Celebrate Good Times

by Shannon Baker

It’s January. The whew of the holidays. I love the whole holiday season with the planning and partying, over-eating and drinking. I spend almost a month of putting off real work while I make time for fun. Then comes January with a sense of relief and bursting energy to get back to the productive life.

My January began with a gasp at 3 A.M. I have a book launching in two months! How did it swing around so quickly when it seemed like it would never get here? I scurried to my computer and pulled up the very organized marketing plan I wrote out in October. I only have a plan because I’d just returned from a conference and a friend shamed me into getting that done.

I’m on track, more or less. I didn’t attend to the December tasks as I should have but I’m not too far behind. Here’s my confession (not that you’ve asked but it’s good for my soul): I did practically nothing for last year’s book launch. Chances are I was at a low ebb in my real life (lower than I’d admitted to myself) but I allowed the negativity to rule.

What that means is that I listened too intently to those who said, “Blog tours are a waste of time.” “You don’t sell enough books at a signing to make it worth your while.” “Don’t send postcards or bookmarks to bookstores; they only throw them away.” Basically, the message I internalized was that nothing works, so don’t bother.

While all of that might be true, there is more to consider. I felt defeated before the book even slid off the presses. The Why Bother germ infested my attitude. I probably sent a vibe out to the Universe that said, “You really shouldn’t read this book. There are so many others out there that are better. You won’t like this.”

I didn’t celebrate that book and whether it made any difference in sales, it made gigantic impact on me. I felt like the Eeyore of authors.

I’m not going to let that happen this time. It doesn’t matter if my efforts don’t show up in sales. I’m going to blog bounce and set up book signings. Hit up a few book clubs, send out scores of press releases. I’m going to stick to my plan. Because I believe.

I believe that putting positive energy into this venture will yield results. I’m already feeling good about the launch, proud about the new book and ready to show it to the world. It’s a good story and I liked it when I told it to myself so why shouldn’t other people like it, too?  

The real reason I’m putting an effort into the launch is for myself. I want to celebrate the accomplishment. Somewhere along the last year, my perspective changed. I’m not marketing as a Sisyphusian chore that I’m supposed to do, toiling in the gray gloom of uselessness. I’m having a party and I get to tell people about something I find interesting.

So guys, guess what? I’ve got a book coming out in two months! It’s going to be great!

What are you celebrating?

Poke Me With a Fork...

I'm done.

by Shannon Baker

When introverts spend a long weekend at a writers conference, talking, listening, learning and loving being with other writers, it can mean a retreat to the cave big time. It can also mean no energy left to write a blog.

Rocky Mountain Fiction Writers' Colorado Gold Confernce took place Sept 5-7 in Denver, which means, I'm totally played out. So instead of words, you get picutres:

Midnight Ink Aquiring Editor Terri Bischoff flanked by authors Shannon Baker and Linda Hull

This was the first day of the conference, well before late nights.

What happens when a well meaning and talented author (Mark Stevens) asks very nicely for an extension on his deadline from the Evil Editor.

Speaking of evil, the welcome speech on Friday night wasn't really meant to scare anyone. 

The same Editor being not so evil, hanging out in the Colorado sunshine and deciding on a sage margarita after a harrowing day of taking author pitches.

Send off speaker, extrodinary writer, all around great guy, William Kent Krueger. He taught several workshops, gave one on one critiques and inspired us all with his speech at the farewell luncheon.

Even though my brain is mush, it was all in a good cause. I would give you more details about the conference and urge you all to put it on your calendars for next year, but I'm toast tonight. (No, I did not mean toasted.) For more details, pop on over to RMFW.org. 

How OCD Are You?

by Shannon Baker

In the famous words of W.C Fields, “Go away kid, you bother me.”

I’m closing in on a novel I started about a year ago. I haven’t been working on it all year, though. I wrote a couple of chapters and an outline, then turned my attention to another genre and cranked out two books. Those books are living in an undisclosed location under an assumed name.

In April I returned to this book. For a while I wrote like a sane person. I completed a draft, planned revisions, contracted an editor and we set a deadline. I can meet that deadline with certainty by working a challenging, yet rational schedule.

