Why I write and the Sewanee Young Writers Conference by Kerry Madden

Some Sewanee Young Writers from this year's Sewanee Young Writers Conference
(Top Row: L to R - Devon, Marie Claire, Ryan, Allie, me)
(Bottom Row: L to R - Mallory, Summer, Amber, JillAnn, Patrick, and Viv)
http://www.sewanee.edu/ywc/

I had my students from the Sewanee Young Writers Conference write "Beginnings" of stories and novels when our workshop started a few weeks ago. I decided that I would write them, too, because it's practically impossible for me to focus on any of my own writing when leading a daily three-hour workshop for two weeks of ten teenagers all writing their own stories. I had a budding Texas Stephen King, an apocalyptic Christian novel of angels and demons, girls who could fly and cross into other dimensions, a few murder mysteries, a whaling novel of a fisherman's daughter, a David Bowie tribute, a family's escape from Hurricane Katrina, literary fiction of a choir girl raging against her domineering choir director, historical fiction with a count and an evil father, a story of teen twins one with a split personality, and even some southern grotesque from a young writer who loves Flannery O'Connor.

They were a wonderful group - and of course, I am always terrified that it won't go well for any number reasons, but these young writers came to Sewanee atop Monteagle Mountain in Tennessee ready to write. They showed up early every day. They did constant revisions. They leapt into all kinds of new stories from the "writing sparks" I gave them. They showed up with their hearts open and ready and full of love and excitement. And being the mother of teenagers, I was wary of two intense weeks with teenage writers, but they reminded me why I love to write and why I love to tell stories.

So here are some of my beginnings inspired by the book WHAT IF by Pamela Painter and Anne Bernays. I also had them write a "bossy, instructive" story inspired by Jamaica Kincaid's story, GIRL. I don't know if these stories will turn into anything, but I feel like they will, and WHAT IF is a great book for beginning writers.

* * *

WITH A GENERALIZATION

Most Southerners will stop and wave at you and if you don’t wave back then there is something fundamentally wrong with you.

WITH A DESCRIPTION OF A PERSON

My grandmother ate a bowl of Campbell’s Tomato soup every day for breakfast at 11:00 and watched “The Young and the Restless,” “As the World Turns,” and “Guiding Light,” and then ate supper at 3:00. She also said three rosaries a day and went to daily Mass at 5:00 so long as the weather held up in Leavenworth, Kansas, and when it didn’t, the weather, that is, she had a home supply of the Holy Eucharist ready in a chalice near her statue of the Virgin of Guadalupe.

WITH DIALOGUE

“And then we were plunged into darkness,” the ten-year-old said when the mother turned off the light to go to bed.

"I tell you that dishwasher hasn't been emptied since Elwood Horton died more than two years ago. His son, who inherited the house, didn't even know there was a dishwasher. Then his momma, Elwood's ex, came to visit."

WITH SEVERAL CHARACTERS BUT NO DIALOGUE

The football players stumbled off the nighttime field one by one toward the visitors’ locker room, clutching helmets and water bottles. The fifty-yard-line reeked of sweat and Gatorade and honest-to-God smelled so bad it was like the Fighting Irish had never left the turf at all.

WITH A SETTING AND ONLY ONE CHARACTER

During a break between New Year’s Day bowl games on the television, the family crowded outside to greet more visitors, but she lingered behind to wash dishes – a worthy effort and no one could condemn her for not wanting to greet yet another relative coming up the long driveway. Champagne glasses stood half drunk or untouched on tables and shelves, and midway through the pile of dishes she watched as her brother-in-law slipped back into the living room to knock back every single glass.

WITH A REMINISCENT NARRATOR

I remember the way my grandfather pushed five bucks into the hand of the priest and pleaded with him to bless our courthouse wedding. Father Karl, the priest, said, “No way, Jerry. Can’t do it. Bishop from Kansas City says no way.”

WITH A CHILD NARRATOR

People think I get hot in my cap. I don’t. If I got hot in my cap I would take it off, but I don’t get hot. Okay? I like my cap. I don’t care if it’s July. I like my cap. I’m not hot. Okay? It’s just what people think.

BY ESTABLISHING POINT OF VIEW

First person

I have stared death in the face not once, not twice, but three times. How do you like them apples? Anyhow, that’s when I quit driving the public school bus.

Second Person

You know you're in for it when you have to fly with a baby to meet his great grandmother, and you wear him on your back through the airport where he takes fist-fulls of your hair like horse reins and yanks so hard tears pop into your eyes and you don't even know yet that when you plop that squirming child into his great grandmother's lap, she will say, "I'm not used to it. Take him."

Third person

Guy, the landlord, was letting his tenants have the house for cheap on account of the fact that he thought they were taking care of it. But clearly they weren’t. The backyard had gone to pot and a series of tiny earthquakes had knocked the doors all funny and now they couldn’t be shut. Sure the earthquakes weren’t the tenants’ fault but still…Then the oven busted and the repairman who came to check the problem refused to fix it. He called Guy up and told him that he’d never seen a filthier oven in his life. So something was definitely up, but the tenants paid rent on time and had lived in the house for ten years. They asked for so little – no painting, no new carpets, no nothing. So it was a holding pattern. Who or what would give first? Guy had grown up in that house. His father, a cop, used to slap his mother around in that house. But still, it was his childhood home. Good God almighty, he hated Bakersfield. He hated to have to even fool with driving down the 5 Freeway to check things out. He’d had enough.


