The call came at two a.m. and Matt probably would have slept through it, if Jess hadn’t elbowed him in the ribs.

“Wha—” He opened his eyes, trying to reorient himself with the room, the shrill sound of the phone, the anxious, wide-eyed look on Jess’s face.

“It’s them,” she whispered hoarsely. Them. Oh crap! He sat up and fumbled for his phone. Hitting the speaker button, he set it on his knee and took a breath.

“Hello?” He said.

“Mr. Bennett, this is Kim Meeks from the Department of Family and Protective Services.”

“Hey, Ms. Meeks,” Matt said to the caseworker, trying desperately to keep his voice from shaking. “Jess is on the line, too.”

“Good,” Kim said and then, “We are needing an emergency placement. Are you and Mrs. Bennett prepared to take in an eighteen month old?”

Matt could hear the little gasp from Jess beside him. They’d been planning this, learning, training, prepping for months, but with one phone call, reality had shocked them both like a bucket of ice water over the head.

Matt turned to Jess, silently asking her if she was ready and her look of determination, laced with fear made him feel better. They were on the same page. They were doing this.

“Yes, Ms. Meeks. We’re ready.”

“Great.” Kim cleared her throat. “Are you prepared for fostering a child with special needs?”

#

An hour later Jess had changed into yoga pants and a t-shirt, fixed her hair, put on some concealer, while Matt still wore his sleep shirt and pajama bottoms.

“You trying to impress the baby?” He asked her with a tiny smirk. She rolled her eyes as she straightened the throw pillows on the couch in the living room.

“I want to make a good impression on the caseworker,” she said.

“It’s the middle of the night, babe. They don’t expect us to be—” a sharp knock halted his words.

Jess raced to the door and threw it open. Kim Meeks stood on their porch in a rumpled blouse, holding a squirming baby boy in her arms. He was clutching onto her, while also moving his head around, trying to take in everything.

The first thing Matt noticed were his eyes, huge and dark amber. He had soft caramel curls and he was wrapped up in a sweatshirt that was too big for him.

Without any preamble, Kim thrust the boy into Jess’s arms and stepped inside the house. She held a grocery sack on one arm.

“You have a bottle warmer?” She said as a greeting.

“Y-yes,” Jess said, seemingly stunned to be holding the baby. She readjusted him on her hip and looked to Matt with a tight smile.

“Right. So, I’ll briefly go over his specific care needs, but I’ll be emailing you a more extensive set of directions in the morning. I just didn’t have time tonight.”

Matt glanced over at the boy, scanning for any indication of what special needs he might have. He and Jess had been very clear with DFPS that they were open to taking in any child in need of fostering and they’d meant it, but that didn’t stop the trepidation in Matt’s brain that he wasn’t skilled enough to handle this tiny human.

Kim was already moving toward the kitchen. “This may be a long term placement,” Kim flipped on the light and went straight to the fridge. She reached into the grocery sack and retrieved several pouches, shoving them inside.

“Oh, we have formula,” Matt started, because she needed to know they were prepared. They had formula, diapers in various sizes, clothes too. But Kim shook her head and closed the fridge.

“No formula, he’s on a very specialized diet.”

“Okay?” Jess said nervously, still staring down at the boy in a sort of shocked fascination.

“Now, it’s important you keep the pouches refrigerated. Don’t freeze them. They should be good for about a week, but he’ll go through them pretty quick. We’ll set you up with a regular shipment for the duration of his time with you.” Matt nodded, wondering if he should be taking notes.

“When he’s hungry, pour the contents of the pouch into a bottle warm it to ninety-eight point six degrees. Try not to go warmer or it will deteriorate the platelets.”

“Platelets?” Matt asked, scrubbing a hand through his hair. This was all so much to remember. Kim nodded and she rushed back toward the door, all business.

“I’d just keep him inside as much as possible during the day, but if you do go out, make sure he’s got on sunscreen and sunglasses. There’s a pair in the sack. And other than that, you should be set for the next couple of days.” Kim turned and finally smiled at them before giving the boy a little squeeze on his chubby arm. She looked at him fondly.

“We don’t know his name, but we’ve been calling him George.” She said. George. The name made it real. For however long he needed them, this boy, George, was their responsibility. It was heavy and suffocating and beautiful.

Kim left and Matt turned to Jess. George was slumped against her shoulder, his eyes drooping closed. Jess rubbed his back in a soothing circle.

“Poor little guy, bet you’re exhausted.”

“Here, let me,” Matt said and held out his hands. Jess handed him over and Matt marveled at how small George was, how light and soft. He pressed his cheek against the boy’s hair and whispered, “We’re going to take care of you, buddy. You’re safe. I promise.” 

#

“Babe!” Matt didn’t take his eyes off the screen as he called out to Jess the next morning. Jess shuffled in, wearing her ratty bathrobe, her face still puffy from sleep.

“What’s up?” She mumbled.

“Just got the full report from Kim. George’s got a couple of allergies. Looks like garlic, silver… and, uh… crucifixes?” He turned and locked eyes with his wife, who was frowning slightly.

“He’s a vampire, right?”

“We can’t just make assumptions,” Jess argued, but Matt shook his head.

“Babe, he’s totally a vampire.”

“Well, crap.” Jess sat on the edge of the bed and put her head in her hands. “This was not in the course videos!”

Matt went and sat beside her, hesitantly putting a hand on her knee. “Do you think we should call Kim?”

“What?” Jess peered back at him with big, glassy eyes. “Do you?”

“I, uh…” Just then the baby monitor on the desk crackled with the sounds of soft whimpering and a then a shrill cry as George woke in his new bed.

“Matt?” Jess said, biting her lip.

The crying was distracting, penetrating Matt’s thoughts, his parental switches flipping.

“It doesn’t matter if he’s undead. He needs a family.” And Matt meant it.

Jess nodded. “We can do this.”

Relief washed over Matt as the two stood together and raced down the hall to comfort their boy.

#

“What the hell are you doing?”

Matt looked up to see Jess standing in the doorway to the living room, pulling the belt of her robe tight. She was rubbing her bleary eyes and frowned at him hard.

They’d had George for two weeks and the kid was thriving, despite putting his foster parents through the wringer.

“Please tell me you aren’t doing what I think you’re doing.”

Matt shrugged, glancing down at George, whose mouth was clamped onto Matt’s left wrist. Loud slurps emanated from their foster son as he drank greedily. Jess sighed loudly and came over, leaning against the arm of the chair and looking down at George’s sweet little face.

“It’s just easier,” Matt said, glancing up at her. “You know my last bloodwork came back completely normal, so it’s fine.”

“And how fine is it going to be when he sucks you dry?” Jess said.

“He won’t.”

“How do you know?” She scoffed. “You make it a habit of letting vampires drink your blood?”

“No, but he’s a baby vampire. His tummy is very small. He’ll get full and release me soon enough.”

“Fine, but don’t blame me when you pass out,” Jess said, but there was no heat in her tone. She sat on the arm of the chair and ran her fingers through Matt’s hair affectionately. “Doesn’t that hurt?”

“Not really,” Matt said, readjusting George in his lap. George let out a high pitched growl and latched on harder. “Woah, buddy, I’m just moving my leg so it doesn’t fall asleep.” Once George had relaxed and gone back to feeding, Matt leaned his head against Jess’s side. “It doesn’t hurt. It’s like this weird pulling sensation. And I feel like my energy is up, like I could run a marathon.”

