A poem from the book I'm editing

I'm taking a quick pass through one of the books I've neglected before Camp Nano -- July session happens. This might be my most transgressive poem -- something about the mud ..

I don’t know whether I want to hold you
Till I feel your heart in my chest,
And we entwine like the Trees,
Or mate with you
In the mud, in the rain, in plain sight.
Either way, we become something new.

Heatwave

The high temperature today will be 100 degrees, with a 105 heat index. This means I'm likely not going anywhere today -- no coffee shop stop, no morning walk, no visiting with people. I'm sentenced to involuntary indolence for the day

Here's an (old) poem for your viewing pleasure:

Heat Wave in Rural Missouri

The sun burns sagging porches,

bleaching petunias and salvia.

The afternoon gasps its last.

From my window, nothing stirs –

I alone live, breathe.

Swooning,

I spy you strolling through a deluge of rain,

bearing me pansies and muguet,

your bowler and grey linen suit still crisp,

the last mirage before I fade –

Knowing I exaggerate, and my demise

is not imminent in this air-cooled room

does not detract from my reverie.

 .

Poem

Tell me a story
in a vaulted cathedral at midnight,
give me your story
as the flood roils down the creek,
tell me more
in a pasture turned minefield,
I'll hold your secret
in the silence of the eye of the storm.

What I look for in Beta Readers

I need more beta-readers.

Before you all rush out to volunteer, here's what I look for in a beta-reader:

• First and foremost, the beta-reader should be willing to read a whole book, unless they find it so unbearable that they cannot finish. Then they should have the courage to tell me that and give specifics.
• The beta-reader should be honest and specific. "I hate this book" may be honest but not specific. "It's a nice book" is neither honest or specific. "I like this book" is honest (I hope) but not specific. "I loved finding out that X ..." (no spoilers here) is honest and specific.
• The beta-reader doesn't have to be a copy editor or proofreader. If they want to point out the extra period on page 53, that is fine, but that's not what I expect.
• The beta-reader should focus on:
• Readability -- Are the words too big? Are the sentences incomprehensible? Does the book bog down in places? Does the reader get lost? Does the narrative "flow"?
•  Characters -- does the reader identify with the characters? Believe in the characters?
• Plot -- does the reader follow the plot? Is it confusing? Is it internally logical? 
• Finally, the beta-reader should not be afraid to hurt my little fee-fees. As long as you don't say "This is the worst book I've ever read" (which is not specific and hopefully not honest), I can handle it.

The benefits of being a beta-reader:

• You will be named in the acknowledgements.
• You will get a free autographed copy if I ever publish.
• You will have read the book before anyone else has.
• Although you will not get paid, you will have the satisfaction of helping make something happen.

Now, do you want to be a beta reader? Find me at lleachie (at) gmail.com

Perseverance

I'm re-editing Mythos (how many times has this been now?) on the advice of my current beta-reader (beta-reader #2 has gotten very busy and hasn't gotten back to it). Most of what we've found are little mistakes I should have caught myself, contradictions (oops!) and awkward and vague sentences. I'm halfway through the book correcting these.

I've also rewritten a couple scenes to be more suspenseful, but as always, the big question comes:

Will agents like it as much as I like it?
Yes, I'm about to go through the rejection cycle again.

I know we've been through this before. I get excited, I send queries, and I get rejections. Why do I keep trying?

I guess I have perseverance. It might be one of my best qualities -- not giving up. It may be one of my worst, as shown by the time I let a Siamese cat scratch me 28 times until I finally petted it.

So I'm probably going to resubmit Mythos soon, as well as the freshly renovated Voyageurs. Both have been rejected. I don't know if I'll have luck this time, either.

Richard has instructed me not to submit any queries until I'm over this dysthymic (low-level depressive) episode. I'm working on it.

Full of revision

Sorry I haven't been writing much lately. My doc and I are working on getting me out of a minor depression, but that hasn't kept me from being productive. I've been working a lot on revisions, with a goal of making the work stronger without running away screaming from ever writing again.

