WOW!

I’m very excited to be speaking at this year’s WOW Conference, a day of leaders and champions. Will you be in the area? Come join us at the Blue Ocean Music Center in Salisbury, Massachusetts on April 5 and learn how you can become an Olympian gold medalist, a world-class leader, a successful entrepreneur, and a spousal serial killer (I mean, fiction writer!).

That’s what I’ll be talking about, my path to writing fiction, and tips and words of encouragement for you to find your own path to killing your significant other (I mean, to becoming a fiction writer!).

Read all about the conference here. It’s presented by the Greater Haverhill Chamber of Commerce, and I’m so grateful they asked me to join the fun. Who knew so many women are interested in killing their partners? (I mean, writing fiction!)

Hope to see you in the audience!

credit: morguefile

credit: morguefile

 

The unfinished novel

I’ve written 260 pages of a story for middle-grade girls. This is the third novel I’ve written, and I usually stall around page 260. So, instead of writing page 261 and beyond, I’m pausing at this precipice. I’m standing on my tiptoes, with my arms stretched wide, like I’m in some ridiculous tampon commercial, feeling the pull of gravity and the push of the wind.cliff

I’m here and it’s scary as hell.

They say it takes writing several novels before getting it right. A fellow writer, talented and hard-working, wrote 12 novels before landing an agent.

The wind is picking up at my back.

And even if you land an agent, there are no guarantees a publisher will take on your novel.

I’d list the stats here, but my legs are beginning to wobble.

So I back away from the cliff, and think about the story, not the statistics. I love this story, and right now, I’m at the most special place a writer can be.

It’s where every writer is when they stop, when they procrastinate, when they doubt and say, this is total shit.

It’s that place on the page where anything can happen.

p. 261

 

 

And there goes the cat

So, last week I attend a writer’s workshop at Boston’s premiere watering hole for authors. Before leaving the house, I shower, brush my teeth, and floss, per usual. I floss vigorously. I lose myself in flossing. It isn’t until my jaw lands in the sink that I realize I am more than a little nervous.

After walking up and down the Boston street, thinking I have the wrong address, I finally discover the entrance sandwiched between two buildings. Not having the correct Harry Potter spell to widen it, I squeeze through and proceed up the narrow, dingy stairwell last used by Irene Cara in Fame.

But the upstairs, thankfully and appropriately, is a clean, well-lighted place. I take a deep breath, remembering that the workshop is for all writing levels, and I, as a first-time novelist, will be right at home.

The room is buzzing with graduate-degree angst and SAT words. The writers share a camaraderie that can only come from having unprotected sex with each other in 1985. Intimidating, for sure.

No problem. I will picture everyone in their underwear.

I scan the room.

I try not to picture everyone in their underwear.

I ask where Irene Cara is filming her porn movie, because I think I’ll be more comfortable with her.

A young intern tells me I’m in the right place, and leads me to the kiddie table. She puts a handful of Cheerios in front of me. “Have fun with those. Don’t choke now,” she says.

The students settle into their seats and smile at each other with a warmth that can only come from having safe sex with each other in 1992. They pull out their works-in-progress, and update each other on the literary publications they’re soliciting. I ask the person next to me to pass me my sippy cup.

The instructor enters the room, and quickly acknowledges all the familiar faces. He knows this pool of talent well.

I picture my “Hang in there!” kitten poster from 1968.

We each take a turn reading (out loud) the first couple pages of our manuscripts. The 12 women in the room have written about pain, and the monumental journey they have taken to embrace it. The 12 men in the room have written about their penises; one, a Vampire penis.

It’s three hours into the workshop, and the kitten from my poster is losing its grip. I am the second to last person to read.

I finish, and the instructor says, “Wow!” The room is filled with a hush that can only come from everyone wondering what it would be like to sleep with me. I smile.

“That was the most confusing opening I have ever heard,” the instructor says.

The kitten falls to the ground.

“I mean, did anyone else get any of that?” asks the instructor.

