teacher, Gail, doesn’t expect us to bring something each week. But I expect myself to produce.

There’s a reason for this. I know myself. If I don’t keep moving forward, I’ll slide down the slippery slope of procrastination. I remind myself that, if I had an editor or agent, they’d expect me to be professional and meet the deadlines I’d committed to. And, even better, if I had a throng of adoring readers, I’d need to produce something or risk disappointing the very people I write for. If I disappointed them, I know I’d really be disappointing myself.

My problem lies with having a foot in each of two camps. On the one hand, developing the ability to meet deadlines shows real professionalism. But on the other hand, having no real deadline is a luxury. Like a pampered cat, I have the freedom to rise from my napping place at whim to lap only the richest cream.

The thing is--I don’t believe this works. I’m a person who needs deadlines or I just don’t write. And if I don’t write, my muse gets fat and lazy, wanting to do nothing but watch reality shows and the Food Network. No pressure means nothing to show for myself. In the end, it means watching opportunity pass me by. So I heap on the deadlines. And I bust my butt to meet them. It’s by these baby steps that I move slowly forward.

Decisions, Decisions

*****

A few months ago, I was fighting a story I wasn’t sure I had the guts to write, much less publish. The story was about a woman who, after reinventing herself, is forced to face the shame of her promiscuous past. There were erotic elements, even instances where a less-careful reader might think the main character was a lesbian. I got caught up in what I think of as a dangerous place for writers. Rather than worrying about telling a good, honest story, I worried about what people would think of me.

Luckily, I got past myself enough to finish it, charging headfirst through my fears. After careful consideration, I decided to give a copy of my story to a friend at the “class” after my weekly writing class. I’d picked Mary (not her real name) because I’d always admired how frank and free-spirited she was about human sexuality. If anyone could read my story and not be offended, I was certain it would be Mary.

I was wrong.

A few weeks later, I finally had an opportunity to ask Mary what she thought. I got one of those shifty “I liked it” responses, the kind punctuated by a nervous smile and evasive eyes, followed by an immediate topic change.

It rankled. From the way she acted, I was sure she’d gotten the wrong idea, but I was worried I’d over-explain it and make things worse. I let it go, but it still bothered me.

Now here’s my point: should we walk away from our stories, because we worry what people will think of us? Class has resumed. I’m back to seeing Mary again on a weekly basis. Last week, I sat across from her in our lopsided circle, wondering what on earth she thought of me. Did she think I was a closet lesbian? Did she wonder if I’d once been a slut?

Yep, it still bothers me.

If you’re wondering, I submitted the story to an online magazine. I’m sure some writers would disagree with my decision, but I felt the story was worth making myself a little uncomfortable. So what if people judge me? I wrote the story as I thought I had to, doing what felt natural and true for the characters. I think I hit on something honest in the process. I feel good about working through the tough stuff. I just hope if anyone feels they must judge me, they judge me for the right thing.

Caught Between Two Worlds

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If you looked out our back windows, you’d be amazed by the activity just beyond our property line. Our backyard borders a busy divided highway, so for most of the day, traffic whizzes by at 50 mph or faster, a stream of trucks, school buses, SUV’s, box vans and minivans. Everyone’s in a hurry, no matter what the road conditions. Drivers look straight ahead and drive fast. This road is about getting to your destination.

The view from the front of our house is the complete opposite. This is our quiet corner of the world, the world I love. Today, for example, I’m watching the snow fall steadily on the street undisturbed by passing cars. The flakes float down as silently as if they fell in a dream, blanketing the branches of the big maple out front. The sky hangs silvery gray overhead, casting its glow over everything and blurring the lines between earth and heaven. Across the street, a dozen or more ancient trees dot my neighbor’s yard. The sight of those tangled branches etched in black and white forces me to stop and admire them. Only a few cars drive past each day, almost none on a snowy day like today. If it weren’t for the sounds of the traffic out back, you could hear the sound of nature’s snowy slumber.

I often find myself caught between these two worlds. We’ve tried, albeit futilely, to bring some of the soul-stirring quiet into the back. My husband has a big vegetable garden back there. He grew up on a farm and needs that connection to the earth, that simple purpose of bringing life and nourishment from his own patch of soil. I have a few beds of flowers, things I’ve divided off the plants I nurture in the front yard, purple coneflowers and tiger lilies where the sun beats down without respite, green hostas and pink bleeding hearts in the cool, damp shady grottoes beneath the silver maples and box elders. Next year, I plan to add a bed of ornamental grasses. My heart wants to hear them rustle in the breeze, but my brain knows traffic racket will drown out their voices. Until we put up a fence to block some of the traffic noise this past summer, my husband and I had to shout our conversations while picking the zucchini and green beans.