However, I lost my tenuous grip on reality four days ago. After a relaxing week of vacation with my guy, kayaking, hiking, cycling, camping in the Rocky Mountains, I headed down to Tucson. I have a ten-day stay planned in which I would inspect some work done on the house while we were gone, make some decisions on other house improvements and finish the revisions on my book. In the meantime, I wanted to trip up to Scottsdale to support fellow MI author, Maegan Beaumont with her release of Sacrificial Muse. All laid back and easy.

Somewhere in day two, I boarded the crazy train. Left to my own devices, with no one to expect company at meals or conversation over coffee, or to generally behave like a normal human, my engine heated up and I can’t seem to cool it down. I finished the revisions yesterday and now I’m filling holes and patching cracks. I can’t have a phone conversation because I’m distracted with my characters’ motivation and if I remembered to add that clue.

My neighbor, the sweetest woman in the world, is excited I’m here this week and has engaged me whenever I slip out front for any reason. I try to be friendly but I want to ignore her and run back to my computer. She invited me over for a cookout today and I am so irritated I have to interrupt my flow I feel like declining. But I didn’t. I even mixed up my killer Three-Bean Salad.

Then I had to stop a chapter spit and polish because my alert popped up that I have a blog post due tomorrow and as I’m writing, this happened:

I assume it was one of those desert thermals that landed on my house, because I had those pages anchored down. None-the-less, that’s the latest draft spread across the floor. And you know what? I’m not stopping to pick it up because I have two hours before the cookout and I have to finish this blog and get back to the edit.

 I should do yoga and I’ve got to pay some bills. And I have until the end of the month to finish this book and it’s very close to being done but I want to have time to read it out loud and I think I should send it to a beta reader or two and what if they think it doesn’t work and I wonder if I ought to change the part where the killer laughs and her motivation isn’t clear in the second part and, oh my god, I forgot she smashed her nose on the steering wheel in chapter 27 so people need to react to all that blood on her face in chapter 28….

This is why I shouldn’t do a private writer’s retreat. I need someone to speak slowly and maintain eye contact and tell me to step away from the manuscript.  

Tell me I’m not alone in this wacked-out behavior. Just how OCD are you?

Trusting the Process

by Shannon Baker

There are as many ways to write as there are writers. More, in fact, because what works for one writer for one book might not work for the next book. For now, I’ve discovered a method that seems to work for me.

I charge through the first draft without pausing to look back. I set a challenging daily word count and begin at page one and write through until the last chapter. I start off with a fairly clear idea of the plot. I try to use the four part method and have reversals and twists at the appropriate spots. But even with all the planning, the whole boat inevitably sails off the edge of the world. It takes longer to set up scenes than I anticipated or I get a better idea along the way. Sometimes, my initial plot only has a place marker that says something like, she must be betrayed by him and end up at the ranch.

I used to get bent when I didn’t know all the details at the outset. Or if I had a better idea, I’d feel as if I needed to fix the previous pages before I moved on. But I’m teaching myself to trust the process and to forge ahead without any more editing than making notes about what needs to be included or changed. I know that those changes might change again and again before the end of the book so working on them now only slows the process.

What this means is that I can gallop very quickly through a first draft. But when it’s done, I’ve got a terrible mess. It’s the kind of disaster that pops me wide awake at 2 A.M. wondering how it will ever come together. But I soothe myself with the knowledge that it usually does gel at some point and nothing is done that can’t be undone.

Yesterday I finished my draft and today I’m staring at a pile of pages that I know are mostly crap. To be honest, I can’t remember some of the scenes or the clues I placed. I’m terrified to read the drivel I slapped down. Many of those words were grudgingly written with one eye to the word count, bargaining with myself that as soon as I finished the daily goal I could ride my bike or have a cookie. I am not above bribery. Also, I’m not entirely adult.

Hopefully I’ll find something salvageable in the dross. I know the pacing is off because I didn’t hit my stride until about half way through. So I will need to move chunks of exposition from the beginning, punching up the pace, adding clues.

But this first draft is the frame. What I’ll begin with on this second go is adding the rooms and giving it the structure. From there, I’ll put up the drywall by making sure it flows in a cohesive whole. Finally, there will be painting and bringing in the furniture and artwork that will finish it off.

I’ve got a long way to go before this puppy is housebroken. (How many metaphors can I come up with for one manuscript?) But I’ve got one stage down and am feeling hopeful.

What is your process and have you learned to trust it?

