To tell the truth, the whole truth...or not

I recently spoke to a group of seventh graders and their families at St. Raphael's Catholic School in Milwaukee, Wisconsin. They're working together on a Build-a-Book project and I was asked to talk to them about writing and being a writer. One of the things I told them, and one of the things I've always firmly believed, is that no matter how fictionalized your story is, it has to be realistic. It needs to have truth. Even in fantasy, things need to ring true to the reader or they won't feel a connection, and subsequently will have a hard time following your story.

There are examples of this out there now. Take the Star Trek series. There's a reason we now have real life items that look and perform similar to the futuristic counterparts from the stories. They were based on real science.

When Harry Potter waves his magic wand, the spells are based on mostly Latin terminology. Since many of our words today come from Latin, the spells have a familiarity to them. We can pretty much figure out that “Wingardium Leviosa” will make something float. Many of the creatures are based on mythology that we're already familiar with. The setting is an accurate portrayal of life growing up in a boarding school albeit with some magic thrown in. These pieces of truth ground the reader in that fantasy world.

More so, if your space alien lands on the streets of New York, you need to have the details of the city accurate. If your ghost haunts a location people might be familiar with, you will lose them if describe that location incorrectly.

This has been a constant for me as I work on my upcoming novel. My main character does some time traveling. Not only does she go to many different eras, but she ends up involved with several historic events. This meant a lot of research on my part. For those of you who might not realize it, research is a big part of writing, no matter how long or short your piece is. Take for instance one of the chapters I did in “Where Do I Begin – One Woman's Story.”

My outline was simply to describe how the two main characters spent time together on a cruise ship. First I had to take her date of birth and the age she was supposed to be and figure out what year it was when she was on this cruise. Turned out to be in the 1970's. Then I needed to find out what activities were available on cruise ships during that time. If I had ignored that step and had them climbing a rock wall, or surfing the wave pool, it would have been inaccurate. Although cruise ships of today have those things, cruise ships back then didn't. I have no doubt that some of my readers have been on those cruise ships and would have been frustrated with my inaccuracy.

So as you can imagine, when writing a historic fiction/time travel novel, the accuracy is imperative. It's been a daunting task to get the myriad of details correct. Unfortunately it turns out the truth sometimes really is stranger than fiction. In one scene I have one character who's deathly ill. I actually had to make sure that during that time in history the process to lower a fever was to cool the person down. You might laugh, but you can't assume anything. While doing my research I found out that the common treatment for a burn was to hold the burned area over a flame! They believed it was better to get the burn to blister and for the blister to burst. Ouch! So I learned not to assume anything.

I recently read a part of my novel to my classmates in my writing class. Two questions came up after I read the dialog between two women in 1903, in which one of them, at age 35 is considering trying to conceive another child after losing her two daughters. The first question raised was her age, wasn't she a bit too old to be having babies, weren't women back then getting married young and having families young? My answer was no. My research showed that because of poor nutrition at that time, women didn't even start their menstrual cycles until they were in their twenties. They may have married younger, but children came much later. The second question raised was whether or not birth control, or the idea of “trying” for a child was even a concept back then. Imagine my surprise when I researched the history of birth control. Not only was it a concept, it was widely accepted and used. The condom had been around since the 1600's, the contraceptive sponge since the 1840's, not to mention lectures and pamphlets circulated about the rhythm method as well as other methods to avoid pregnancy. It turns out that the idea of birth control and family planning was so prevalent that the Comstock Act of 1873 made any kind of family planning illegal. The law was quite routinely ignored. Believe it or not you could buy contraceptive devices from the Sears Roebuck Catalog in 1930!

So now I find myself faced with a conundrum, do I tell the truth and keep the facts accurate? Or do I lean toward the commonly held misconceptions? Will I do what I was trying to avoid in the first place and possibly have readers doubt the realism I'm trying to instill in my story by telling it accurately?

It was something to think about. In the end I've decided I have to tell the truth. It feels wrong not to. Not only do I feel strongly about being accurate in my details, but I also feel strongly in never underestimating the intelligence of my readers. I have to trust that if my readers get stuck on some detail, they will take the time to look it up.