Vampire penis says, “No, not at all.” Others shake their head. My neighbor scoops up my Cheerios, because, clearly, I can’t handle them.

The tree slams to the ground, on top of the cat.

“You need to back away from this narrative, and rewrite it, so we know what the hell is going on,” the instructor adds.

The bus-size NASA satellite expected to plummet near Germany changes course and lands on the fallen tree.

He looks at me for a response.

“Hey, I flossed for you!” I say.

The penises wilt; the women consider writing about my pain, and the monumental journey I’ll need to take to embrace it.

I get up and search for Irene.

Unexpected Harmony During the Civil War

It’s the 150th anniversary of the Civil War, so here’s a special story about my great-great-grandmother Julia:

If Julia Pearson was frightened as she walked over to her family’s pianoforte, if sweat dripped down her whalebone corset at the smell of fresh cinder, or if her hands trembled under her homemade lace cuffs, she didn’t let on to the frightfully tall Union soldier at her doorstep.

Julia had known this day might come, for stories of General Sherman’s madness and crimes had reached her father’s plantation not long after the men folk had left to fight for the Confederacy. She worried for her young brothers, still in their teens, and her father, aged beyond most of the volunteer soldiers. But duty called, as it called to Julia on this day thick with rain and smoke, a grey that hadn’t let up for weeks. Late in the afternoon on April 21, 1863, General Ben Grierson and his Calvary brigade raided the Pearson plantation near Starkville, Mississippi.

At twenty years of age, Julia should have been wed by now. But men were scarce and Julia was needed to help run the family farm. An order for 200 slaves had been placed by her father before departing, but that was on hold, pending the outcome of the War of Northern Aggression. Even if she were to fall in love, perhaps with one of the many returning wounded, she wouldn’t leave her mother and younger sisters to care for the farm by themselves.

The donkeys brayed as Grierson’s men raided the livery stable, and Julia, in an act of defiance, took to the piano to play a Confederate anthem called Homespun Dress.

Vilhelm Hammershoi (1864–1916) Woman at the Piano

My homespun dress is plain, I know,


My hat’s palmetto, too;


But then it shows what Southern girls


For Southern rights will do.


We have sent the bravest of our land


To battle with the foe,


And we will lend a helping hand;


We love the South, you know.

And while Julia was most certainly frightened, she couldn’t have known that the 36-year-old Calvary leader who came to her door had no intention of hurting her or burning her father’s plantation. For General Benjamin Grierson, who would become a celebrated Union officer for helping to bring down Vicksburg with his daring raid through Mississippi, was a most reluctant Calvary man. He was scared of horses, for one thing.

At just eight-years old, Grierson fell from his brother’s horse and subsequently took a hoof to the face that left him in a coma for two weeks. He spent months sequestered in a dark bedroom. He recovered fully, “a miracle,” the family doctor said. As soon as Ben was able, he grew a thick, full beard to hide the deformity, a look that would become his trademark.

General Benjamin Grierson

After enlisting in the Union army, he quickly rose in rank, recognized by Grant and Sherman for his strategic tactics, relying on quick and stealth travels and the element of surprise over dug-in troops with heavy ammunitions.

Such was the way he tore through Mississippi, wasting little time in each town as he commanded his troops to harm no civilians, burn no civilian homes, but destroy all government property, railroads, and telegraph lines.

Confederates would not be coming to protect Julia. Grierson’s men had backtracked their horses through the mud, and sent a small detachment northward to create a diversion for Grierson’s men to travel by fields unnoticed.

But family lore has it on this day in April, Gen. Grierson would pause his military campaign under the enchantment of Julia Pearson’s solo performance, and perhaps joined her in song.

While it may seem unlikely that a distinguished Union military soldier would be enamored with the musical talent of a Confederate’s daughter, biographers of the war hero would reveal that Ben Grierson was a musical prodigy.