To Tech or Not To Tech

by Shannon Baker

I tried to find some way to tie this story to a writing lesson but I finally gave up. So, this happened to me:

We recently moved to a micro, very “rustic” (see how I used real quotation marks to indicate air quotes?) hundred year-old house in Nebraska. It’s a temporary thing, as of this writing, we’re only sentenced to stay there 565 days, more or less.

Anyway, now it’s winter and, as you might expect, the house is not a cozy little nest. It’s small enough that it doesn’t take long to heat up but has an equally quick cool down. The basement heater sounds like a jumbo jet firing up for take off. So all day long there is a roar, the house turns into a steam room, then silence and frost.

I spend entirely too much time of Facebook but, as I explain to my husband, there is so much useful information. To wit, this guy demonstrated how he built a space heater that operates for pennies a day. http://tinyurl.com/ldsmw4c  It starts with a bread pan. To this, you add four tea lights. (This really intrigued me because I happen to have hundreds of tea lights I keep moving from place to place—which is a story for another time.) Next, you add an inverted terra cotta flower pot with the little hole covered. A larger flower pot goes on top of this and when you light the candles, it creates a convection effect and heats small spaces.

Perfect. I told my husband about my plan and he asked why I didn’t simply use an electric space heater. Oh, but this, I said, is so much cheaper and won’t waste energy and I already have all those tea lights. My husband is a railroader and he’d been working all night and now, going on being up for 30 hours, my schemes didn’t take top priority. He fell into bed and I decided the chilly, gray day was ideal for my new, low-tech heater.   

I set it up on a tea towel, on top of two thick magazines, on the coffee table. I was thrilled when my little heater started putting out a steady, glowing warmth. I chortled about how much money I was going to save us. I felt so clever and Earth-friendly.

Then the candles started to pop. I thought maybe the candles had some gold paint and the chemical was burning off. That didn’t seem like a good idea, so I tried to blow them out. Big mistake. The air fed the fire and it burned hotter. My little heater was certainly an efficient energy producer.

While I tried to decide how to dampen the candles, I smelled the tea towel scorching. This sucker was getting hot. If I didn’t do something soon, it might burn the table. I grabbed some hot pads and picked up the biggest flower pot. The infusion of oxygen fed the fire and it licked around the smaller pot. Yellow flames brightened my living room!

That’s probably when I started making little worried noises. Okay, I reasoned, I didn’t want to put water on the candles in case there was a chemical that would explode if drenched. I decided I’d pick up the bread pan and slowly walk it to the kitchen sink and let it burn itself out. Hands swaddled in hot pads, I gently lifted my low-tech furnace.

I didn’t take a step before it erupted. I’d created an incendiary device made of simple household items. I jerked my hands back and the pan fell to the floor. That’s when I actually screamed and started yelling that word. I’m sure you know the one.

The carpet ignited. (It’s kind of an ugly brown shag so not a big loss, but still, it is the youngest thing in the house.) I had visions of the entire house going up in flames and us wrapped in a blanket a neighbor brought, standing in the street, staring as the firemen hopelessly sprayed the house. I must have started making up a story then. My husband shot from the bedroom in his all-togethers. Did I mention all the shades were up and we live in a close neighborhood?

While I grabbed for placemats from the coffee table and smothered the flames, my husband stood blinking at the chaos, not quite understanding what was happening. I assured him I had it all under control, despite the stench of melting…. I don’t even know what the carpet is made of, nothing natural by the smell of it. 

I succeeded in putting out the flames and only melting a two-foot square. I ushered my husband back to bed and piled a few quilts on top of him, since I had to open the doors and air out the acrid chemical stench. The subfreezing air did the trick in short order.

We survived the incident and my husband cleverly cut and pasted to make spot look nearly as good as new. I dug out the space heater since I’m no longer allowed to play with matches in the house. I guess low-tech isn’t really my thing. No one can claim I’m high-tech either. I’m huddling in the drying blast and subtle roar of the space heater, decidedly a moderate-tech woman.

Teaching an Old Dog

by Shannon Baker

I've got a new toy. I've been playing around with it quite a bit and haven’t decided if it’s going to make my life easier or complicate it. For now, it’s kind of fun.