I have a variety of feelings when I edit:

• How did I miss that?
• Oh no, not again
• How can I make this stronger?
• I love this passage
• What is keeping this from being published? (I never seem to answer that question)
• Why did I think the world needed to see this novel?
• Should I continue editing? Trying to get published?
• What reasons might someone want to read this?

I suspect that, if I were in a more positive place, positive thoughts would take over. If I'm hypomanic, then I start thinking I'm a genius. (Hypomania is great for self-esteem until it's not.) 

I love you and miss you all, whoever you are. 

My worst fear

"What are you most scared of?"

"This scene: I am at a party in a green, shady place. There are lawn chairs around in a big circle, and people are drinking tall cool drinks or, in my case, wonderful coffee. Many people have come, some bearing small bags.

"I come to realize that I'm the honored guest at the party. I've only been the honored guest twice in my life -- my sixth birthday and my high school graduation, and few people stopped to either event. I think there are twenty people here, and I'm nearly crying. People here -- for me?

"I mingle -- after all, this is my party -- and make sure people have enough to eat and drink. There's a beautiful berry trifle and a cake and cookies and pitchers of ice tea and lemonade, and I didn't make any of it. It was here, simply here, for us. I move through a sheen of tears. I talk in my own peculiar way, not asking about the spouse and kids, but asking what they're doing, what they're creating, whether it be scrapbooking or music or a pretty home or quiet for themselves. 

"Then someone makes me sit down in my chair, which they have moved to the middle of the circle. And each, one by one, comes up to me and gives me a hug and whispers to me that I am loved, that I am important. They hand me stars and hearts and flowers from the bags. They have scattered all over my chest, galaxies of shiny affection."

"I want to run away I feel so uncomfortable. I don't deserve this. Instead, I burst into tears and tell them, all of them, that I love them. And I hug all of them, fearing that this will go away as soon as I blink my eyes, that this will all be taken away from me.

"That's why it's my worst fear."

the drought

It's six AM, and I glance out the window at a grey morning. The evidence of last night's rain clings to the pavement, and the sullenness of the clouds hopefully bodes for another round today. Northwest Missouri, like the rest of the state, has been facing drought, and any rain is welcome.

My country has been under a drought for two years -- a lack of compassion, a lack of integrity, a lack of decency. And I look at it and see how little I can do about it besides point it out. The man who bears the title "President" has taken our thousand points of light and trampled them into the dust. And he is protected in his position by fear and greed, and by the fact that politicians, not we the people, have the only power to remove him.

How easy it seems to be for his followers to discount his words and actions. He tries on the trappings of fascism, and they say, "He's just joking." He attacks our allies (those who hold democracy dear) and lauds authoritarian dictators, and they say "He knows what he's doing." He locks children, separated from their parents, in holding pens and they say, "They were breaking the law."

Those children, some newly born, were breaking the law.  Think about that. The law is more important than ethical violations, than morally evil actions. The difference between law and morality is that morality addresses the right action -- above and beyond the letter of the law. The law is not always right -- Hitler's actions against the Jews were legal.

I am frightened. I am afraid this drought will kill us.

Looking for affirmations about writing/getting published

I'm trying to work up the courage to start the query process with Voyagers again, after having my beta readers go through it. I think I've done as much as I can with it without handing it off to a better writer to take it over. I still want to try to sell it as contemporary fantasy because it's not sexually explicit and I like my sex scenes meaningful and not over-the-top horny.

So I need to stay positive. Like my beta Sheri Brown tells me, "it's not if you get published, it's when you get published". I don't do positive affirmations for myself very well, and in fact am my own worst critic.

I need you to help me with some affirmations or good words. There are several ways you can get these to me:

• comments here
• email: lleachie at gmail.com
• Instagram: laurenleachsteffens
• Facebook: lleachie
• US Mail: 203 E. Edwards, Maryville MO 64468

Touching base

So, I'm taking a couple days' writing retreat in southeast Kansas after the memorial service for Richard's mother. Surprisingly, Pittsburg KS has one of the best coffeehouses I've ever set foot in. I've drunk a small nitro iced coffee (after two cups at breakfast at Otto's Diner, so I'm really caffeinated!)