“Yes, that’s called adrenaline, because you’re losing blood and your body is trying to survive as you go into shock.” Jess said.

“Maybe,” Matt said and then looking down at George, he said affectionately, “You wouldn’t kill me, right Georgie?” George grunted in response and continued drinking.

Jess just sighed and rubbed her temples. 

“My mom called to chew me out again.”

“What this time?” Matt asked, even as dark spots began floating in his vision.

“She doesn’t understand why we won’t have George baptized.”

Matt nodded and glanced down at the baby.

“Just tell her he’s allergic to holy water.”

“Yeah, that’ll go over well.”

“Look, Jess, he is who he is. We can’t abide by others’ expectations at the cost of this child’s wellbeing.”

“You’re right,” Jess said with just an air of reluctance. “Here, let me get you some Gatorade at least.”

“Thanks,” Matt called after her and began the process of prying little George’s fangs out of his wrist before he lost consciousness.

#

The play group Matt had started taking George to met at a community center in the mornings.
They’d had George for four months and the kid was becoming as interwoven in their lives as any biological child of their own. Since Jess worked in a big corporate office and Matt worked from home, he found himself the primary caretaker during the day. And since George had taken a strong liking to Matt’s blood, he was also the primary food source.

“Rough night?” One of the moms, Becky maybe, Matt thought, asked as the grownups sat around a folding table, while the kids played on the floor with wooden blocks. Matt looked up at her, blinking his dry eyes. He nodded. It was rough having a child who preferred nocturnal hours.

“Colic?” Maybe Becky asked.

“Uh… sort of.”

Matt turned and noticed George wasn’t in the corner where he’d been a second ago. He stood, an instinctual fear seizing his heart as he quickly surveyed the room. Little boys and girls played on the rug, but George wasn’t among them.

“Where’s George?” Matt said, shooting to his feet, pulse racing. Maybe Becky laid a hand on his arm.

“Hey, it’s okay, he’s under the table.” She pointed. “Look, he’s just playing with blocks.” 

Matt took a deep, cleansing breath before bending down and peering under the table. George sat, a grumpy little expression on his face as he clanged two blocks together.

No. Wait. Not blocks. Stakes. Those were wooden stakes.

Matt immediately dropped to his knees and swiped the stakes out of George’s hands, tossing them up on top of the table. George looked up at him as though Matt had taken away his most prized possession. His big eyes filled with tears and before Matt could utter a comforting word, George erupted into sobs.

Matt pulled George out from under the table and rubbed his back.

“Hey, hey, I know, I know… but you can’t play with wooden stakes. It’s not safe.” He glared down at the offending weapons. “Why are there wooden stakes where children can reach them?”

Maybe Becky picked up the stakes and then shot Matt an apologetic smile. “Must have accidentally gotten mixed up with the wooden blocks. I am so sorry, Matt.”

“It’s fine,” Matt huffed. It wasn’t fine. None of the other parents understood what it was like to have a vampire baby. None of the other parents had to choose their play group based on whether the group met outside in the daylight or in a church. None of the other parents had to keep a strict eye on the snacks to make sure no one had slipped in garlic. Not to mention the fact that George was sensitive. He fed off the emotions of others. When Rhonda had brought her twins that one time when they were teething, Matt had to take George home because George’s empathic abilities made his own fangs sting.

No, it wasn’t fine, but it was what it was and Matt would just have to deal. 

#

“Unbelievable.”

Matt looked up from the picnic blanket where he and his family were sitting to the woman standing in front of them.

It was a warm night in July and Matt and Jess had brought George out for his first fireworks show. George had gotten cranky and Matt had offered his wrist to the toddler, who sank his fangs in happily and gulped down the pulsing blood.

Now, as the kid fed, a complete stranger stood over the little family, glaring down, hands on her hips. Her eyes shot daggers as she frowned at Matt disapprovingly.

“There are families here, children,” the woman spat.

“Yes?” Jess gestured toward their foster son.

“It’s unseemly, letting him suck blood from you in public!” The woman pronounced. “At least have the decency to cover up. Ugh.” The woman turned on her heel and marched away.

“Hey,” Jess pressed her temple to Matt’s. “You okay?”

Matt let out a long exhale and grabbed for George’s security blanket. He draped it carefully over George’s face and his own, punctured wrist.

“I’m fine,” he lied. George didn’t appreciate being suffocated by the blanket while he fed and tried to kick it off. Matt readjusted it and then peeked under the blanket to gaze at the little boy. The toddler’s piercing stare sent a warm feeling through Matt that vibrated in his chest, thrummed through his veins, and lit up his mood instantly.

“We’re fine,” he said to Jess and pulled the blanket off his child. George instantly relaxed and drank more slowly.

“I’ve got your iron supplements in my purse,” Jess said to Matt, while she looked down lovingly at George. George released Matt’s wrist and smiled up at them, his lips and tiny teeth dripping with crimson.

And Matt smiled back.

“He’s getting bigger, you know,” Jess added. “We’re going to have to start weaning him off of you and onto other sources of blood if we want to keep him from draining you dry.”

Matt nodded. He glanced across the field toward the angry busybody who’d admonished him earlier for feeding his son in public. Little George followed his gaze and shifted slightly, his eyes flashing with a predatory spark. The bond between them was strong, made stronger by everything, by the extra work life threw at them. And it was worth it, Matt thought, as father and son surveyed their prey together.

“We will,” Matt said softly. “All in good time.”

The End

I am writing a series of posts on writing myths and debunking them one by one. This one is short and sweet...

2. You have to spell things out for your readers. Otherwise, they might not “get it.”
 
“If a writer of prose knows enough about what he is writing about he may omit things that he knows and the reader, if the writer is writing truly enough, will have a feeling of those things as strongly as though the writer had stated them. The dignity of movement of an ice-berg is due to only one-eighth of it being above water.”
~ Hemingway, Death in the Afternoon
 
“… I'm just a soul who's intentions are good
Oh Lord, please don't let me be misunderstood.”
~ Single by Nina Simone, Don't Let Me Be Misunderstood
 
And here’s the dilemma, you’re writing an amazing scene, everything is falling into place. It’s complex and carefully woven, but you’re afraid the beautiful subtly of your creation will be lost on a casual reader.
 
The truth is, a lot of readers don’t read closely and if you’ve spent months and months crafting out a scene, there is a real fear that the effort will be lost if you don’t make it very, very obvious your intentions to the reader.
 
I don’t know how many times I’ve worried that my meaning will be lost if I don’t state it explicitly. And the conclusion I’ve come to is this—have faith in your readers.
 
It boils down to the old adage: Show, don’t tell.
 
We love to say it, but what does it really mean?
 
Put simply, showing means using imagery and description to create a context where the meaning is implicit, rather than explicit. In other words, you describe the idea in such a way that the reader understands what’s going on without directly stating it.
 
Imagine a horror movie. Often times, the scariest parts of a movie are when the monster/killer is unseen. What makes it scary? The music creates mood, the dark shadows imply there are scary things we can’t see, but are obviously there, and the sounds, the expressions on the actors’ faces, all of it works together to shape a monster/killer shaped hole. We know he’s there, even if we can’t see him. And because all of our senses are engaged and, most importantly, because our imagination is utilized, to the viewer, this is much scarier than when the monster pops out and we’re faced with the limitations of costumes/CGI/etc.
 