I downloaded a 30-day free trial of Scrivener.http://www.literatureandlatte.com/scrivener.php It’s software specifically designed for writers. I am starting a new series set in a small town and the cast of characters has the potential to become huge and confusing. Hopefully not for the reader, since characters will be emphasized in certain books and fade back in others. But for me, the writer, I’ll need to remember if the youngest sibling hates red beets in book one so I don’t have her scarfing them down in book five. (Please, Universe, I’d like there to be a book five.)

I have various methods of chaos for plotting books and a spotty system for research and character biblification. (I made that word up as a derivation of character bible, which, embarrassingly, I’ve never created.) It usually involves note cards and/or stickies, a cork board, an Excel spreadsheet with multiple worksheets attached, notebooks full of obscure scribbles.

Scrivener offers me the chance, at the outset of the process, to organize everything into one complete online file. I can paste links to research articles, I can cut and paste information and even pictures into the research file. It has this really cool cork board feature that lets me put bits of information on note cards and file them away. I can write all manner of notes and expand and contract as necessary.

I can write chapter synopsis on cards, with more detail hidden, color code the cards, and move them around the cork board to manage the plot. For instance, I can code orange for plot points and see if they’re distributed correctly. Or I can code pink and blue for point of view chapters and make sure everyone has their say.

Every character has a card and I can keep track of all the important information. Since the protagonist has nine brothers and sisters and some of them have progeny, this will be very helpful as I progress from book to book.

I’m having some bumps dealing with the mechanics. For instance, I can’t seem to import and export with ease. I’d really like to be able to email the files directly from Scrivener but I think I have to compile and save in a word document and send them out that way. These are small issues.

I’m not sure Scrivener offers me anything I’m incapable of accomplishing with my MS Office programs, but it’s new and fun and seems to be jolting my brain a bit, which is usually a good thing. One would hate to get complacent and keep relying on old methods.

So, off I go to create new cards to post on my virtual cork board. Have any of you used Scrivener or any other writer-specific software? What do you think? If you have a tried and true old-school method, tell us about that.

No Hesitation

By Shannon Baker

As writers, we often insert situations in our stories that illustrate principles. Of course, we try to be subtle as we layer in symbolism and analogy. But sometimes, real life gives us great stories to serve as life lessons.

I am not a risk-taker by nature. So when I’m afraid to try something new or I’m tempted to settle into the known and secure life, I remember an incident years ago.

My daughter, Erin, was eleven years-old and we were camping at Horseshoe Campground just outside of Mount Rushmore in the Black Hills on Labor Day. Summer was dwindling to a close and school had already started so this was our last outing before the rampaging activities of fall at our feed store in Nebraska and school sports geared up.

A large rock guarded the corner of Horseshoe Lake. To my memory it seems like it rose straight up from the water about 50 feet. It was probably much shorter. I can tell you it was one high platform. Local teenagers jumped from the rock into the deep lake. They were having a blast, sailing in and climbing back up.

Erin watched this with interest the first afternoon we camped. On the second day, she decided she wanted to try it. I climbed the rock with her and peered over the ledge as she contemplated the jump. To give her courage, I scurried back down and swam out and treaded water not far from where she’d enter. She stood at the edge trying to get her nerve up and I treaded water until my legs felt weary. In the end, she retreated without jumping.

What she perceived as defeat stayed with her throughout the evening and the next day as we toured the Black Hills. The next morning, as we packed up camp, I caught her gazing longingly across the lake as the big kids once again gathered and threw themselves off the cliff. We finished loading the gear and piled into the pickup. She never took her eyes off the rock as we drove past and headed out of the campground.

We stopped before entering the highway that would take us back to our real lives. Suddenly she shouted, “Wait! I want to jump.”

To the grumbles of the other family members, I insisted we stop, dig for our suits and let her change. We drove back and I once again swam out into the cold lake as she climbed the rock. This time, she only hesitated a second, then hurled herself off the cliff.

She hit the water and sank deep. A second later, her head bobbed up and her face split in a grin of accomplishment. Her pride spilled over and lasted for days. I don’t know, maybe it was a brick in her character growth and helped make her the strong young woman she is today.

What I do know is how it affected me. If she hadn't pushed herself beyond her comfort zone, if she hadn’t wanted to experience the flight and splash, she’d have gone home to the status quo and wouldn't have lost anything.