“I was so infatuated with music that I could think of but little else, being unwilling to give up playing . . .even to eat or sleep.” —Benjamin Grierson

When a young Ben Grierson courted his wife Alice, a childhood love that would continue for decades, he would play the flute out his window, hoping the wind would carry the notes to her home across town. Music was what Alice and Ben loved more than anything else.

Not only was Grierson proficient with the flute, he played several instruments, and at the age of 12, became the town’s bandleader. But it was hard to make a living as a bandleader. By the time Civil War broke out, Grierson had no money, and no options but to enlist for the monthly stipend that was puny, but nonetheless vital to his wife and two young sons back home in Illinois.

Perhaps that day on April 21, Grierson felt closer to home, to his beloved Alice, at hearing young Julia’s voice. Perhaps, it gave him hope that one day this horrible war would be over, the Union would be saved, and he could return home.

And if there was ever proof that we are all connected in this American life, it would be in the instrument Julia played. The pianoforte was made by T. Gilbert & Co., a highly regarded piano factory run by Timothy Gilbert of Boston, Massachusetts, where Julia’s great-great-granddaughter would one day live.

One of Gilbert’s colleagues stated, “His heart is full of musical emotions and sweet harmonies.”

Timothy Gilbert

But making pianos wasn’t Gilbert’s mission. His mission, in the name of Christianity, was to help abolish slavery, and his piano factory was one of the largest stations on the Underground Railroad, where fugitive slaves were fed and bandaged. One slave hunter referred to Gilbert as the “grandest abolitionist in Boston.” Friends said “he was as fearless and honest as he was brave.”

Gilbert was known for walking the deserted streets of Boston during the “noon of night” to contemplate the desperate situations of his countrymen. As the bells of his church tolled, he would pause, remove his hat, and say a prayer.

I believe Timothy Gilbert would have been comforted to learn our country’s most violent and deadly war paused for a brief moment on a rainy April day in Mississippi to enjoy the sweet harmonies of a Confederate daughter, a Union general, and a pianoforte manufactured by T. Gilbert & Co.

The Great Halloween Bear Book Giveaway!!

The much loved Bear Who Loves Halloween is BACK! And, we’ve got a Halloween give-away to celebrate.

Retailing for $15.95, I will be giving away ten, yes TEN, new copies to be signed and personalized for your trick-or-treater, and shipped in time for Halloween.

Recommended for very young children (2-5), The Bear Who Loves Halloween follows a young bear’s journey as he discovers the sweet and joyful customs of a holiday devoted to children of all ages.

Parents introducing Halloween to their children will love and appreciate the story’s unfolding without scary images or words. Children will love Jack the bear’s fun-filled adventure as they think about their own upcoming celebration.

According to one happy parent:

“This is an absolutely fantastic Halloween story. My kids adored it and have read it every day since we got it. As my son said, ‘Mom, could that happen to us? Wouldn’t it be just great if it did!’ Bravo Jennifer Karin Sidford for bringing a great story to kids everywhere!”

The hardcover book features full-color illustrations from celebrated artist Sam Kimball.

To enter, leave a comment telling us what your child plans to be for Halloween. That’s it! Multiple entries will be deleted, so please enter just once. With so many copies to give away, you have lots of chances to win! Winners will be selected via an automated WordPress plug-in.

Giveaway closes Oct. 12. Winners will be announced on Oct. 13. Be sure to check back on Oct. 13 to see if you won a copy of The Bear Who Loves Halloween.

Trick or Treat!

 

When a story idea comes knocking…

Don’t let it in, yet.

I know that sounds odd, but trust me on this one.

I was recently interviewed for the blog, “Writer with a Day Job,” because, well, I’m a writer, and, eh, I have a day job.

Anyway…

I was asked when I find the time to write, and I answered, ‘I don’t.’ At least, not for long periods of time. I write in my head until that magic tear in the time/space continuum happens, and I’m able to knock out a few thousand words on my computer.

Then I realized, ‘Hey! That’s not a problem, that’s a strategy.’ Like when Microsoft describes a bug as a feature!

