Enjoying Life with 3 Dogs, 2 Kids & an ADHD Husband.

Time for the second week of Corrine Jackson’s writing process series on how writers do it. Today’s topic? Getting Into the Zone: What goes into the creative process of writing a novel? (i.e. Author’s mindset, the writer’s environment, etc.)

Lots and lots of junk food…whoa, what? Who said that? Actually, I don’t know if I’ve upped my junk food intake so much as I’ve maxed out on caffeine—one of the hazards of writing at Starbucks/Boudin.

Yeah, I’m one of those weird writers who doesn’t get much writing done at home unless it’s late at night. (read: kidlets are all locked up straight-jacketed asleep in their beds, and dogs are valiumed dozing on the couch). During the day, the house just distracts me. There’s always so much that needs to be done around here—and unless I want my MC seething with guilt over three-week-old dirty clothes piles or toilets that could be breeding the next super-bug, I tend to vamoose.

And then of course, if I sit all day at a coffee shop, it would be wrong not to buy drinks. Wrong, I tell you! Hence the caffeine.

caffeine yum

Weirdly enough, I typically can’t listen to music when I write, but I can tune out conversations, background music, etc. I think I *love* my music sooooo much, that all I want to do when I hear it is sing along. I do brainstorm up a bunch of new scenes while I listen to my iPod and run, though. And I just totally digressed there, didn’t I?

Let’s see. So far, we’ve got caffeine and Starbucks. What else goes into the creative process for me? Tons and tons of desire. I mean, there are so many distractions and other things begging to be done, you’ve really got to have that fire. For me, I have to want, no, NEED, to get my story down on paper in order to make time to do it. And the best way to make that happen is to both a) start writing the darn thing and see what comes (which sounds slightly contradictory to what I just said but trust me, it makes sense) and b) think about my story/characters A LOT.

What doesn’t go into my creative process? Outlining. I’m a total pantser. One who is trying to reform but will probably fail miserably, given how I repel all things organizationally-related.

James Scott Bell doesn’t really talk about the creative mindset so much in Plot and Structure, but he does suggest ways to brainstorm Shiny New Ideas. Examples include:

- making up a cool title and then dreaming up a story to go with it

-list mental pictures from your past and come up with little stories to describe them

-listen to music and come up with a story for the song

- scour the obituaries and recreate an original character from the biographies (As Cordelia might say–morbid much?)

-write an opening line and go from there

-mind-mapping (Something to do with writing down a word/concept that intrigues you, then doing free association to come up with a bunch of words/ideas to go with it. Honestly, it kinda scares me.)

Oh, and in case you’re wondering, there’s a small section in the book on how NOT to get ideas:

Drugs, alcohol and stress

Drugs and writing = badness...unless you're Stephen King

I know, I know—what a major killjoy! But note the conspicuous absence of caffeine from that list. Which obviously means it’s okay to tank up (hey, I had to tie this post together somehow!)

So, that’s my creative process in a nutshell—caffeine, somewhere that’s not home, and desire. What’s your creative process like?

Of course, if you know me at all, you’re not buying that for a second.

All right, fine, I’ll ‘fess up. I mean, querying blunders–everyone makes them. We’ve all heard the story about the overeager writer who called the agent’s office for a status check on his query(cringe!) or sent a package of live hamsters to go along with that cute hamster picture book she was pitching (Okay, I might have made that one up—but I wouldn’t be surprised if it had happened. Because, you know, nothing says represent my book like a box of dead rodents).

Seriously, though—if you’ve made a querying/writing oopsie, you’re not alone. And to prove it, I’m gonna share some of my more special moments with you.

1) I might have cold-emailed this author my first chapter and asked for her input. No, I’m not making this up. In my defense—at the time, I had no idea such behavior was frowned upon. I’d just read about her on an agent’s blog and thought she sounded really cool. And the author, lovely lady that she was, actually responded with a crit! Unbelievable, really, how awesomely supportive so many fellow writers are. Of course, when I sent her ten thousand follow-up questions, she ran far, far away, but that’s another story.