But by pushing herself, overcoming her fear, she earned not only the experience, she gained confidence to jump higher next time, to live fuller and freer.

When I asked her why she finally decided to try again, she said, “I realized I might not ever have another chance.”

When I’m hesitant to try something new and take a big chance, I try to seize the courage my young daughter taught me that day. I make a decision, put aside the fear and…

JUMP!

Freeze, Grammar Police!

by Shannon Baker

 

Your going to love it!

Everyone picked up there turkey.

Its going to rain all over it’s car.

Are your teeth set on edge yet? Does it make you cringe? Yeah, I thought it might. This kind of thing makes me mutter under my breath and complain to anyone handy. When my children were young there used to be a commercial on television for a multivitamin. The announcer would say, “Calcium, like in milk. Vitamin C, like in oranges.” I exploded. Every. Single. Time. From that one commercial alone I trained my children.

Not to speak correct grammar, but to run for the remote at the first hint of the jingle. They knew if they didn’t hit mute, I’d start shouting, “As! As! You moron!”

Now all grown up and not around to hear my tirades, they’ll torture me by taking pictures of grammatical crimes and sending them to my phone. Children never lose their delight in tormenting parents... or maybe it’s just my children.

Like the Irish and the police force in Boston, I come by my grammar sensitivity through blood. My paternal grandmother, a woman I admire in so many ways, was an English teacher in the early 1920’s. That woman respected the language. When her sons married women who might have been a little lax in their grammar and punctuation, especially when jotting quick letters to their mother-in-law, she would get out her red pen and go to work. 

Then she’d mail the corrected letters back. I’m sure she thought she was helping them out by teaching them correct usage. I am pretty sure they didn’t take it that way.

I’m not that demanding, really. I mean, all of us have hurried along and popped off with the wrong word. I have a devil of a time with lie, lay, laid. And for some reason past and passed can trip me up. I should also admit to an incorrect affect versus effect from time to time. 

Mistakes can be made. And I’m a forgiving person. Stop laughing. I can forgive. If I want to. If I really, really want to.

 However, I draw the line on certain things. A person must have standards and mine begin with:

They will shape their own destiny. 

I can barely type that without jumping from my chair and stomping around the room. The Man With Endless Patience looks at me expectantly whenever some idiot sports announcer mistakenly spouts it. I never disappoint. “YOU CAN’T SHAPE YOUR OWN DESTINY!” 

Look it up. Destiny is…predestined. You don’t change it because it’s…destiny. 

Being a big Nebraska Cornhusker fan and the Huskers being what they’ve been in the last several years, I hear this asinine phrase so often I’m surprised I haven’t burst a vein.

The other phrase that makes me clench my teeth and dig my fingernails into my palms is:

 I could care less. 

Really? Do you mean you COULDN’T care less? Or could you care less a little more?

I know, you’re probably like my children and are rolling your eyes and thinking that I need even more therapy. You want to tell me to stay calm and read some Jane Austin. 

But deep inside, you know I’m right. It’s our language. Our words.  So come on, out with it. What is that common misused word or stupid phrase that makes your back teeth hurt?

You Can't Win If You Don't Play

by Shannon Baker

“You miss 100% of the shots you don’t take.” – Wayne Gretzky

 

My father was an optimist and a risk-taker, a meticulous planner with an analytical mind. He was a product of Zig Zigler and Norman Vincent Peale.

Now days, I think they call it The Secret or maybe See it, believe it, achieve it.

Me? Not so much. I learned early that if I visualized success in detail it wouldn’t come true.

At the end of my eighth grade year I tried out for the pom-pom squad. I don’t mind telling you, I was great. I learned the moves and had the smile. I saw myself in those cute uniforms, hanging out with the cool kids and having a boyfriend—because all the pom-pom girls had boyfriends.

When they announced the new squad I sat on the bleachers knowing the next name called would be mine. I believed in the very fiber of my being. They called name after name and none of them was mine. There had to be a mistake because I was destined to be on that team. Days later, when I had to admit they weren’t going to bring me from class and tell me about the terrible misunderstanding of my votes being tallied wrong (I visualized this scene in detail also) the pain of failure crushed my heart. Oh, it was okay, I told everyone. I was moving to another state anyway and it didn’t matter.