I've missed writing to you. As I said briefly yesterday, I finally finished my first draft of Prodigies -- but that doesn't mean I'm finished with it. It only means that I have something to tear apart in the second draft part. Is there going to be a sequel? Let me edit this one first.

Pretty soon I'm going to put Voyageurs back into the rejection cycle. At this point, I'm not sure I'll ever be published, but I might as well model perseverence for other writers. What I really need to do is get more beta-readers and get information on how to fix the other books.

Beta readers for Mythos -- haven't heard from you for a while. Let me know how bad that book is messed up!

Other readers -- want to be a beta reader?

Wow!

My writing retreat at the Root Coffeehouse has been profitable --
At 86,000 words and change, Prodigies is done!!
Just in time for me to do a round of rewriting for July Camp NaNo.

Dark thoughts

I go through periods of time when I have dark thoughts. Most people don't talk about their dark thoughts, unless rhey are screaming at God (a pretty healthy thing to do) or if a very talented therapist pulls them out. I have had very talented therapists and I didn't even talk to them about the dark thoughts.

The dark thoughts are like existential questions, but the answers already seem set in stone. Thoughts like "I have not contributed anything to the world". "I don't feel like I truly know anyone", "I have always been weird (which is worse than strange, I could accept strange)", "Nobody would miss me if I died"... And that's where the abyss opens up and swallows me.

With my imagination, it seems like I should fantasize about my heroic self fighting my way out of the dank forest, but part of the darkness is that I do not believe that I deserve good. I get triggered by failures, small and large, and how could there be a hero within me?

I wish I could tell you that all it takes to get me out of dark thoughts is for someone (my husband for example) to say, "But I love you! You're worthwhile! People would miss you if you died!" It's not as easy as that. I can argue with the best; I'm capable of convincing you that I have no intrinsic value.

Sometimes something breaks through. Sincere words to hug to myself, small gestures, a chance encounter on the street. A memory of something that went well. Writing things that we're not supposed to talk about, like dark thoughts.

Progress and Struggle

Sorry I didn't write yesterday, but I was busy getting a good stream of writing done. I'm actually about 2-3000 words from the end of Prodigies, doing the wrap-up and solidifying a few surprises I added in. I can't believe I'm getting done with this!

My next steps are:

• Waking up my beta-readers for Mythos and see if they're having trouble starting the document or it's just life stuff keeping them from reading.
• Finishing Hearts are Mountains 
• Revising Prodigies and Hearts are Mountains
• Find more beta-readers
• Keep myself from falling into an ugly cycle

More on the ugly cycle. I'm struggling in the aftermath of Anthony Bourdain's suicide. I think it's hitting me, even though I didn't know him personally, but because I share his philosophy of experiencing cultures through their foods. I don't have the ability to travel as much as he did, but I still let that desire for adventures with people and hospitality to guide my steps.

I'm also struggling with it because I've had times where I have had suicidal ideations, those moments where I consider dying as the only way to get rid of an avalanche of pain. The surprising thing is that these moments don't often happen in a depressive state. They're just as likely to happen when there's a triggering event that results in a downward spiral of emotion. During these times, I actually try to talk myself into a suicidal state out of habit, choosing the darkest and most miserable things to think about. The typical dark thoughts go as follows:

• I'm not good enough
• I'm too weird
• Nobody loves me/cares about me.

These are hard to argue against, because they're opinion and not fact. Depending on one's yardsticks, my viewpoint is just as legit as an outsider's, and my proofs are just as valid as someone else's. Fighting these rationally only drives me further down the hole.

What I have to remember is that these feelings come from a place deep inside me, where my child-self hides and needs to know that she is loved no matter what. And she wants to test it and make it real, because she's been disappointed too many times. 

I love her and will stay with her no matter what. I will not threaten to leave her if she's not perfect, or if she's a bit embarrassing. I will always be here for her no matter if she panics, or she snaps at me or argues with me. 

I will not let her fall.

Writing non-fiction: It's totally different. But is it?

I'm alternating a chapter of a non-fiction book we jokingly call "the care and feeding of roleplayers" -- it's a book to help people preparing disaster exercises how to handle the various aspects of roleplayer involvement, including moulage. (Just as a reminder, moulage -- or casualty simulation -- is the art of making roleplayers look injured, often severely so. It's one of my hobbies.)