The same is true with writing. What you’re doing when you show, rather than tell, is you allow the reader to engage their imagination to paint part of the picture. The more engagement a reader has with the writing, the more they’re going to get out of it, the more the story is going to stick with them.  
 
Here is an example of telling:
 
I was excited. The party would be my chance to show everyone how sophisticated I’d become in New York. I dressed in the really expensive black dress I’d bought in New York, trying not to think about how much money it had cost me.  I did my makeup like I’d seen the women in New York do their makeup.  I studied myself in the full-length mirror. I looked good. I was happy.
 
Now, here’s the same concept, but written with showing:
 
An electric current ran just below the surface of my skin. Three hours until the party, until I showed up, remade. I smoothed the wrinkles out of the dark black dress I’d acquired on 5th Avenue. So what if I had to eat ramen for the next six months? Worth it. I applied the thick, black eyeliner with a steady hand. My lips were a shocking shade of scarlet. Staring back at me was a real New Yorker, not the country bumpkin who was too shy to ask Taylor McCain to the movies. The electric current was radiating up into my throat, now, releasing a tiny squeal.  
 
We’ve all heard this before. But I think what is important to remember is we must put our faith in the reader. And, more importantly, put our faith in ourselves that we’ve shown enough to involve the reader’s imagination in a way that their participation is intricate to the storytelling. Writing may be a solo activity. Reading can be a solo activity. But storytelling… that’s a collaborative process.

​I am starting a series of posts on writing myths and debunking them one by one. So, the kick things off... 

1. Good writers have raw talent that can’t be taught.

Let’s stop right here and address the important myth: There are “good” writers and “bad” writers.

Nope. I don’t believe this.

There is certainly skill level, natural talent, and extraordinarily amazing writers. But that doesn’t make everyone else a “bad” writer. There are less experienced writers, stubborn writers, and half-hearted writers, sure. But I refuse to believe that a person who sets a goal of writing and really works on learning the craft can be classified as a “bad” writer.

We’re all learning. All the time.
 
I am going to show you a “before and after” of my own work. I wrote a YA novel in college and submitted it straight to publishing houses (because I didn’t know any better.) Here is a scene from the middle of the book:
 
Original (2011):

Class ended and I tore out of the room without looking behind me. I thought maybe I heard Leon calling my name, but I figured it was my imagination. I sucked in my breath to hold in my mortification. I made it all the way to Texas History without exhaling. No one else was in the room yet, and Mrs. Plummer was setting up the Mexican soldiers in a miniature model of the battle of the Alamo. She looked up from behind her thick, librarian glasses.
 
“Ah! Kate! You’re an early bird today!”
 
“Yeah, I ran all the way here.” I muttered, falling into my desk and putting my head down. I wrapped my arms around my head and let the darkness take me. A moment later the scent of lilacs hit me like a toxic cloud. Lifting my head, I saw Mrs. Plummer standing right in front of me, bending her head down with a concerned look on her face.
 
“Why, Katherine? Whatever is the matter?”
 
“Nothing, Mrs. Plummer.” I muttered. I was getting a headache.
 
The dialogue is stilted, the imagery is weak, the sentence structures aren’t dynamic, and it lacks voice. I wrote this in my early twenties, and it was my second attempt at a full-length novel. This was a YA story about a girl in 8th grade, who is writing a musical with her friends. Lots of drama. Now, I’ll attempt to revise it as a more “mature” writer.
 
Revised (6/24/23):

The second hand dragged and stalled again and again on the ancient clock face above the door. And then, the shrill ringing of the bell sent me out the door at a pace that would have impressed Coach Brown.
 
Behind me, the sound of my name fell into the muddied, chaotic noise of the busy hallway. It was easy enough to pretend I hadn’t heard Leon calling after me above the clanging of lockers, the shrieks of laughter and outrage, and pulsing of my heartbeat in my ears.
 
I sucked in my breath as though I could hold in the sheer mortification consuming my very soul.
At the door to Texas History, I let out an exhale that left me empty.
 
The rows of empty desk stood ready for the apathetic occupants on their way. Mrs. Plummer stood, stooped over an elaborate model of the Alamo. She pinched tiny Mexican soldiers between her red acrylic nails and set each one in a predetermined place with just a little trembling from her arthritic fingers. She looked up at me from behind her thick, librarian glasses.
 
“Ah! Kate! You’re an early bird today!”
 
“I guess so,” I muttered, dropping my bag to the floor, falling into my seat and putting my head down on the cold desk. I wrapped my arms around my head and let the darkness take me.
 
But then, as soon as I alone in my own head, the scene began to replay over and over again. The look of disgust on Maggie’s face, the surprise on Leon’s. I would never live this down. Never.  
 
A moment later, the scent of lilacs hit me like a toxic cloud. I didn’t have to look up to know Mrs. Plummer was hovering above me with concern etched into the fine lines around her watery, gray eyes. I lifted my head to confirm it.
 
“Katherine? You okay?” She peered down, still clutching Santa Anna and in her right hand.
 
“I’m fine.” I muttered. The florescent lights above were shooting lightning bolts through my skull and I rubbed my temples with a melodramatic sigh. “Just have a headache.”
 
I used the little flashes of Kate’s personality from the original to flesh out more characterization in the revision. For example, I kept: I wrapped my arms around my head and let the darkness take me.   
I could have easily just taken this out as “bad writing,” but it jumped out to me as very melodramatic, which is what Kate, as a thirteen-year-old is. So, I built on that, creating more voice for her, making it clearer who she is and how she perceives the world. I gave her a few more overly dramatic quips and, most importantly, gave her more internal dialogue, which the first was missing.
 
I also added little details in that create a better sense of place and supporting characters. With a couple of little details like, arthritic fingers, stooped, fine lines around her watery eyes, the reader now knows Mrs. Plummer is older without me having to outright state: Mrs. Plummer was old. In other words, there’s far more showing than telling, unlike before.

I added more white space, because no one likes big chunks of text. 

But mainly, I had fun with it. I let it flow and then went back and cleaned it up a little. Is this now publishable? No. But, it’s far better than before.
 
Don’t get me wrong. The answer isn’t always to add to a scene. Sometimes, often times, the answer is to cut something completely.
 
So? Here’s my purpose in showing you the original and revised—I got better. I would say, a lot better.

First, I wrote… I wrote and I wrote and I wrote.

I got feedback. First from friends, and then I joined critique groups and got feedback from a wide variety of people and experiences.

I attended conferences and took classes.
I read.

And then, I learned to revise.

In other words, I worked hard, not on a single manuscript, but on myself and my skills. I learned what worked for me and what didn’t.

I take far more risks now and I write what makes me feel things on an entire spectrum of emotions.
I can only speak for myself, but twenty-something-old Lauren was told she had “talent,” but that wasn’t enough to break through. I got form rejections and rightly so. I just reread my query letter and it’s abominable. (It might get its own blog entry one of these days.)

And the cool part is, I’m just getting started. I have faith that my next novel will be better than the first because I am still learning and still honing my craft.

So, do good writers have talent that can’t be taught?