2) I might have sent a different writer I read about on the same blog my query letter to critique. Again, I didn’t know her, and again, she totally responded. I’m thinking maybe she suspected I needed medical help.

3) I sent out about 15 queries for my first manuscript without having any other writers read it. Just a few friends and my mom—yep, I’m *that* girl. On the plus side, I did not mention that my mom liked it in the query letter. But that’s probably just because I didn’t think about it.

4) When I got two full requests from those queries, I did not attach a title page. I suppose it could have been worse—I could have sent that box of hamsters.

5) I decorated my query letter envelope with puffy paints and stickers, and enclosed a photo of myself. Yeah, okay—I totally made that part up. But I bet *somebody* did it!

Comments welcome, as always!

When I walk down the stairs, Mom’s smile is the same one she’s been wearing for the past four months—perky, wide. Strained.

Then she gives me a once over, and the smile fades. It’s not long before she’s hovering, which makes even our condo-sized kitchen feel claustrophobic, and I can see her biting her lip. She’s trying not to say anything about my new look. But I know her. Former Miss Chester County won’t be able to help herself.

Sure enough, one last graze of lasered-white teeth against perfectly applied Chanel lip-color later, she says, “Hon, are you sure that’s what you want to wear on your first day of school?”

I look down. I’m wearing a frayed t-shirt, an old pair of jeans that had probably worn out their coolness years ago, and a pair of scuffed up sneakers. Not as awful as I’d like, to be honest. I completely procrastinated on my mission to stock up on school clothes at the local discount store. But my blond hair is pulled back into a haphazard braid that makes me look about twelve, and instead of contacts, I’m wearing my ancient square glasses—the ones my brother used to tease me were only fit for one-hundred year old librarians. Or asexual men.

“Yes, this is exactly what I want to wear.”

Mom opens her mouth as if to protest, but appears to think the better of it. “Okay, hon. Just remember, everything will be fine.” She’s using that soft, soothing voice I hate, the one that says she thinks I’m a wild, injured animal that needs to be approached with extra care. And I know she’s not finished; we’ve been here before. Soothing voice is always followed by some false platitude about how I’m really such a nice girl.

Wait for it. Wait for it. “You’re a good person—whether you believe it or not.”

But she can’t hold my gaze when she says it, she never can; instead, she turns to fuss with the already perfect place setting.

We both know she’s lying.

I don’t reply, but my silence speaks volumes. I grab a single piece of toast off a plate groaning with pancakes, eggs, the works. Because it’s a universal mom fact that food will solve everything that’s wrong in the world. I sling my backpack over my shoulder.

“You have to eat more than that before your first day,” she frets.

“I’ll be fine. Thanks though,” I add, leaning down to give her a peck on the cheek. After all, it’s not her fault. “Besides, I need to get going if I’m going to walk.”

Mom frowns. “I still don’t know why you’re planning on walking. You have a perfectly good car.”

Too good—that was the problem. I didn’t want to show up for the first day at my new school in a Lexus convertible. “Haven’t you heard? Exercise is good for you.”

“Funny.”

I try to smile, but my mouth fumbles over how to form one. It feels like decades have passed since I’ve activated those particular muscles. In reality, it’s only been a few months. “See ya later.”

Comments appreciated, as always!

I walk through campus and take in all the buildings, the quad, the school I’ve attended for the past three years. My eyes seek a tangible clue, a scrap of evidence that things have changed.

But I find…nothing. The familiar stucco walls are still the color of butterscotch, the grass in the senior courtyard the same vibrant shade of green. Even the old oak sprawling proudly through the middle of campus appears to have the same number of leaves. The kids laughing and gossiping their way past me in huddles are talking about the same meaningless topics as always…parties, dates, homework.

I turn to cut through the corridor toward homeroom, when I spot him.

James.

My heart slams to a halt in my chest. Then, it kick-starts into an unsteady gait, like an athlete’s first limping step after an injury.

As I watch him lean into a curvy dark-haired girl, his arm loosely draped across her shoulders, I finally pinpoint what’s different. It’s not the school, or the students, or anything that I can touch. It’s my hold on James. Always tenuous at best, my slippery claim to him has faded along with the intensity of the summer sun.