What I'm finding is that writing non-fiction takes a different approach and skill set. It's not that I haven't written non-fiction before -- I have several research articles under my name, not to mention a 67-page dissertation. It's just that I've never concentrated on both in the same day, and I didn't write anything longer than short stories at the time. Now -- I have a goal to write on both the novel and the article daily, and I'm quickly switching up between the two items.

When I write non-fiction, such as the chapter I'm writing, I have to outline the article so that my writing flows from idea to idea. I have to do research in order to support the points I'm making in the paper, so that I am grounded in realism. My observations have to be grounded in facts, because my observations might be biased and not substantive. As I tick through the outline, I note that I make progress toward the whole, and that motivates me further.

Writing the novel, as I've found out from previous novels, takes not only imagination but discipline, because imagination doesn't necessarily believe in deadlines. If I set a goal of, say, 1000 pages, my imagination is more likely to deliver. Likewise, if I have an outline of where the action's going to go, my imagination has something to embellish it. I can't escape research when writing fiction because the laws of physics, the names of places, and the technology doesn't change with a slightly alternative Earth.

Strangely, it looks like writing non-fiction and writing fiction have a lot in common when it comes to the importance of structure, of research, and of goals. Where they're different is imagination -- and even then, non-fiction requires a certain amount of describing examples to illustrate concepts -- and that's imagination.

Oh, well, so much for today's essay.

Short note -- I'll  be on a short road trip to visit interns tonight and tomorrow. May not get much written today. If we get to our destination early (the Hotel Greenfield in Greenfield IA) I'll get an extended writing time. Otherwise, probably not.


I wrote a thousand words on Prodigies yesterday! That's more than I have in a while! I think the accountability partner has to do with it. It's hard to blow off writing when you have to report to someone the next day.

Have fun and thanks for listening!

A little of what I've been writing today from Prodigies.

After what seemed to be a dozen iterations of the plan and all our roles — Ayana and Weissrogue as the elderly couple, Ichirou and I as the starstruck lovers, Greg infiltrating the sound system — it was time to sleep and reconvene early in the morning. I talked everyone into letting me use the hide-a-way couch in the living room, given that I didn’t think I would sleep much. This left Ayana with Greg (another of my motives) and Ichirou with Weissrogue.

As I had predicted, I didn’t sleep. Every significant event of my journey to this moment unfolded in my mind: The invitation to Poland. Finding Ichirou, looking helplessly young in the darkened room as he spun the most comforting moment I’d had in my life. The uneasy dinner with Second World Renewal; our escape down the fire escape and into the old city of Krakow. The waiter, who ended up being Greg, and our journey with Ayana from Poland to Denmark, chased by Second World’s men. After a hiatus, Ayana returning with a much more mature Ichirou, and our confrontation with someone’s — someone’s men. My death —

That was what bothered me, what kept me from sleeping. I was not afraid to die because I had died already.

I had died already, and I knew what to expect. My death was a comforting place, deep indigo and silver, and a place I yearned to go back to. I didn’t want to die again, really; I just wanted to go back there. Especially tonight, with all the times we fled going through my mind like a video montage.
I thought about the place, the silver-laced grass and the rabbit, my parents walking past me. My death.

No, I wasn’t scared.

I fell asleep and dreamed of that place, deep purple with silvery leaves that ruffled in the breeze. I lay down in the grass, and the rabbit nestled next to me. My parents did not cross the hill, nor did Ichirou come, and a touch of loneliness marred my meditative state.

Then the rabbit hopped up to my face and chided me. “Do you think you can live here forever?”
“I could, rabbit,” I breathed. “Here I would never have to deal with being rejected. Death won’t reject me.”

“Death won’t nurture you, either. If you stay for long enough here, you will never grow any more than you have now. You will never develop your talent, and you will never be loved or nurtured again.”

“I’ve never been nurtured, and I’m not sure I’ve been loved. My parents farmed me out to music schools, and I don’t know if they were in league with the Renaissance movement. And I never will know.” I sat up, not questioning that a bunny spoke to me, because this was my dream.