While not dismissing that raw talent exists, I believe this is a myth. I believe many have writing talent in the rough, that needs to be carved out and polished. Sure, ultimately, you can’t “teach talent,” but you certainly can refine talent, bring talent to the surface, enhance talent.

The thing is, I can almost guarantee that if you are writing, you have a spark of talent somewhere deep inside, even if you can’t see it. I would argue that most people who genuinely  have no talent for writing aren’t interested in writing in the first place.  Their brains don’t work that way. And that’s totally fine. We all have different strengths. But the fact that you make the attempt, that ideas come to you and you have to get them down in writing, that speaks to an ability inside, no matter what stage it happens to be at currently.

​Did you know that a restaurant cannot call mozzarella sticks ‘mozzarella sticks’ unless they contain actual mozzarella. Otherwise, they’re just ‘cheese sticks.’ I heard that from someone and I have no idea if it’s true. I mean, it’s like the whole ‘chicken wings’ vs. ‘chicken wyngz’ controversy. Anyway, iHOP serves ‘Mozza Sticks’ so I have absolutely no idea what to make of that.

Every Wednesday evening, a group of dedicated writers of all experiences, gather in a small community building at a local park and workshop their writing. I have been attending this workshop for the last five years or so. I cannot begin to tell you how much this group and this process have helped me grow as a writer. I recommend workshopping to every writer, no matter what level of “success” you’ve reached, no matter how many books you’ve written, no matter how many rejections you’ve received. (I’ve come to redefine success for myself, but that’s a whole other blog post.)

Anyway, about Mozzarella Sticks... Oftentimes, after workshop, some of the members go to a local iHOP to eat and discuss writing, life, and bad B movies.  And nine times out of ten, mozzarella sticks, I’m sorry, Mozza Sticks ™ are ordered for the table by a generous workshop member. This is where conversation becomes less formal… way, way less formal. We’re just, dare I say, friends, colleagues, weirdos united by a common passion and lacking other people to talk to about this thing that we’re really, really excited about.

Some of the absolute best advice I’ve received about my own writing and writing career has been delved out over fried cheese and stacks of pancakes and coffee on sticky tables and in a back corner of an iHOP at midnight. 

At that hour, the place is pretty slow. The employees are rolling silverware for the next morning, the people working nightshifts are taking a meal break, the weary college student is hunched over a laptop in a booth trying to finish an assignment. And we’re cackling like idiots over things that only make sense in the moment.

That’s my favorite kind of conversation, the kind that only exists by chance, that doesn’t carry much weight or importance in the real world, but means everything at the time.
You see, workshop is where the writing advice gets hashed out, the critique is given, the methods and craft are discussed in a more academic way. iHOP is where I find reasons to keep writing.

Now I’m getting too sentimental. Ack! Gross! It’s not like that. Not much of what is discussed is of any consequence at all. But the community it builds is everything.

I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: If you want to be a writer, a good writer, get you some people who a) also write b) tell you the truth c) like hanging out with you. It’s fairly simple to get people, the main requirement—don’t be an asshole. Truly. That’s it. Most people like hanging out with nice people.

People don’t like hanging out with people who:
1.Are overly critical
2.Are smug or arrogant
3.Who only want to talk about themselves or their own writing
4.Who lack basic manners

The writing community is a special group of people and it’s hard to scare us off.  Believe me… you’re not too weird, too nerdy, too shy, too open, too anything for fellow writers to bring you into the fold.

Yes, I do see how this is starting to sound like a cult. I mean, I wrote a book about a cult and this is definitely not a cult ;)

It’s important to have places where your writing is taken very seriously, like a workshop—and it’s equally important to have a place where your writing is on the back-burner and you, as a writer, as a human being, don’t take yourself too seriously at all. It’s okay to let your book ideas simmer over a plate of fried cheese and good conversation.
​
Cheers!

Oh my goodness it felt so amazing to be back! The energy, the ideas, the flowing creativity, the cheesecake!  I thought I’d take a moment to share some of what I got out of the conference this weekend.

I’ve started each tip with the class I was in when something really spoke to me. Give them all a chance, even if it’s not your genre. I’m not a mystery writer, but some of the best ideas came from the mystery class taught by Jessica S. Olson!

Top 10 Tips I Learned from this Year’s DFW Writer’s Conference 2022
     1.Mastering Mood: Mood doesn’t happen by accident. Don’t assume the mood is a given. Not all weddings are romantic, not all funerals are sad. Imbue mood by emphasizing elements that enhance the mood you want, and downplaying the elements that distract. Plus, characters’ thoughts and feelings don’t create mood (at least not by themselves).
     2.Mastering Mood: FOCUS. Focus is the real-estate of the page. This is probably the best thing I picked up this weekend, if forced to choose. You only have so much space so every word has to count, has to have purpose. What you choose to focus in on is what creates mood for the reader. (A. Lee Martinez and Sally Hamilton)
     3.Writing Historical Fiction: Instead of over-researching, if you find yourself stuck in a blind spot of historical detail, avoid it and concentrate on the universal human experience. The ocean smells the same as it did a hundred years ago.  (Jenny Bhatt)
     4.Marketing for Traditionally Published Authors: This was a fantastic class for those of us new to the world of marketing. There were so many tips I couldn’t possibly list them all here, from social media to book launches to so much more. As my publishing journey continues, I plan to update this blog with the things I learned in the class. However, the most important I took away was this: Make a reasonable goal and celebrate the small things! My goal has been to hold my published book in my hands. Things will go wrong and that’s okay. We have to take the wins where we can. (Dana Swift)
     5.YA Panel: Teenage years are some of the toughest years in a person’s life and we often carry that trauma with us into adulthood, which is why YA attracts teens, as well as, adults. YA authors have a special power and responsibility for their younger audience. (Julie Murphy, Jessica S. Olson, Robin Roe, Dana Swift, and Leslie Lutz)
     6.Strong Women Panel: Disclaimer, I was on this panel, but I still learned a lot! Strong women characters are strongly written characters. (A. Lee Martinez, Jenny Martin, Lauren Danhof, and Amanda Arista)
     7.Romance Panel: The real destination is emotional understanding, not the climatic kiss.
     8.Romance Panel: When you fall out of love, it’s because something within yourself is out of sync. The answer to having characters overcome this and fall in love or back in love is personal growth and development. You have to know yourself to know what you want and to communicate that to another person. (Julie Murphy, Heather Graham, Ellis Kaye, Amanda Arista, and Dana Swift)
     9.Mystery: Writing a mystery is like creating a backwards treasure hunt. Start with the “Big Reveal” or “twist” and work backward. Create clues. The speaker even suggested writing the clues on index cards and then playing around with where to put them in the book. Each clue needs to claw at the Main Character’s flaws or misbelief. Which leads to tip number 10…
     10.Mystery: A good mystery allows the Main Character to grow and develop. The course of solving the mystery must make the MC reckon with their own flaws and misbeliefs. In other words, just like in other genres, a mystery isn’t actually about the plot, it’s about the characters and making the reader care. (Jessica S. Olson)
          Additionally:
             a.How is the MC entangled in the crime? There needs to be a reason.
             b.Why is it meaningful to them?
             c.How will it change them?
(You should know by now that when I do a top 10 list it always goes over 10)
      11.Mystery: The perpetrator must also be a fully developed character. They must be the foil to the MC.
        Additionally:
           a.The perp must have a reasonable (not excusable) motive for committing the crime.
          b.It’s helpful to write the scene where the perp commits the crime for yourself and not include it in the book.
           c.The perp is the hero of their own story… which leads me to tip #12 from the Villains class…
      12.Villains: Again, the villain is the hero of their own story. They need a clear connection to the MC and a backstory of their own that can give reasons for their diabolical motivations. Above all, they believe they are doing the right thing.
      13.Villains: Villains should be fleshed out and interesting. They can terrifying, humorous, or both. They must be compelling.  (Leslie Lutz)
     14.Idea Crockpot: I LOVED this class. I had never thought about generating ideas in an organized manner. I thought waiting for inspiration and then writing it on my hand and hoping for the best was the way to go. Collect ideas, snippets, and observations, even if, and especially if you don’t know how it could relate to a story. Store them in any number of databases: Pinterest, Google Keep, a physical journal, etc… The one place you shouldn’t store them is your brain, because they won’t stay there long. (Rosemary Clement & Rook Riley)