So I have to stand with what I told those seventh grade students. Keep it real. Tell the truth. As a reader I'd rather learn something new, even if it means doing some research myself, than to know that facts the author presented are incorrect. Even in fiction, I want non-fiction.

The reader needs the truth, the whole truth, no matter how unbelievable.

Borrowing

As promised here's the story that was published one year ago. It may have been my first, but I'm hoping and planning on many others.

Borrowing

There are friends and then there are real friends. The kind of friends you can depend on to be there through all the highs and lows of your life. My husband and I are lucky enough to have friends such as these. To be honest they started out as my husband's friends first, I was adopted later.

Jim's been best buddies with John since they were both five years old. As children they shared in all those adventures that young boys have; building forts, walking the train tracks, riding their bikes. As they got older they got their first jobs together, worked on cars together, and got into trouble together. Over the years their friendship had it's ups and downs. Their high school graduation night ended in fists, but in the end, they always came back to each other. When they got to adulthood they started dating and eventually found their future wives. In some relationships, that may have added a strain to the friendship, but in this case it didn't. First John married Sue, and later Jim married me. Sue and I have been mistaken as sisters, which says something about how close our husbands are. There must be something special in a friendship that has lasted almost their entire lives. Instead of two best friends and their wives, we quickly became four best friends.

As close as we are, we're always borrowing something from one another. There never seems to be a time in which one of us doesn't have something that belongs to the other. If it's not some borrowed item, it's borrowed money. We often go out to dinner or shopping together and to make things easier, we trade off who pays for it. One time we will cover the bill, the next time they will. We've been doing this so long, we no longer keep track of what we owe each other, we just figure it all evens out in the end. Sometimes we get to the point of getting the check at a restaurant and say, “It's our turn, we owe you for something."

None of us will remember what we owe, or even what it was we owe for, just that it's our turn. Over the years, we took notice of this habit of one always borrowing from the other. We asked ourselves why that was. In the end we decided it was our way of insuring we would get together again.

We've been there for each other as we got married, Jim was John's Best Man, and John was Jim's. John and Sue moved away for a time, but the long distance phone call was one of the first as each of our children were born. Once back in the same state, we were there to share the trials of moving and house building and the joys of our children growing, graduating, and getting married. We travel together, and jump in to help with any project. We were there to support them through the loss of a parent, grandparent, brother-in-law, and friend. They were there for us through the loss of a parent.

They played a most important role in our lives. They were always there for us when our disabled and medically fragile son was ill. They didn't think twice about coming to wait with us in the middle of the night as he underwent emergency surgery. They forced us to go out for a bite to eat after we spent days in his hospital room. They kept us sane during the 16 years of medical crises. They were there to give us support in his final days, and helped to plan his memorial service. I can't imagine a more heartbreaking time in our lives, and they were there for us. I know it was difficult for them. How hard must it be to sit with your friends as they wait for their son to take his last breath? It didn't matter how hard it was, we weren't just friends, we were family, we are family. I truly believe there is nothing we wouldn't do for each other, barring the impossible. At a moment's notice, we we'll drop everything for each other. Our families have become each others families.

Recently my husband and I were affected by the poor economy. We were forced to sell our dream home. This house was one that my husband, an architect, designed just for us. We built this house ourselves. We didn't just watch the contractors work, we put our sweat and backs into it as well. It took a year to build. John and Sue were there every step of the way, painting walls, laying tile, hauling rocks, whatever it took.

The process of selling this house has been an emotional one. The equity in that house was to be our nest egg. We were starting over. It's hard enough to lose your home, another when that home is also one's livelihood. It's my husband's business to design and build houses, now we would be living in someone else's. First John and Sue were there as moral support. Then they were there to help us pack and move in a hurry as we scrambled to find a place to live. We even traded vehicles for weeks as theirs had a hitch to pull a trailer. They were with us when we looked at houses, and they gave up their weekends to help us transfer our belongings.