“What about Przymeslaw? What about your traveling companions? What about Ichirou? And Dr. DeWinter?” The rabbit washed his face with his paws.

“I don’t know who’s side DeWinter is on. For all I know, she’s part of Renaissance. I don’t trust anyone from Interlochen now.”

“Trust somebody. You need something to pull you out from this place or else you’ll be always in danger, like Ichirou. I’d point out, though, that he’s less in danger than you are, because he’s reached a hand out from his place. Have you reached a hand out from yours?” And with that, the rabbit wandered off, sniffing the silvery grass as he bounced away.

I woke up to find Ichirou standing over me grinning ruefully. “May I come in? I can’t get to sleep.”
I held my hand out to him and we cuddled until we created space for each other.

Accountability partners

Yesterday, I blocked out the big scene of my book Prodigies. Actually, Richard helped me -- he took me to a coffee shop, watched me as I typed out the outline, asked me a couple of questions, and pronounced it "good". It's most of the way done now; another session today should have the action outlined completely. And then it's time to write.

Sometimes I have trouble writing alone. Sometimes I have trouble motivating alone -- I am always most motivated about one thing, whatever is needed or desired at the moment, and sometimes I forget about the other things on my plate. This is a sign of ADHD, which I've never been diagnosed with, but there's enough of it in my family that it wouldn't be a surprise. So I'm considering an accountability partner.

An accountability partner would help me prioritize all the things I want to accomplish and track with me what is getting in the way. The thing for me is being able to switch focus, usually demonstrated by how I finish the #1 activity of the day and then feel braindead.

Richard is likely to be my identity partner because he's good at that. I'll need to be his accountability partner, and I'm not so good at it. Ah, well, I needed a good challenge.

What we will need to be accountability partners:

An idea of each other's values and goals (daily/weekly)
A time we can meet (over coffee)
A clear set of questions to ask each other about progress
************
I just came up with goals for summer:
Finish my online class with an A;
Write chapter of moulage book by August 1;
Finish/edit Prodigies by August 1;
Walk 20 minutes six days a week.

Notice that this blog is not on the list; but I'm still going to write it -- if not daily, at least three days a week.

Thanks for reading!

The Centipede's Dilemma

A centipede was happy – quite!
Until a toad in fun
Said, "Pray, which leg moves after which?"
This raised her doubts to such a pitch,
She fell exhausted in the ditch
Not knowing how to run.
 -- Katherine Craster , "The Centipede's Dilemma"
******************
I've been thinking too much while writing the first draft. I know many of the rules of writing, and I'm keeping them all in my head at the same time, and trying to edit at the same time I write. It's not working. I'm only writing 400 words a day, and have 10,000 words to go. 

Writing coaches say, "Just write. Don't edit. Just write." This is the reason, because too much self-examination can tie one in knots, like the caterpillar. I'm worrying about the book, about what I've already written, and distracting myself from the moment.

I need to cut that out. 

Truth be told...

A couple years ago, I put together a map using Sketchup, a three-d sketching program which architects and other designers use to lay out inside and outside scapes. At the time, I was convinced it was a great two-dimensional map-making program, until I accidentally discovered that my two-dimensional map with borrowed buildings from the Sketchup Warehouse had become a three-dimensional map. And my expectations went up, and once I had a computer upgrade, I made sure all the buildings and plants were above ground and properly organized, and it was a pretty nice map.

My current mapping experience (for Hearts are Mountains) makes me think I've bitten off more than I can chew. (International readers, do you have that idiom?) First of all, I have to create the basement dwellings from a tracing of a picture, and then make them three-dimensional (which I am nowhere near ready for, having barely created in two dimensions. I tried to trace the picture once, and the geodesic dome "roof" (aboveground part) looked like a spider on LSD traced it. Nobody in the 3-D warehouse crew has made a rendering of this underground building, so I'm on my own.

It's not top priority -- first of all because I'm intimidated as heck by the challenge. Second of all, because I have other priorities of things I have to get done like two novels (although I'm struggling with those as well).  Third -- see #2.