I think this sense of being caught between two worlds is one of the reasons I need to write. Life is like that busy county highway, always noisy, always on the move. By contrast, my heart wants time and quiet to hear the wind whisper through the pampas grass. Writing makes me slow down and process what’s happening around me, makes me notice the way snow falls, see how it frosts the branches, top side white, the bottom slate gray, a clear line with obvious distinction.

I know I’m not the only one. I have a friend who is an avid bicyclist, my former college chemistry professor who, God bless his heart, did his best to make esterification seem fun. I often see him when I’m out walking on summer mornings. One day, as we stood chatting by the side of the road, he told me he loved to bike because that is how fast his brain operates. I thought about that the rest of my walk home. He cycles; I walk. Each of us has our own pace we feel comfortable facing life at. He’s probably forgotten it, but our conversation still wanders through my head, even a year and a half later. I guess that’s the pace my brain works at. I’m a walker in a world that wants to run. Perhaps because of that I’m a writer.

Rejected by the Sea Urchin

*****

I’ve learned to take my fair share of rejection. But every once in awhile, one comes along that really gets to me, down deep where my muse and I live.

Example: the rejection I got yesterday for “The Postmodern Bullcrap Devolution of Daddy’s Little Girl,” a story I wrote about a year ago in response to the Writer’s Digest Your Story competition. The prompt was to write a short-short story about a character getting a chance to be on TV that results in the character’s humiliation.

Well, as anyone who knows my writing can attest, I’m an expert in humiliation, but the TV angle didn’t come naturally. I clustered, I freewrote, I lay awake at night, and eventually came up with an psychological piece about a woman coming to terms with being rejected by her alcoholic father. The TV thing was an add on, tacked on like lace on a hem. I sent it off to Writer’s Digest with my heart bursting with hope, sure I was going to be lauded as the next Faulkner or Hemingway.

No dice.

I pouted about it for a week, then started shopping Postmodern around.

Months passed. The story made the rounds to half a dozen-ish markets. I got a few form rejections and, even better, several promising personal rejections. I revised, I revamped, I even lost the TV aspect, finally admitting that the whole TV angle dragged the story down.

But still no dice.

I entered what I now call Angry August, the month where my spirit was broken from months of rejection. On August 1st, I decided to give Postmodern one last try. I found an e-zine with a astonishingly high acceptance rate and again, sent it off, sure they would be grateful to get work from a writer of my caliber. Dammit, I was going to get in this time.

I heard back from them yesterday, 167 days later. I submit their response for your enjoyment:



Greta Igl,

Deepest appreciations are tendered for your sharing of your fictional "The Postmodern Bullcrap Devolution of Daddy's Little Girl."

Unfortunately, it pleases me not-- or, in the least, insufficiently. Please keep my humble journal in mind as you continue writing, and consider submitting other pieces in the future.

All for the Best in the Best of All Possible Worlds,

The Enormous Sea Urchin*
Editor-in-Chief

*name changed from one non-sentient sea creature to another to somewhat obfuscate the identity of the publication

Yes, I’d been rejected by a sea urchin.

Last I checked, sea urchins couldn’t even read. Yet, somehow, this one not only read, but also considered itself sufficiently self-aware to evaluate the story I’d slaved away at for so many profitless months. I pictured some acne-pocked, chubby teenager in his basement bedroom cackling as he hit the SEND button. How dare these people send me such an inane rejection? I’d been the paragon of professionalism with them. Didn’t I deserve a modicum of respect?

I stared at the monitor, which turned red before my steaming gaze. This proved it. I truly was an expert in humiliation. My own.

A good night’s sleep changed my attitude. I still would have appreciated more professionalism in their response. But I’d like to think the sea urchin angle was someone’s idea of a cutesy joke, rather than someone’s effort to hide behind anonymity.

Rather, my change of heart came about something I knew I could change—my own lousy attitude. I finally figured out what I should have known from the beginning: Some stories just aren’t meant to see the light of day. It looked like Postmodern was one of them. I wrote it. I learned a lot from it. But it was time for me to move on.

So I move on now, a little humbler and a little smarter, God willing.

One last bit of crow to eat: Sea urchin, I apologize for all the snotty thoughts I sent toward your little corner of the ocean. I won’t say you were right, but you weren’t 100% wrong. Perhaps you’re more self-aware than I am.