On the last day of moving we returned each others cars. But in typical fashion we found John's sunglasses on our counter. Sometimes the “borrowing” was unintentional. It didn't matter, as long as one of us had some belonging to the other.

The next morning my husband woke up to realize we had forgotten some large items that were stored outside our former home. Since we had already given John and Sue their van back, we were forced to call first thing in the morning to ask if they had the time to come back and help move the forgotten items. Sue answered the phone. John was in the garage, he had the tire off of the needed van, and was about to start a brake job on it. She stuck her head out the door and yelled “STOP!” No questions asked, John popped the tire back on and came right over.

When it was done and John was about to leave, he grabbed his sunglasses. As he took them Jim said, “I think we all have everything that belongs to each of us." John said, “Oh no, does that mean we won't get together anymore?”

We laughed, albeit a bit nervously. As if it really takes borrowing things from each other to make sure we would see each other again. As much as we have been through, it's silly to think that it's a simple borrowed item that keeps us together. Yet why did we feel uncomfortable?

After John left, I suddenly remembered something. I looked at Jim and said, “Don't worry, we still have that DVD I borrowed from Sue.” With an unfounded sense of relief we knew all is as it should be. Our friendship is guaranteed to live another day.

Marking Time

This month marks one year since a story I wrote was published, a first for me as an author. It's a true story about friendship that appeared in the Reader's Write section of the February 2010 edition of the Sun Magazine.

How long have I been a writer? I get asked this question from time to time. The answer isn't a simple one. First of all I believe a writer, is a writer their entire lives. Even if they never put together a story book when they were young, or kept a journal as a teen. One who becomes a writer as an adult, has always been a writer on the inside.

I've read interviews with several well known authors who talk about how they wrote stories from the time they could hold a pencil. At first this gave me pause. I didn't write stories when I was that young, maybe I won't measure up to these people who knew they wanted to be writers since infancy. I didn't know I wanted to be a writer until much later, and in fact scoffed when others told me I could be. Now I know that was just my introverted personality talking.

Anyone who knows me now is no doubt laughing at the thought of me being shy, but it's true. I was an extremely nervous child, to the point of making myself ill at times. Even as an adult, I was terrified of new people, and new situations. I didn't go anywhere by myself, I always convinced my husband, or friends, to go along. I was afraid of getting lost, or looking stupid, or saying the wrong thing.

Several things changed that. First and foremost was the birth, life and passing of my son. There is nothing, and I mean nothing, that can give you better perspective on what's truly important in life than losing a child. And there is no example greater of bravery than the daily struggle my son went through for 16 years. As the mother of a child who couldn't speak, I had to step up and be his voice. I often had to fight to get him what he needed. I couldn't afford to be shy anymore.

Still, that was different. I'd developed a fierce attitude when it came to my children, but still deferred to others when it came to myself. I was a born follower which meant even if I felt strongly about something, if the rest of the group felt differently I would go along with it, doubting myself along the way. Knowing just how much my actions were influenced by my desire to be accepted, I am incredibly lucky and amazed that I came out of my teen years in one piece.

Once my job as parent became less of a focus, I found myself adrift. I'd developed the ability to assert myself even if it was only in my children's interest. I couldn't just shut that off and be the meek person I'd been before. I needed to find something I could be passionate about. I'd always loved planning theme parties, and looked into becoming an event planner. I had experience as a secretary and looked for jobs that might be related. I loved to cook and considered catering. I'd always loved reading, and dabbled a bit in writing for my own personal enjoyment and it had been suggested more than once that I try writing. I started a bit of research.

I found a class titled "Writing for Publication" at our local technical college. I remember the sense of excitement at the thought of taking the class. I also remember the fear when I actually did sign up. Seems silly that anyone should be fearful about taking a non-credit class, but that's how I'm wired. The difference is now I understand my fear and fight to not let it take over. I couldn't be happier that I didn't give in to my nagging self-doubt. I set goals for myself. I would go to class, and I would always bring some writing to share despite the fact that it wasn't required. It's very similar to setting a goal to exercise and lose weight and to stick with it despite feeling tired or sore or hungry. I have to push myself to do things I'd normally avoid regardless of how much they set my stomach in knots. I set the goal that I'd actually send my writing out and try to get published. After six months I got that first acceptance letter, and after only one year as an aspiring author, I became a published one.