Top 10 Observations I made from People Watching this weekend:
      1.Writers are some of the friendliest people. Seriously. Everyone is so approachable and kind. We are working towards the same goals. We all enjoy the same activities. And even though we are all very different, we are united by the passion we share. Thanks for being friendly, y’all!
      2.Some writers are far too critical of their own writing. You are your own worst critic. Don’t EVER apologize for your writing. The only way to fail at writing is to quit writing.
      3.Some writers take themselves far too seriously… and by that I mean, dude, you’re going to give yourself a stress ulcer. Some people (just a few) were laser focused on particular goals, whether that was to pitch to a certain agent or get a specific question answered about their WIP. Nothing wrong with that, but it’s okay to relax and enjoy your time at a conference. Make friends, don’t think about your book for an hour. It’ll be okay. And if things don’t go your way, you don’t get the agent you wanted, at least you’ll leave with new friends and new connections.
     4.Some writers talk about their WIP too much. (Ahem) We’ve all been there. We meet a nice conference goer and ask what they write. Then we get a thirty minute, one-sided conversation about their 25 book series. I want to hear about what people are working on… but you have to understand, talking about your book is never going to be as satisfying as reading your finished book. As A. Lee Martinez said during a panel, “Every story sounds stupid when you say it out loud.” So, please, talk about your book, but be brief and concise, wait for questions, and return the favor by asking about their WIP!
    5.Some writers don’t talk about their WIP enough. At the same time, some people seemed reluctant to discuss their WIP. Maybe they were introverts. Maybe they were afraid someone might steal their idea. (By the way, you shouldn’t worry about that. Even if someone steals your idea, they can’t write the same book as you.) We’re all cool people, it’s okay to talk about your book. We want to know!
      6.There are as many different kinds of writers as there are stories to be told. The breadth of stories I heard about this weekend was astounding. People say we’re running out of ideas. Nonsense. Every story is as unique as the person who wrote it.
      7.Some writers are extroverts. Hey, yeah, I’m talking to you, the one who thrives on crowds and talking and can’t get enough of it. Good for you! Seriously. That’s awesome. Just don’t forget about the shy people who might need a little push to speak up. Don’t leave anyone out.
      8.Some writers are introverts. Hey, yeah, I’m talking to you, and myself, the one who is an introvert and can act like an extrovert, but finds it completely exhausting. Ya did good, kid. You put yourself out there and you flourished. No, don’t think about how you could have said something better, don’t worry that you were “bothering” people by simply joining a conversation. Now go rest and reenergize!
     9.All writers are eccentric in their own way. Y’all are a bunch of weirdos! But we’re all weirdos together! Yay!
    10.All writers who come to a conference are ready and willing to grow. You are heads above the average writer because you are seeking out opportunities for growth and knowledge. You’re going places, keep it up!

I could go on and on, but if a blog post is real-estate, I must be choosey. Also, I didn’t get to go to all the classes I wanted to. So what did you learn that I missed? Let me know in the comments of my blog!

I have a confession—I’ve become an atheist to the muse. 
​
And for years I bought into this belief that I was touched by some creative whim or random chance or whatnot and it was in these moments of inspiration I must write for my life.

There is no muse. There is you, your keyboard, and the environment you create for yourself. In the words immortalized by Snoop Dogg: ““I want to thank me for believing in me, I want to thank me for doing all this hard work. I wanna thank me for having no days off. I wanna thank me for never quitting.” Words of wisdom, although not as profound as his quote, ““When I’m no longer rapping, I want to open up an ice cream parlor and call myself Scoop Dogg.” I mean, come on, that’s genius!

But what does this mean on a practical level? You see, for ages I was a slave to inspiration. I would have agonizing dry spells where no words would flow and then, suddenly, I would write for two days straight, hardly sleeping, eating at my desk, annoyed when anyone would bother me. I was capturing lightning in a bottle and it was delicate, time sensitive work.

But what I’ve come to believe is that I have far more control over the creative process than that and that is a very freeing thing.

Okay, so there’s the obvious things: You make a schedule, you write even when you’re not feeling it, you read more than you write, you practice, you “vomit on the page” and then revise, etc… but what else? What do you do when you don’t necessarily have writer’s block, but you also aren’t “feeling inspired”?

Here’s what I do: I have fun. When I started writing my last novel, before I’d even written the first word, I said to myself “I am going to write something that I want to read. I am going to write something I enjoy writing.”  If it feels like work, if it’s hard to get through writing it, how am I supposed to expect others to enjoy reading it? Writing, reading, creation in general, it’s all entangled. A writer is a reader is a creator is a painter is a dreamer is a writer. When you read, your mind fills in the blanks, you create, you paint a world beyond the words on the page. Reading is not passive. Writing is not passive.

So, if we look at it that way, as not two separate things, but rather all part of the same animal, it reveals something deeper: The only time you have control of the words you write are when you are the only person who has read them. Once you share them, they become more, they become an evolving, living thing. You cannot control how they are received. You cannot control the images a reader creates with the words. And all of that means, you had better get your intention and purpose clearly presented at the first.

Mediocre writing is quickly torn apart by consumers. Good writing, strong writing, it is able to stand on its own, and at the same time, allow for further exploration. It doesn’t lose its meaning as it is consumed, rather it is expanded upon, it becomes a springboard for more creation.
Reading is the muse.

 We do not exist in a vacuum. Every great book I’ve stayed up reading, every poem that has made my arms break out in goosebumps, every haunting song, every painting, every piece of human design, all of it is the foundation for my own creations.

Okay, great Lauren, that’s all fine. Very poetic. But how does that help me write a damn book?
I’m not sure. Hahaha! No, seriously, enjoy what you’re writing.

If I’m not enjoying writing a scene, if it’s dragging, if I’ve come to a point and I don’t know how to get from point A to point B, I don’t force it. Forced writing is obvious.