A BOSSY STORY in the style of Jamaica Kincaid

This is the way you hold a golf club. Get your legs into the swing. Line up your fingers. Use your hips when you swing. You’ll get more power that way. Now focus. Concentrate. Eye on the ball. Pick you out a little tuft of grass and that will be the ball for now. Holy crap, I should have taught you to play when you were six, not sixteen. Then maybe we’d be somewhere. Sixteen is really too old, but you’ve got LPGA talent. I’m telling you now. Look at that swing. Now watch how you’re lining up your fingers. Lace them correctly around the club. You need a golf coach. I’m going to find you a golf coach to give you private lessons. We got a lot of catching up to do. Holy crap, it’s hot out here. Now swing. There you go. I said get your legs into the swing. You’ll knock it down the fairway if you follow my rules. Lace your fingers around the club correctly. Watch me. Pay attention. Are you listening? You should play every day even when school starts again. What’s your last class of the day? French Four? Who needs French Four when you have a tremendous golf swing like Nancy Lopez! Forget French Four. I want you going out to the football field to practice hitting golf balls every single day. I’ll talk to Sister Mary Whoever about you missing French on Mondays, Wednesday, and Fridays to play golf. That will give you a little time to catch up. Golf is something you’ll keep all your life. French Four, what the hell good is that going to do you? You going to live in France? This is America, by God, where we speak English and play golf. What’s that point of climbing a hill without a golf club in your hand? Don’t ever ask me to camp or shave out of a coffee can. That’s what I told your mother. I told her that. She hasn’t let me down yet. Lace your fingers. Legs into the swing! Get some power behind it. You can hit the ball in a minute. This is about practicing your swing. This is about doing something with your life. Holy crap, what was I thinking? I should have taught you to play when you were six but I had ball games to win. Never mind. We’ll catch up. No time to waste. Do it again.

***

Kerry Madden is the author of the Maggie Valley Trilogy published by Viking Children's Books set in the heart of Appalachia: GENTLE'S HOLLER, LOUISIANA'S SONG, and JESSIE'S MOUNTAIN. Her newest book is UP CLOSE: HARPER LEE also published by Viking. She will be a professor of creative writing at the University of Alabama Birmingham this fall.

Her latest essay: "OUR WEDDING VOW - TO MY MOTHER-IN-LAW" can be found at the following link: http://www.latimes.com/news/opinion/commentary/la-oe-madden14-2009jun14,0,1046540,print.story

www.kerrymadden.com

Living the Dream

Lately I've had more than one person tell me that I'm living their dream life. Funny thing is, I just keep walking out my life, showing up for the next day and making the most of it or either just turning it into a really sloppy, good for next to nothing mess where I'm just glad to rest my weary head and that I haven't committed a felony even if I didn't get anything accomplished - including writing a single word.

I've considered writing this blog for well over a month now. I don't normally do that but this is different. The great blog creator K.G. gave us a few topics to choose from related to the writing life. About how we got the call or what writing means to us. SO - that seemed so serious and important I decided that I really must wax eloquent on the subject. Something timely that would measure up to my fellow writers here who have given great inspirational, and practical advice coming and going. Well, the last time I tried to wax eloquent I was standing in front of a large group of church folks. Large being about a 1000 people and I had really, really, really from the bottomest part of my heart wanted to say something that was just dandy and inspiring. What happened instead is that I told a story about cleaning the cat litter pan that happened to involve a lot of marital bliss and enlightenment. There wasn't a dry eye in the house I tell you but it wasn't from the high note of divine eloquence I had hoped for. It was because I was just telling the truth, the raw and funny way that life is most days. Apparently, it was just the good medicine those folks needed for that particular day because I've never seen that many people laugh so hard in perfect unison in all my life and days of stage talking. It was downright strange. And I suppose in that way - it was divine after all.

Well, as I stated, I've been thinking about how important this subject is to me and to all the people I know who love words, or write, or want to write, or are trying to get published and now it's about midnight and my hallway smells strangely of cat. And I realize I'm right back where I started. Needing to clean the cat pan and searching for bad kitty and that this is the raw, dirty, messy funny part of life that really isn't any ones dream - including mine.

Most people know that I have been writing in some fashion all of my life. The thing is way back in 6Th grade I thought by now it would look differently at this point. That life would have taken on a degree of sophistication that involved big sunglasses, long scarfs, convertibles, and a passport with more stamps. Where in that twelve year old brain of mine I thought I'd be actually doing the work of writing I don't know - and it certainly never figured into the vision that I'd still be cleaning the kitty pan and have my suspicious nose to the carpet.