In hindsight, I've enjoyed the written word since very young. I was a voracious reader. I didn't write stories, but I certainly made them up in my head. I was always thinking and as that shy child was often alone, with only my imagination to entertain me. I'd always had pen pals and enjoyed writing long letters. It was required that I join clubs in school -  and the clubs I chose? The school newspaper and the yearbook committee. As an adult, I wrote Christmas letters every year,  and I wrote letters to out of state family and friends. I was always more comfortable writing than speaking. I'm still terrible at keeping a journal but I still have my wild imagination, and now I have determination. Determination to be myself, and to overcome my fears. Fears that I understand will never truly go away, but can certainly be managed.

So how long have I been a writer?  I'm in my seventh semester of writing classes. I've been actively pursuing a writing career for two years. I've been a published author for one year (not counting the articles I wrote for the school newspaper).  But I have undoubtedly been a writer my whole life, I just didn't know it. Now I can't imagine doing anything else. Just like exercise, once I pushed past the pain, I got a rush like no other. I have never been happier in my own skin as I am now.

Later this week I will post the story that was accepted and published by the Sun Magazine. I will post the full version for you; their editors were ruthless. Despite the pain of the amputation of a good portion of my story, I was and still am incredibly proud of making this milestone. And despite any fears (and yes they're still there), I am determined to make many more. 

I've been a writer forever and intend to be a writer until my time is done.

Baby Steps And Light Bulbs

I have to admit, since the holidays it's seemed like everything was conspiring against me when it came to writing. There were those left over January Christmas parties, birthdays, beginning of the year chores such as organizing paperwork and bills, projects at work that left me tired at the end of the day, and the Packers. I live in Wisconsin, need I say more? As thrilled as I am with our Super Bowl champs, it meant every weekend for the past several weeks were occupied with football parties. I'd used up all my vacation days at work, so my available writing time was greatly reduced.

I was feeling stressed by the lack of any down time and wasn't sleeping well. It wasn't unusual for me to be unable to get more than four hours of sleep. The result, I started catching every bug out there, more stress. Snow storms that prevented travel to writing group meetings, even more stress.

I was increasingly frustrated, guilty, sad, angry, and disappointed that I wasn't doing ANY writing. That New Year's goal was haunting my nightmares. I have to say, I'm glad I've made my goals public. It makes it hard, if not impossible, to give up on them knowing everyone you know is waiting and watching to see if you can do it. Not that I could EVER give up on writing. For me it's a necessity of life, analogous to breathing, but it might have been easy to put the novel on the back burner for a while. When I'd finally have an hour to spare, I'd sit in front of my blank computer screen and doze off. The longer this went on, the harder it was to get back into gear. I was losing site of my characters and storyline. It was disheartening to say the least. I missed them terribly.

I couldn't be happier to tell you I'm finally back, really back. It started with a short story. It's totally unrelated to the novel, but sometimes you need to just shift gears for a bit. It was one of those light bulb stories. I was sitting in the break room at work eating my lunch when a co-worker's cell phone rang. (I do owe her one!) The music it played reminded me of a carousel, a light bulb went off, and bang in 24 hours I had a completed short story. A horror story no less!

Then, because I actually had something to share, I went to meet with a group of fellow writers and friends. It felt good to be back in the circle. The next thing that happened was amazing. I was at work when a client came in holding a copy of "Where Do I Begin - One Woman's Story" with the request that I sign it for her. A little ego boost does wonders when one is doubting their abilities. 

Then I started with little things; making a Twitter post, e-mailing an agent, looking up information on building a website, going back to my writer's groups, starting my writing class again, even writing an update for this blog. Things that I count as working towards my goal of having a career as an author. Finally I had a whole weekend to myself and before I knew it, I had two chapters written and the ideas are flowing again. The night I wrote, I actually slept eight full hours. Now that I've started, I'm back to jotting notes all over the place, and I wake up in the morning thinking about where I'm taking my story, or what I want one of my characters to accomplish. It's good to have my old friends back.