For example, let’s say I have a character named Bonnie and Bonnie is at home having a fight with her mother. The next plot point is she is at work and finds a mysterious box left on her desk.
So here’s how I might have written the scene several years ago:
 
“I don’t understand you anymore, Bonnie!” Martha glared at her daughter.
“What’s new?” Bonnie rolled her eyes.
“Maybe you should leave.”
“I’ve got to get to work anyway,” Bonnie said.
“Fine, go.” Her mother crossed her arms over her chest.
Bonnie sighed and grabbed her coat off the hook. She put it on and opened the door. She went out and climbed into her car. Her mother stood at the door and watched. Bonnie slid the car into reverse and pulled back out on the street. The traffic was light, at least. Bonnie turned on the radio and jammed out to her favorite songs while she drove the familiar route.
When she made it to work, she parked and went inside.
“Hey, Max!” she said as she passed her coworker. She went across the hall and opened the door to her office. Inside, she set her bag down and took her coat off.
That’s when she noticed the box, a strange, carved, wooden box. It was just sitting on her desk, next to the financial reports.  
 
Ugh! I’m SO bored! That wasn’t fun to write. I see a lot of writers who are obviously writing “filler” to get to the next scene they’re excited about. That’s the problem. If you’re not excited about a scene, then the scene needs to go, or at least change. Get excited about every scene. That’s how you create a story that doesn’t drag, that becomes “a fast read.” Now let’s try again and take out unnecessary information, like the transition to the office:
 
 “I don’t understand you anymore, Bonnie!” Martha glared at her daughter.
“What’s new?” Bonnie rolled her eyes.
“Maybe you should leave.”
“I’ve got to get to work anyway,” Bonnie said.
“Fine, go.” Her mother crossed her arms over her chest.
Bonnie sighed, grabbed her coat off the hook and then she was out the door.
The office was a neutral space, a place where Bonnie could just be, like a plain piece of manila paper.  That’s what she envisioned as she arrived and passed by Max’s door.
 “Hey, Max!”
Inside her own office, she shut the door firmly and shrugged off her coat.  
That’s when she noticed the box, a strange, carved, wooden box. It was just sitting on her desk, next to the financial reports.  
 
Okay, so it’s better. I’ve cut a lot of unnecessary writing. Plus, it was more fun to write. This might be all you need. Now, if you’ll indulge me a moment longer, I’ll really have some fun with the scene:
 
“I don’t understand you anymore, Bonnie!”
“What’s new?”
The words were unnecessary, they both knew what the other was going to say. Mothers and daughters, especially strong-willed ones, hardly ever hear one another. It was like reciting a script at this point.
“Maybe you should leave!”
“I’ve got to get to work anyway!”
Just words, as blank and meaningless as the beige tiles of Bonne’s office space, as the unadorned walls and uniform doors and windows.
“Hey Max!” Bonnie said out of habit to her coworker, who was half asleep at his desk when she arrived in the afternoon.
She took sanctuary in her own office, but couldn’t escape the fight with Martha that morning, the rote argument that rattled around in her brain.
The day, no not the day, her life--her life was so predictable that Bonnie could have continued on with her eyes closed.
And then she saw the box.  Small, wooden, and worn on the corners. It sat beside the financial reports, this strange object, like it had a right to just exist, like it had a right to be unexpected.  
 
I don’t know that this is great writing, but it was a hell of a lot more fun to write! I’ve eliminated the problem of plodding on from point A to point B by merging them into a single moment. Bonnie is lost in her thoughts, she’s simultaneously thinking about the fight with her mom, while coming into the office. The reader now is experiencing both things without the tediousness of “first she, then she, next she…”
I’m not saying this works for every scene. It doesn’t. Sometimes you need a sequential progression of events. Sometimes we need to see Bonnie drive to work, but only if it moves the plot forward and only if it isn’t BORING! In this case, I would argue it works because we are getting a taste of Bonnie’s perception, her state of mind as she encounters the mysterious box. Additionally, I don't believe I've lost any of the vital plot points from the first attempt. But even if I have, they were probably boring and needed to be pruned. 

Again, if you’re bored writing it, then how can you expect your reader to not be bored reading it?
Have fun, experiment, try a different style.

And above all, don’t wait for that damn muse. Reach up into your own brain and grab that inspiration and bend it to your will.

It gets easier with practice.

I needed some time to process, but I wanted to record my thoughts while it’s still pretty fresh, to preserve this feeling of amazement and disbelief and everything else that’s come with it. 

It’s a strange thing, having a dream come true. I know that sounds super cliche and I’m supposed to be a writer and everything, but there’s no other way to say it. Also this is a blog, so give me some slack. (DISCLAIMER: Unrevised, quickly written blog posts are not my priority or the pinnacle of my writing talent.) 

This is long, rambling post, so if you want to skip ahead, I've included ten things I've learned personally from this toward the end.

Since I was little I wanted to be a writer, to have my writing published, to have a physical book with my name on it in my hand. As I got older and gained experience, I learned the many, many difficult steps in attaining that goal. One of those steps is to have representation from a literary agent. 

So, starting about ten years ago, I decided I was going to get an agent. This became my goal, my dream, my everything I was working toward. And then it happened. What? What?

So, I’m going to tell you how it went down as best as I can remember. 

I believed I had finished my novel “Glinda, the Good” sometime in 2019. (Hahahahahha!) I loved it, it was perfect, it was funny, and exciting, and romantic, and everything in between. I felt good. My last project had been shelved after a resounding no from many, many agents. That’s for the best. Turns out there’s not much of a market for a romantic comedy starring Cthulhu. Also, I just wasn’t as good then. Turns out, writing more makes you better… who'd have thought?  

I submitted the first chapter to the Frisco First Chapter Contest (a local writing competition that we here in DFW take very seriously) and won! I won! In my writing circle, that’s a sign of good luck, a sign you’re on your way. I got a certificate. 

So, I pitched it at the DFWCON 2019 and got several requests. (Go to this conference if you can!) A couple agents seemed pretty excited. I was excited. It was all very exciting. 2019 Lauren needed to calm the hell down. I plan to talk about my experience pitching to agents in a later post, so stay tuned. 

I sent that manuscript out to a handful of agents and waited… and waited… and waited. And then the rejections started. Okay, no biggie, that’s part of the process. I know that. I sent it out again. I got my subscription to QueryTracker, I made spreadsheets, I worked on the first chapter more, the query letter. I read more, tried to find comp titles. I got more rejections.

And then, it happened. I got a revise and resubmit. This is the first time I had received an R&R and I was so confident this meant I’d made it. I took the agent’s extensive notes to heart and revised. A couple of months later, I submitted the revised draft to her and waited.

Then Covid hit and the world stopped. 

No DFWCON 2020. No in-person workshops. No late nights at IHOP to pick the brains of my friends and fellow writers. 

And then the agent replied with a kind rejection. 

I was crushed. I set the manuscript aside and didn’t write for several months. 

Thankfully, I have some amazing friends, who keep me accountable, and they weren’t done with Glinda, even if I thought I was. They mentioned it every time we met. They believed in it. 

So, I started writing again. I started a brand new project. I mentioned it in a previous post. It's something that got stirred up in my brain because of COVID, because of the months of isolation, of all the books and podcasts and shows I was consuming to stay sane. I got wrapped up in it and officially shelved "Glinda, the Good." 