A few months later they had try-outs for freshmen cheerleaders at my new school. I was new and the student body voted so there was no way I’d get picked. I didn’t hope for it. Guess what? I got it.

Lesson learned. Don’t want it too badly. Don’t visualize too intricately. If you win it will be glorious. If you lose, no big deal.

The youngest of three kids, I have this idea the Universe functions sort of like my family. If the Universe finds out I want something really badly, it will tease me and thwart me and I’ll end up getting hurt.

Although I never really believe I’ll win the jackpot, it doesn’t keep me from putting in my chips. My life philosophy has always been: You can’t win if you don’t play.

Almost every good thing in my life happened not because I believed it would or even dreamed about it. Mostly, things happen because I think, “Why not try?”

I might as well put an effort into my day job. I’ve got to spend at least eight hours a day somewhere earning a living; I ought to make it enjoyable and challenging.

I never thought I’d get a novel published but why not keep writing and sending stuff out? What else was I going to do with my spare time since I’m really bad at crafts? While I was going to write I might as well study craft and become versed in the way the business works.

I know I should write goals and plan timelines. I’ve gone to enough inspirational speakers, read Covey’s advice, taken management courses that Lebowski’s Little Achievers would envy.

I don’t do any of that. I keep my future plans vague in case the Universe is plotting against giving me what I really want.

What I do is show up. Work hard. Be adaptable. Try not to take myself too seriously.

I’ll never know what it was like to be a pom-pom girl and it might always hurt just a little. But since then, I’ve had a really great ride.

There Has to Be an Easier Way

by Shannon Baker


Why is writing a novel such a messy enterprise? Maybe it’s not for everyone but for me, it’s like eating an overstuffed taco. You know, the kind where you take a bite and tomatoes plop onto the plate, guacamole smears your nose, juice slides down your wrist and the tortilla shatters, scattering lettuce and cheese all over the table.

This whine is from an accountant who plots on an Excel spreadsheet. I hate messes and redundancy and wasting time. I spend quite a bit of time plotting a novel before I ever type a word onto the screen. But one thing I’ve discovered about novel writing is that no matter how detailed my plots, gaping holes appear like a Flagstaff city street in the spring thaw. Not only that, but characters that begin as figments of my imagination take off on their own and change my carefully laid plans.

That’s why I treat my first draft (not-so-affectionately called Shirty First Draft after our critique partner misspoke Natalie Goldberg’s famous title for bad drafts) as a lark. I do no editing, just write as if the hounds of hell nipped at my heels. I know I will have to make extensive rewrites as I realize what won’t work and/or I get inspired by better ideas.

I finished that Shirty First Draft as the year drew to a close. Some issues nagged at me. So on December 31st, I took MWET (Man With Endless Tolerance) to a sunny patio at a pub and plied him with beers all afternoon while I told him the whole story of my book. I could do this, because I’d written the plot, chapter by chapter, in Excel and printed it out. He listened and drank and drank and listened and drank and drank.

“Here is where I think I need to pump up the danger. And here is where I need a big twist.” I pointed out the weaknesses as I identified them and where I needed his creative mind.

He nodded and ordered another beer. I allowed the book to steep in his mind, hardly bugging him… more than a few times a day. FOR A WEEK!

And then he started. “The villain should…” I answered, “That can’t happen because…” And he said, “Change that to…” And I said, “If she did that, then she couldn’t… and that would change and then the end wouldn’t…” This went of for some time, days, actually.

It turns out, he was right. My Excel spreadsheet tilted and I had to change my method to a cork board and sticky notes, and notebook paper, and napkins and anything else handy. I even stopped at a grocery store to beg paper and pen during a walk because I had one of those idea attacks and feared I’d forget the brilliant twist.



Now, despite my careful planning and writing for a couple of months ago, I’m finally ready to start writing the real book. Messy, redundant, and 80,000 words waiting to be tossed. But this is the book I want to write. I hate that I can’t force my mind to be more organized and well, that I’m just not smarter than I am. But if this is the process that brought me to a better book, in the words of New Age gurus and those way more in tune with the Universe than I, I need to honor it.


For my accountant brain, though, I’ve taken the new plot from that nightmare of a corkboard and translated it neatly into Excel.

What is your plotting process? Does anyone have a surefire way to avoid massive rewrites? If not, have you learned to honor your creative mess or do you fight it?