Anyway…

I’ve realized as my life becomes busier with other responsibilities, the stories I yearn to write become more developed in my head. Conversely, if I jump into a story just because I have time to write it, with nary (love that word!) the time to develop it in my head first, it’s nigh (it must be ‘talk like a pirate day’) unrecognizable as a compelling narrative.

If you launch into a story too soon, it could become the “thing that wouldn’t leave” — a great vintage SNL sketch starring John Belushi. I couldn’t find the video, because, like, this was, like, pre-Internet. It was in 1975, and Belushi plays a character invited over for dinner, and he never leaves, only creating hilarity with every hour he stays, making long distance phone calls (pre-Skype) on their phone (pre-cell phones) to invite friends over (pre-facebook), and eating everything in their kitchen (pre-microwaves).

Your story idea, without proper planning, will run amuck on the page like John Belushi in your living room, bringing in uninvited flat characters, running off with ill-conceived subplots, and don’t even get me started on the wooden dialogue.

Let your story idea linger outside for a while. Study it from the window. Observe it in its natural habitat. Figure out how you’re going to handle it once you let it in.

Then, and only then, open the door.

Unless, of course, it’s a Land Shark…

What Ferris Bueller Taught Me about Plot

Ferris Bueller

Even though I am a huge John Hughes fan, it’s safe to say that most of his movies are pretty-in-pink predictable: boy meets girl, girl gives her underwear to a geek, boy and girl get Saturday detention with other boys and girls, Jake shows up in a red Porsche. (Yes, I know I went from the general to the specific, but it’s Jake!).

Predictable is safe, linear storytelling. But even John Hughes stepped away from formula when he wrote Ferris Bueller’s Day Off, his most creative, and one of my most favorite, films. While watching it recently with my kids (they loved it, by the way), it occurred to me that I needed more Danke Schoen in my WIP novel. What am I talking about?

For those who haven’t seen the film, or need a refresher, Ferris jumps onto a float during a Chicago parade and lip-synchs Wayne Newton’s Danke Schoen. Ferris does this because his best friend Cameron hasn’t ‘seen anything good’ during their day off from school.

So, think of your readers as your best friend Cameron who hasn’t seen anything good yet. Break away from a linear plot, even though it makes sense and follows the natural order of progression, because lip-synching to Danke Schoen is much more fun.

Take risks with your plot, don’t be afraid to drive off a bridge, employ a psychic, corrupt a nun, and even jump onto a float in Chicago.

And really, that’s the way life is, no? Take a good look at your day, let’s say, yesterday—was it predictable? I doubt it. You really didn’t expect the toilet to overflow or the new plants to wilt or the garbage to tip over. These little moments are all plot developments in the making. Rebecca looked at the strewn trash across her driveway: a Chicken Marsala take-out container, wet coffee grounds, a receipt to a Broadway show. How odd, thought Rebecca, she and David hadn’t been to New York in years. Bada-bing! Now your readers are starting to see something good!

In the words of the great Ferris, “Life moves pretty fast. If you don’t stop and look around once in a while, you could miss it.”

Notice the tangents of your own life, and move your plot accordingly. It’s what Cameron wants.

Gratuitous photo of Jake

 

Asunder: Meet Caroline, a Battered Wife

For those following along with my novel Asunder, the first thing you may notice is that I’ve changed the name of one of the central characters from Carol to Caroline, because that’s what writers do. Until a manuscript is delivered to a publisher for the final time, we edit, edit, edit. Delete, delete, delete. Change, then change back, then change back again. Carol sounded too old for my character, who is 26. So, let me introduce you to Caroline, whose name is much more appropriate.

Caroline is a battered woman living under the tyranny of her husband Rick. She has a nine-year-old son, Thomas. Rick is not Thomas’s father, and although he has yet to turn his violent behavior on the boy, Caroline is certain he will. Discovering Rick’s set of car keys, Caroline picks Thomas up from his elementary school in Dry Branch, Georgia, and flees. It is 1998, a year before the nationwide Amber Alert is implemented.