Then, one summer day, out of curiosity, I opened the folder again and read it. It was really good. It wasn’t perfect, but it was better than I had remembered. 
I sent the following text to my friends:

(Also, I'm using my friends full names because they are all very talented writers and you're going to see their names on the spine of books soon enough!)​

The holidays went by and I still had two full requests out. So I started working on Rattlesnake again and tried not to think about it. The world was waking back up. I was seeing people I hadn’t seen in ages. I was getting inspiration from this weird, imperfect world in a way I’d never appreciated before COVID. 

And then I got the email. 

​She loved my book. She loved my style. She wanted to talk more on the phone. 
From that moment forward, I felt like I was having an out of body experience. I was insanely nervous. The morning of the call, I got dressed up, did my hair and makeup, and set up a section of my dining room… all of this, just in case she wanted to Zoom instead. 

I am so fortunate to have a couple of mentors at the DFW Writers Workshop, people who have been where I am, people who have gone through the process and now have incredible novels on the shelves of stores and libraries. Three of them talked to me before the call, prepped me, told me their experience, gave advice for what to ask. And each one of them said essentially the same thing: She may make you an offer, but if she’s not the right fit, you have to turn it down and find someone who you can work with, who understands your work. 

I haven’t told them this, but it was incredibly humbling and touched me so much. These three believed in me, really, really believed in me. They told me I was good enough I didn’t have to settle. I was good enough, I’d get another chance if this didn't work out. So, Brooke, Leslie, and Dana, thank you. I will never, ever forget the way you believed in me before I truly believed in myself. 

But, back to the phone call! The agent called, I took a breath, and then--and then we spoke for an hour. And it was easy. She was wonderful. She was smart and cool and she really believed in my writing. Toward the end, she hadn’t actually said the words “offer of representation.” I mean, we were talking like she had, but I’m still a bit unsure of myself, so I worked up the nerve and asked her. She laughed, realized she’d gone off on something else when she’d meant to say it, and then confirmed, yes, she wanted to represent me. 

When I got off the phone, there was no question. I waited the customary two weeks, let the agent who still had a full manuscript know. He graciously bowed out. Turns out, like the first agent, he had been debating whether or not he wanted to move forward. I had the opportunity to speak with one of my agent’s other clients. She happily shared her experience and it made me even more confident in this choice.  

I let my agent know. My agent. Signed the contract. And then I got to celebrate, although I still don’t think I believed it was real. I was convinced she’d reread it and change her mind. (Spoiler alert: She didn’t.)  I'm told this feeling of inadequacy doesn't go away, no matter how many books you publish.

So here’s what I learned from this experience:

1. Patience! This is a long, excruciating long process. 
2. ​REVISE! REVISE! REVISE! And when you think it’s perfect, get feedback and revise again.
3. Get yourself some critiquers. I am a member of a large workshop of weekly reads and critiques. This group has changed my life and my writing. And then there’s my smaller group, my best friends, Laura, Mark, and Arianne. I know, no matter what, those three are going to tell me the truth, support me, and also give me a hard time just for the fun of it. My book wouldn’t exist without them. 
4. Rejection? Send it out again. And again. And again. From the very beginning of the process, the very first draft, I have probably close to a hundred rejections. That’s not to say that a series of rejections shouldn’t make you pause and consider revisions… see point 2. 
5. Use QueryTracker. It helps. 
6. Research your agents before you send out a query. Don’t waste your time or theirs if they specifically say they don’t represent the genre you’re pitching.
7. Find people who have been published and listen to them.
8. READ! See my post about reading. 
9. It's okay to shelve a project, but do yourself a favor and pull it back out every once in a while and reread it. You might surprise yourself with some distance.
10. Believe in yourself, trust your instincts, and all the cliches! Do all the cliches. (But don't write cliches!)
11. Find those people who text you back "Do it!!!!" and "Yeah, do it!!!" Those are your people. 

What made this real for me was when she sent the first set of notes for revisions and I went to work on them. Polishing this book is a pleasure. It’s satisfying and I feel like I’m in my element when I make something that wasn’t quite working, not just work, but shine. 

I know this was lengthy and I feel like I just scratched the surface of my experience. This phase of my journey, querying agents lasted years with lots of ups and downs. I don't want to minimize that. Also, I want to talk about what this revising phase has been like, but I’ll save that for a later post, after I’ve done more work. 
​
In conclusion, I am ecstatic. I AM OVER THE MOON! I also think I have the greatest agent on the planet! She’s been absolutely wonderful and she actually “gets” me and my work. I couldn’t ask for anything more! ​​

​EDIT: Thanks for the amazing response to this post! I honestly didn't think anyone would read it, but I hope it encourages you, if you're still in the trenches. 
Also, I added an 11th thing I learned.

“If you don't have time to read, you don't have the time (or the tools) to write. Simple as that.”
― Stephen King
I know, I know, it's bad form to start with a quote. We're not in freshman English, after all. But it's a damn good quote and Stephen King is a genius. So there. 
I've run into many writers who have told me flat out that they don't read much or at all. The reason they give is usually that they are too busy or that they'd rather be writing. I get it. This isn't a judgy post or a self righteous post. I've been there. I've had reading dry spells where I've an entire year *gasp* without picking up a book. This is what I've learned.
To begin with, as a child and young adult, I loved, LOVED reading. From sugary pop series like Sweet Valley Twins to The Babysitter's Club, to Beverly Cleary to Lois Lowry. I read Judy Blume and Avi and Roald Dahl and Gary Paulson. I read The Indian in the Cupboard and The Castle in the Attic and Parrot in the Oven. All nouns in all the things, I read it. 
And then I read harder books, older books, like Jane Eyre and The Scarlet Pimpernel. In fact, I was so obsessed with The Scarlet Pimpernel that I tracked down the rest of the out of print series online and read those too. One time I heard about an out of print (at the time) book called Vendetta: The Story of One Forgotten by Marie Corelli, saved up my allowance and bought a copy that was no more than photocopied pages of an older edition. It wasn't that great. 
I spent 9th grade struggling through Les Misérables (unabridged) and chased that down with some lighter Victor Hugo and read The Hunchback of Notre Dame. 10th grade I discovered The Lord of the Rings and after I finished that I thought, I will never again read something that moved me the way that book did. I always do that. It's kinda stupid. I read something great and I feel like I'll never ever find anything as good ever again. 
Then life happened. I discussed my writing break in my previous post and it was the same for reading. I was busy and the spaces between books grew longer and longer.
We aren't born knowing how to read. It takes skill and practice and the sad truth is, the longer we go without using that skill, the more and more reading starts to feel like work. That's the sad state I found myself in. I wanted to write. I wanted to be a writer, but I wasn't reading. 
Remember in my previous post where I said my writing used to suck, like really suck? Yeah, I wasn't reading. One of the major things that changed was that I got back into the habit of reading and *magically* my writing improved. 
It was tough at first. In fact, Underground Airlines by Ben H. Winters is still sitting half read on my dresser mocking me. I haven't picked it up in over a year. 
But then I tried something that I'm going to call a "Life Hack" or whatever. It's pretty simple. I used audio books. I listened to audio books while reading along with a physical copy of the book. I read my first book start to finish in a while and was very pleased with myself. Then I did it again and this time, found that I had to speed up the recording to keep up with my eyes on the page. In other words, my reading skills came back and were overtaking my listening skills. That's how I did it.
The other thing I've discovered about reading is that, for me, it's the only cure for writer's block. Any time I go more than a few days with severe writer's block I know it's time to read a book. Reading unlocks my brain, makes the ideas swirl, makes the page more mailable. 
I'm not one of those people who reads a hundred books a year and I doubt I ever will be. The way my life is, right now, I don't have time to parent, write, have a life, and then read piles and piles of books. But I read a lot. And I make myself familiar with different authors and new titles. 
The final piece of advice I would give anyone who wants to get back into reading is this: READ WHAT MAKES YOU HAPPY!! Don't get caught up in reading a popular title because everybody is reading it. Read something sappy or something scary or read Young Adult. I LOVE Young Adult! I want to write adult books that have the same ease and intensity and passion that Young Adult books have. 
Whatever you do, read. Reading is essential to writing. After all, how can we expect other people to pick up our books if we don't pick up other people's. 
​
So, to conclude, I will give you my top four book recommendations from my reading this summer:
Eleanor Oliphant Is Completely Fine: A Novel  by Gail Honeyman A contender for one of my most favorite books I've ever read and a debut novel!
​The Gentleman’s Guide to Vice and Virtue by Mackenzi Lee YA and freaking fantastic! 
The Big Finish by Brooke Fossey Hey! I know her! A beautiful and hilarious novel about old age and youth and everything in-between.
Fractured Tide by Leslie Lutz YA! Scary and poignant! Great book!