I'm not foolish enough to think this won't happen again. That I might not get stuck, or that life won't interrupt me before this is done. But now I know all it will take is some baby steps and maybe a light bulb or two to get back to the place I'm happiest to be.

Delafield Library Event

For anyone who's interested, come on down to the Delafield Public Library located at 500 Genesee St. Delafield, Wisconsin.  Several of the authors (including myself), along with the wonderful people who helped put the build-a-book project together will be there!  Click on the link below for information.

Community Discussion Panel

New Year's Resolutions

        Why do we make New Year's resolutions? Is there any chance that we'll stick to whatever promises we make for the whole rest of the year? Aren't we just setting ourselves up for failure? I mean really, if we were strong enough to keep the promises we make in January, would we need to make them at all? Don't we make those resolutions because we weren't able to do them up until now? Most of them aren't sudden inspirations, they are things we know we should be doing but haven't. Will a simple flip of the calendar make it all different, make us more able to do or be the things we haven't done or been before? And yet, year after year we do it. Even if we don't announce them out loud, somewhere in the deep recesses of our soul, we try to start the year out with a clean slate and make silent promises to do something better.

        I'm no different. I work better with goals. But if there's one thing I've learned it's to make the goals small and achievable. It will never work if my goal is to be a better person. It's not like I strive to be a bad person, or a lazy person. In general I think everyone tries to be a good person, even if their idea of good doesn't match with those around them. So I will try to pick something more real, more attainable. I will try my best to do something kind for a stranger. Something beyond what I already do. I already hold open the door for strangers, I smile at strangers, I offer to carry items for people who look like they are struggling with their arms full. So what is it that I can do that is above and beyond my usual? I'll try my best to be kind to someone who is not being kind to me. I'm faced with this scenario often unfortunately. My day job is in customer service. Need I say more? I'm the person who receives the brunt of every customer's lousy day, frustration, anger, financial difficulty, or traffic ticket. It doesn't matter that I have nothing to do with any of those things. If they are in front of me, when one of those things are in the forefront of their mind, I'll pay regardless. Even if I've done my job well. I already do my best to handle those situations with as much grace as I can, but still, I'll try to do more. I'll try to understand that they're not really mad at me, that they have possibly had a horrible day, and could use a little good cheer. I will smile and wish them a good day and try to mean it.

        How many people vow to be healthier, lose weight, or join a gym? I have done this one myself. It always starts out good. In the beginning it feels good to put on some sweats and go to the gym and ... sweat. But before you know it, I start missing workouts. The weather is bad, I didn't sleep well, I have things to do. It always happens the same way. Once I was successful and dropped 55 lbs. I have kept most of that off, but now find myself backsliding a bit. So I won't try and join a gym, I won't eat carrot sticks and celery. I know those won't stick. Instead I'll try to walk the dog more. It's better for me and better for the dog. I won't beat myself up if I don't go because it's ten below zero. I think the risk of frostbite negates any health benefits, and if I make it completely unpleasant, I will soon hate doing it, again setting myself up to fail. Although if left to my own devices I might slack off from time to time, I have picked a partner who will not let me. There is nothing she loves more than a walk and she will bug me endlessly until I put on my shoes and grab her leash. I'll also strive to not take seconds. It's really not that hard to do. Trying to diet will never work, but portion control makes a huge difference.

        I will try my best to read more. Not just more, but a larger variety. You might laugh and think as a writer, I must be a voracious reader, and I am, or at least have been. I have stacks and stacks of books that I have picked up from used book stores, library sales, yard sales, and flea markets. I love to read but now with work, school, writing, and life in general, I find it hard to find the time. And when I finally do, it tends to be a genre I am very familiar with, an easy read. I need to branch out more. Try genre's I hadn't before. It will only serve to make me a better writer. So, it's something I enjoy that will also improve me. Seems like a win-win.