Here’s Caroline at the moment of decision:

Her frayed canvas sneakers let out a high-pitched whine with each turn, hurting her head even more, but she kept moving, afraid the slightest change in her step, a skip in the rhythm, would bring the choreography to a crashing halt, shattering the opportunity in front of her. Chewing her fingernails, she eyed the car keys with suspicion each time she passed. Was it a trick?

She looked at the kitchen wall clock. 1:43 p.m. Time stuck in her throat like a piece of Thomas’s Wonder Bread, a painful lump of immovability. Thomas would be released from school in less than thirty minutes. She paced, trying to think but not to think. What had that woman said? At the Thanksgiving football game last year? It had been overcast, with a 70 percent chance of rain, but that didn’t dampen Bull Dog football fever. There is help, she’d said. Caroline had recognized the woman, but didn’t know from where. It had been ages since they had spoken. Yes, ages. When Thomas was in preschool. Her name was Laura, or Emily, or Rachel.

‘You can get help,’ the woman had said. Caroline had looked beyond the woman’s shoulder. Listening, but not listening. She hadn’t been able to look her in the eye. The woman had pressed a note into her hand, and told her to put it in her purse. ‘Look at it later, when you’re alone,’ she had said. The Dry Branch high school marching band was playing Dixie Chicken, a fan favorite. ‘There is a center in Macon. They have a hotline.’ The woman had stopped talking when Rick came back. With a flask tucked into his armpit and a pulled pork sandwich in his hand, he had announced to Caroline it was time to go back to their seats. Hot sauce had clung to the corners of his mouth. He didn’t bother acknowledging Laura or Emily or Rachel. Caroline held the note close to her side, crumpled it, and let it fall to the dusty ground. Rain drops followed. The crowd cheered as the home team took the field.

Caroline picked up the keys and tightened her fingers around them. She stood in the hall. The choreography stopped. The world around her waited for her cue. Just go. Don’t think. She debated taking one last look around. It was her parents’ house, the house she’d grown up in, where Caroline and her sister would run to after skinning a knee or falling off a bike. Its outside walls were built of strength and security, inside of love and forgiveness and goodnight kisses. Memories of children laughing and playing flashlight tag, the smell of peach pie and the chatter of her mama’s friends over a friendly game of bridge, the cherry-tobacco smell of her daddy’s pipe and his ivory backgammon set. These had all faded now.  As muted as the striped gold and burgundy wallpaper in the hallway.  The memories would have to suffice; there was no time for one last look.

She turned the Victorian glass doorknob of her daddy’s front door and walked out.

 

Top 5 Rules that Kill Storytelling

This past Monday, I caught up with a friend and author to have a cuppa and exchange critiques on our current projects. Both of us have been writers for a long time, and know enough about the editing process to provide guidance without squashing the intentions of the writer. It was a helpful morning, both professionally and socially. We will need each other as we head into the realm of agents, rejections, agreements, and reviews.

On the way home, I thought a lot about the subjectivity and, let’s face it, absurdity of the publishing machine, and how trends in publishing compound the absurdity with arbitrary rules about writing, pitching, and selling your work.

As an opinion columnist, it’s hard for me to observe these absurdities without speaking up, especially since I believe many of these rules are killing the story.

There are many to list, but here’s my top 5 rules to break:

Perfect Sentence Structure

Once you learn the rules of grammar, break them. Make them work for you; bend them to your creative will; dedicate your Pulitzer to your fourth-grade teacher. Don’t be sloppy, but don’t be rigid. Why break the rules of perfect sentence structure? Style. Style is what will set your storytelling voice apart from everyone else’s. If we all wrote the same way, following the same rules, here’s what we would hear from readers: zzzzzzzzzzzzzz. For example, I use sentence fragments. Love sentence fragments. Love fragments. Love. They work for me. And if crafted carefully, I have faith that my readers will understand and feel the experience I am creating for them without the proper subject-verb relationship.