Face it -- I need some inspiration, because it seems to be somewhat drained from the class I'm taking. I don't have a good flow of ideas right now. I'm angling for a change in scenery today and a day devoted to creativity, a day where I can make magic.

Tell you my story

My story:

My name is Lauren Leach-Steffens. I am a 54-year-old college professor, married, with five cats. That is not my story, just a convenient tag to hang it on.

What is my story? I am a wizard of information -- I stand in spinning clouds of words and pull them together, making meaning of them. The noun "mirror" is an object that reflects the person who looks in it; the verb "to mirror" is to show the reflection of the image. "Mirror" is a synonym of "reflect", yet is not quite the same, as it hints at the exact duplication of the original which may not be as obvious with "reflect:" In my mirror, I see a woman with sparse dark hair sticking up in curls, a narrow oval face, and an overly mobile mouth. I look over my glasses coquettishly, an invitation to indulge in play. In the mirror, I see seven-year-old me -- it's not a big leap from 54-year-old me.

Another story, just as true: I have always been an outsider -- the "weird" kid on the playground, teachers' pet, crybaby. These labels were all applicable, yet if they looked at the rest of my disordered childhood -- with problems anywhere from neglect and bipolar disorder and threats to sexual abuse -- they might have understood why I was a crybaby. Or perhaps not; small towns turn against those who are not like them. To this day I assume that people don't really want to get to know me.

Yet a third: I am the mirror. In being starkly honest about myself, you reflect upon your feelings about what I've said. You see your own humanity. You say "There but for the grace of God go I..." or you say "I've been there" and you say "I can't even identify with that" and sometimes "Doesn't she embarrass herself?" You move about the impressions like fragments of the mirror, and in it, you see yourself in contrast to me.

Who am I? This, and likely more.

Tell me your story.

I know you're reading out there, and I know that you don't like to respond, and so I'm asking this rhetorically: Tell me your story.

Now, think about yourself as a protagonist in a novel.

• Do you appear as the same race, the same gender as you do in real life? 
• What are your strengths (real or imaginary)? 
• What are your character flaws? 
• If you have superpowers, what are they? 
• How do you present to others, and is that the real you?
• What are your weaknesses? 
• What would people remember you for?

Tell me your story now.

Both of these, the real and the imaginary self, are your stories.

My schedule and writers' block

I am frustrated because my routine is out of whack.

I never thought I was one of these people who needed a routine. It's out of step with my vision of myself as an artistic free spirit -- you know, wait for inspiration, do as you feel moved to do, be spontaneous...

That doesn't work when you have a day job. My day job (being a professor) has a definite schedule arranged around when the classes I teach are scheduled. Those have first priority, then meeting times and dates and office hours fill in the rest of my time. I try not to schedule large gaps in my day because those will become de facto office hours and I will struggle to get work done in-between students.

So during the school year, I tend to find some time to work in my office hours, although that's rare; work on classroom type stuff tends to happen on weekends and afternoons; morning is when I write creatively. A perfect schedule.

Then summer throws it off -- at least as much because the nature of the work changes as much as the arrangement of the time. It would seem I have a lot more time with school "out" for the semester. But my workload is very, very different. I supervise 23 interns, and scheduling meetings with them is somewhat random. Other than that, my job work includes writing a chapter for a book I'm editing on moulage and volunteer management for disaster training, and revising two classes, one of them pretty drastically. I tackle these first, because they keep me fed. Then, my online class (I'm the student, not the teacher) requires attention because I don't want to fail my first class in years.

Finally, I can schedule working on this blog and working on Prodigies and then Whose Hearts are Mountains. The blog gets worked on first, because it's an excellent warmup to writing, although I've been writing really short entries lately. My readership has fallen the last couple days, too.

At the end, I've had writers' block when it comes to the written projects. I schedule them for late afternoon/evening because I don't often get out (I'm in a small town and schedule my coffee times during the day), but by then, I don't feel very motivated.

I think I have to have a good talk with my characters tonight. We're just about at the climax of Prodigies, and they're strangely reticent. Right about now, they're having their last supper before the operation in which they're going to save a packed General Assembly room at the UN from being set on fire. Time for me to listen to them -- if I have time.