        I could resolve to be more organized, but I know this one is beyond me. I will however, finish what I started. I had set a goal (an unlikely if not impossible one) to finish a novel by Christmas. I set this goal at the end of October. I did not give up on this goal until the week before Christmas. I don't feel too bad though, because I really did give it my all. I was forced to put it to rest to get ready for the holiday, and I am giving myself this week until New Year's to recover. Next week I will be back to work. I have set a new goal date, but for now will keep it to myself. There is a little part of me that is afraid if I say it, I will jinx it. This is the one that takes precedence above all the rest. This is really my one true resolution. I can think of about a dozen other things I would like to add to my list, but again, I must keep this something I really can achieve, and if the list is too long, it will begin to overwhelm me. And if I become overwhelmed, I will give up on all of it.

        I will add one more thing though. I will make more resolutions next year, but not before revisiting this year's. I will pat myself on the back for the ones I was able to stick to and reevaluate the ones I didn't. I will work to figure out why I didn't and try them again, with maybe some changes to make them more achievable. So as you start thinking about your own New Year's resolutions, try to remember to make them not just possible, but probable. I don't see this as a cheat, I see it as a way to make your life better. If you set goals that are improbable, you will likely fail and then feel bad, which will just set you up to fail at other things. It becomes an ugly circle. If you set goals you have a good chance of being successful at, you will feel good about yourself, and in turn do more good things to better yourself. Give yourself permission (but not an excuse) to fall short sometimes. We are after all, only human. And keep a record. I have two bulletin boards in my office. One is a dream board, one is a memory board. Once I have achieved something from my dream board, I move it to my memory board. It reminds me that even though I haven't succeeded at everything, I'm making progress, which is all we can ever ask of ourselves.

        So in the end I hope you had a wonderful holiday season and that 2011 brings you health and happiness. I wish you the best with whatever New Year's resolutions you make. Even if you are the cranky person on the other side of the desk at work.

       See, that wasn't so hard! And it's not even January 1^st yet!

Raising Stories

After all the years of my first job as mother, I should be perfectly suited for my new role as writer. You may be thinking, huh? But I've come to discover that writing a story is exactly like raising a child. 

This epiphany came to me as I awoke in the wee hours of the morning. For some reason, that's when the best ideas come to me. I tried to roll over and go back to sleep but it poked at me, and poked at me until out of sheer frustration I got up and wrote it down. I knew it wouldn't leave me alone. I would get no sleep until I tended it. My story is like that. During the day I feed it, I nurture it, I give it everything I can, and yet it never lets me get any rest.

It seems to call out to me at the most inconvenient times. When I'm trying to drive, or shop, or do the bills. It pesters me in the shower. I can't even go to the bathroom without it screaming for my attention. When I actually have the time set aside for it, it never wants to do what I want it to do. And so I go on. Trying my best not to collapse from exhaustion as I try to balance my paying job, the household duties and my child; my story.

As my story grows I try to do the best for it. Sometimes I know my best falls short and I vow to do better. Sometimes what I do works and my story grows stronger. When my story is young it amazes me how fast it grows. As it gets bigger it's growth seems to slow, and it seems more resistant to my efforts to shape it. It starts to have a mind of it's own.

Sometimes it resists me to the point of frustration. To the point when I wonder why I decided to do this at all. But I soldier on, because I couldn't possibly turn my back on it. There's nothing else in the world I'd rather do. In the end, after all my hard work, I have to let it go. It's not easy. I'm constantly trying to guide it, to fix it, to make it better. Eventually I have to ignore that urge and send it out into the world to be judged.

It may not be exactly what I imagined when I started. It never turns out the way I thought it would. It never ceases to surprise me, and it certainly isn't perfect. There will be moments when it makes me cringe. There will always be times where I wished I'd done a better job shaping it. But then there are times when it makes me beam with pride. Moments when it brings a smile to my face, or a tear to my eye. Not everyone will agree with my methods. I can't make everyone like it. But I will protect it because it came from me. From my sweat and blood. I will bristle with anger at anyone who disparages it. And when somebody else says they think it is strong, or beautiful, I will forget, for just a moment, all my shortcomings as a parent. It will always be, after all, my child.