Adverb Obliteration

Seriously, why all the hate toward adverbs? If you are new to creative writing, you will most likely hear, “Don’t use adverbs; adverbs are a sign of lazy writing.” While the advice has merit, the trend to write without adverbs is just that—a trend. You wouldn’t write like Oscar Wilde today, and years from now a new style will be “in.” Writing should reflect how we speak, and guess what? People use adverbs. So challenge yourself to write without relying on adverbs, but the idea that all adverbs should be obliterated is, simply, silly.

Word Count

I currently have a young adult (YA) manuscript that clocks in at 51,000 words‑pretty much on target. But if I want that same story to be picked up by a publisher for the mainstream adult market, I would need to boost that word count to 80,000. And if that same story might be appropriate for the sci-fi fantasy market, that word count needs to jump to 100,000. But be careful! Another talented author friend of mine was told to shave her word count, so her novel would fit on Wal-Mart’s shelves. How many words should your novel be? As many as it takes to tell the story.

Copycat Writing

Publishers want to publish books they know will sell. And who can blame them? It’s a business, after all. How do they know certain books will sell? Because, in a way, they’ve already sold them. You see, they select writers and stories that are very similar to bestsellers from other authors. And they incorporate the help of these bestselling authors to help sell the newest author with lovely quotes on the back of the book. Even book covers are designed to create a connection between an established author and a new author. Don’t model your writing after someone else’s. You’re much too special for that.

Writing for a Market

Each genre has its rules of engagement, again based on successful formulas. That does not mean readers can’t consume, appreciate, and enjoy stories that cross genres or markets. Book-club moms don’t always have to read about domestic heartaches, single women in their twenties deserve more than chick lit, sci-fi loving geeks can get teary eyed over a romance. I love stories that cross the median. My brain jumps around from humorous situations to political conspiracies to literary thoughts to advertising headlines, and so do my book ideas.

 

So, what rules should you follow? Write the story that’s inside of you. Be true to that story. Write it the best way you can. Period.

If you do, I know you will find a publisher who will be glad you broke the other rules.

 

Kids Want to be Heard!

When my kids became independent readers they didn’t want me to read them a story, they wanted me to tell them a story—a great story. Well, after a long day at work, all I wanted was to rely on Harry Potter or Percy Jackson to carry my kids into dreamland. But no, my kids were challenging me to rise up as the wonderful parent they thought I could be, and tell them a story as riveting as J.K. Rowling.

Damn.

Not an easy task, especially after meeting (and not meeting) deadlines, and feigning enthusiasm during never-ending conference calls. “Wouldn’t you rather hear about that Wimpy Kid fellow?” I’d ask. “He sounds fun!”

“No, Mom, tell us a story.”

What could I do? So, into the woods, or over the castle wall, or spelunking into the cave we went.

But here’s the kicker: as I’m placing the protagonist into more challenging predicaments (or, at least, I thought so), my kids kept interrupting me. The nerve!

“No, Mom, the ranger discovers a buried sword.”

“No, Mom, the mountains start to tremble and reveal a secret passage.”

“No, Mom, the rainbow unicorn gallops off a cliff into the fiery pit of death.” (Did I mention they’re boys?)

And so, I learned valuable parenting lesson #2,362,580: kids just want to be heard. In fact, they are dying to be heard. In fact, shut up and let them talk, already!

And here’s what you will discover: your kids are the most wonderfully imaginative storytellers you have ever heard, with crazy story arcs and non-linear plot structures that make Dr. Seuss sound dull.

Discover the lost art of family storytelling, at the dinner table, bath time, or bedtime, and you will learn about your children’s day, and whether they are happy at school, and whether they are making friends. You will also strengthen their ability to learn in the classroom, not just in english, but in math and science as well.

Most importantly, you will deepen the intangible bond between parent and child.

At the end of the night, they’ll even give you the credit.

“Mom, that was the best story ever.”

(Thank goodness they thought of it.)