I'm going to go finish Underground Airlines now. 

I'm sitting in the sun room. (Sun room sounds so much fancier than prefab addition that stores the over flow of toys and craft supplies that my kids have acquired over the last eight years). So, I'm sitting in the sun room, at a tiny IKEA desk, with the portable AC blowing directly on me because even though it's October, I live in Texas.  I want to sit outside, but the mosquitoes are still terrible and I'm afraid of getting West Nile Virus, on top of my usual fear of catching COVID.
It's three in the afternoon and Wren is still dressed in her Disney Princess nightgown and is sitting in a pile of legos, making the lego knights kiss each other. She takes frequent breaks to climb the chair and sit on my lap or my shoulder, sometimes placing her head directly between me and the screen. She wants attention. She deserves attention. When you're a parent, taking the time to write always feels like time you're taking away from your kids. Am I screwing her up? If I get published will I make enough to cover the cost of her therapy later?
This is my life right now. If I sound neurotic, it's because I feel neurotic. My writing journey has had many ebbs and flows over the years, but 2020 is the detour none of us wanted. I'm sitting here, writing my first blog post and feeling useless because I'm not writing my novel. And if I were writing my novel, I'd feel useless for not cleaning the living-room or doing the laundry or whatever else.
I haven't always felt this way. When I was younger and inspired, writing was a sweet escape, something that sent my soul soaring. I wrote paragraphs of fiction in college lectures instead of taking notes. I stayed up until 3am with a laptop resting on my legs in the dark. Writing felt good. It felt purposeful. And my writing sucked.
It was melodramatic and clunky. I thought it was good. Sometimes it was okay. I thought my career was taking off when I got several short stories published in small literary journals my last couple years of undergrad. But then I stopped. The spark ran out and I got busy going to graduate school, getting married, teaching, and having my first baby. By the time I picked up my pen again, something had changed. I began to realize that the passion was still there, but the craft needed work. I had no idea how much work it needed. 
What changed everything was finding my community. I joined a small group of life-long friends who share my love of writing and then, I joined the DFW Writer's Workshop, where I made new friends. Both groups have helped me immensely in different ways. I stopped thinking of writing as a competition with other writers and more of a competition with myself to be better. 
About three years ago, my smaller group (WHAM) decided to write personal statements. This was mine:

I want to enjoy the process, get lost in the story, and hold a published copy in my hands. I want to read more than I write, increasing my understanding of the craft, while honing my own unique style.

I wrote a very bad novella in high school that I'm too embarrassed to even get into here. (I mean, I also thought flirting was pouring a glass of water over a boy's head. We all do things in high school we regret.) In college I wrote a semi-autobiographical YA book called Exploits of a Stage Name. It wasn't terrible. It wasn't great either.  I wrote without any idea where I was going. There was no outline, there was no goal. And it showed as the book came to an anticlimactic and sudden end.  I was in my early twenties and knew nothing about the publishing industry. I had read Little Women and assumed that, like Jo March, I'd open my door one day to a handsome man holding my published novel out for me. So I sent it off to one publisher and was promptly rejected. I sulked and put it away.
And then a few years later I had my first child. During those first few sleepless months, while I was up feeding her in the night, I would pull out my laptop and type a few lines. With the shrieks of a newborn as my soundtrack I completed a very short first draft of what would become my second book, Cthulhu Steps Out.  Cthulhu Steps Out  is a romantic comedy with the Lovecraftian monster Cthulhu as the romantic lead. I knew it was weird, but I loved it. I still love it. But I was naive, thinking that surely if it was good enough, publishers would make a space for it on the shelf where none existed. It wasn't good enough. 
I work-shopped it and got back a lot of positive feedback, but also some more sobering criticisms that I tried to ignore. I even pitched it at my first writing conference. I was thrilled when I got back five or six requests from agents to read the manuscript.
They all rejected it pretty quickly. I came to terms with the shortcomings of the story and decided to let Cthulhu go... for now. 
So, I gathered all I had learned and set out again, this time to write something with the goal in mind, "I want to write something that I would love to read. I want to write my favorite book." 
So, for the next two years I wrote, revised, revised, and revised Believers, the story of a young woman who must save her mother from a cult.  I love this book. For the first time, when I sat back and read the latest revisions, I saw something deeper, something much more profound than anything I'd ever written before. This was it. Finally. This was the one that some agent would fall in love with and this is the book that I'd finally see in print. 
As of today, I've received about sixty-five rejections, two requests for a full manuscript, which also ended in rejection, one revise and resubmit, which also got me a big fat rejection. 
I decided to let Believers breathe for a little while. And here we are. I've started yet another book.
I'm 15,000 words into what I'm calling Rattlesnake.  This is a sci-fi, psychological thriller-ish book. That's part of my problem. When it comes to genres, I just can't stay in my lane. I like books that cross genres. I like books that are weird or quirky. But it does make it hard to sell. 
I'm excited about the possibility of so many blank pages ahead of me. But I am also at a place in my life where I can't help but wonder, am I wasting my time? Am I just playing pretend? Am I a grown woman who sits for hours typing up stories that no one will read? 
Maybe. I hate that I'm not fiercely confident enough to decry these doubts and concerns. I used to be. But, then again, I used to not be a very good writer. I am now. Of that, I'm confident. 
I hope that doesn't come across as arrogant. And I hope you don't judge my ability by this unedited, stream of consciousness blog post I'm creating. 
Here's the difference. Before, I loved to write and thought it was good because of how it made me feel. I couldn't tell you why it was good, or what made it special. Today, I can write a scene and I can point out to you specifically what techniques I used to create my style. Today, I love to write and I know it's good, but I also know it can be better. Today I cut myself some slack and realize that the words I type today will be revised and polished until they're completely different. 
This has been a hellish year for everyone. I feel the toll on my mental and emotional health. I think just to pick up the pieces and say, "today I am going to write" is enough.
So, in reference to my title, On Starting a New Project... I am here, both confident, but realistic, discouraged, but still optimistic. I guess that's an okay place to be, for now.