My brilliant playwright friend Waylon Wood once commented some years ago after a great night of theatre at what I think was one of his original productions - while someone was taking a photo of the theatre gang- that this would be the one that people would refer to when we were all famous. Well, God help us that was - ahem - over twenty years ago and I'm being modest. And while all of us have attained productions, publication, professional accolades, and some even best-selling status - none of us are yet what I would call - kitchen table famous. And to the best of my knowledge we are all still cleaning up after our own animals. I'm quite certain of it. And I know we're still trying to learn to clean up after ourselves emotionally and otherwise.

What I've leaned from writing is that the writers journey evolves and changes with the writer. Words can widen the life of a lonely sixth grader, can enlightened a bullheaded teenager, can be puffed up and prideful at twenty, can challenge at thirty, pay a few bills at forty, and at fifty - finally at fifty, that it's a glorious thing to connect to another soul through story. That I've never counted it as important as I do now when I make a new personal connection with a reader through a festival event, book club, or note from a reader.

Do I want my stories to be best sellers? To be featured on major book clubs? To be made into terrific award winning movies? Of course I do. This thing called writing - it's my job, career, calling, gift, hearts desire, means to an end or an end in itself, so yes - I want to be successful at doing my life's work. But no matter how I slice it or dice it at then end of the day for me it's not about the bottom line. It's not about the right agent, or the next contract. It's about the fact we've been given this awesome opportunity to step into a stranger's life.

Am I living the dream life? Yes, I am. But the vision for that life continues to be part of an ever growing journey and in that process the expectations and purposes of the woman behind the words has changed for the better.

River Jordan is storyteller of the southern variety. Ms. Jordan's first novel, The Gin Girl, has garnered such high praise as "This author writes with a hard bitten confidence comparable to Ernest Hemingway. And yet, in the Southern tradition of William Faulkner, she can knit together sentences that can take your breath."
Kirkus Reviews described her second novel, The Messenger of Magnolia Street, as "a beautifully written atmospheric tale." It was applauded as "a tale of wonder" by Southern Living, who chose the novel as their Selects feature for March 2006, and described by other reviewers as " a riveting, magical mystery" and "a remarkable book."

Her third novel, Saints In Limbo, recently debuted to such high praise as "a Southern Gothic Masterpiece" by Paste Magazine.

Ms. Jordan teaches and speaks around the country on "The Passion of Story". River lives with her husband Owen Hicks, and their Great Pyrennees lap dog, Titan in Nashville, Tennessee. She thinks about where stories come from - places and people and moods of the heart while rocking on her front porch. And long after the sun sets over the ridge, she waits for the moon to rise, watches the stars come out, and stares off into the blue-night sky believing with all her might.

Why I Write

I write with the hope someone will read what I have written and will get something from it – be it a laugh, a tear, or a thought. Now how do people get the books I write? Hopefully some people will go to their local book store and purchase copies. Others may just go to their local libraries and check them out.

If they do go to their libraries they had better check the hours of operation because most of them in my state, Georgia, have changed. It is called economics, or more specifically a money shortfall. There is not enough money to keep the libraries open the regular hours so they are being cut back.

The libraries are also having to cut back on staff. Some of have gotten rid of people manning the desks while others have gotten rid of those people who shelve the books. And there may be worse cuts to come.

I love libraries, always have and always will. When I was growing up in Clinton, South Carolina the children’s librarian was Miss Gray. She was really Mrs. Gray in her everyday life but in the library she was Miss Gray.

Miss Gray had a wonderfully lyrical voice and when she read us stories the world came alive to us. She did this every Wednesday afternoon and all of us kids looked forward to it. After she read she would spend time with each child finding him/her a special book to check out. She was amazing in knowing what each of us wanted to read.

Years later when I joined the Air Force I was assigned to Robins Air Force Base in Georgia. One of the first places I looked up was the Base Library. There I met the librarian, Mrs. Jarman, and we became great friends. Mrs. Jarman was a voracious reader and she and I could discuss books until the cows came home.

After I married and moved to Perry, Georgia I met Alice Gilbert, the local librarian. Alice knew more about books and authors than I could imagine. She was a walking encyclopedia about them. If you mentioned an author you liked, well she could mention five more that you might be interested in reading. And if you didn’t like those five, then she could add another five to your list.

Recently I heard from a friend of mine who works for the library system in Gwinnett County. I was supposed to teach a writing class as part of the adult programming at the library. He said that due to a lack of funds the adult programming he had planned was cancelled. Then he added that the Gwinnett Reading Festival was also cancelled.

The Gwinnett County Reading Festival had been in existence for two years and was getting better each year. The authors who attended got a chance to meet and mingle with the people of Gwinnett County who love to read. I had been both years and had a great time. It also gave me a chance to meet Carmen Deedy, Rick Bragg and other authors I admire.

Why is it when money gets tight the Arts are the first to suffer? It seems this world is considered the most expendable. It isn’t right. It just isn’t right.

I dreamed one day of writing books that people would read. The dream came true but now it is in danger. Authors need libraries; kids need libraries; the world needs libraries.

Jackie K Cooper is the author of THE SUNRISE REMEMBERS. It can be found in most libraries.

Where do you get your ideas? By Man Martin

Of all the questions fiction writers get asked, this is the most common. It is not a foolish or fatuous question but an extremely important one. In various ways writers ask each other that question all the time. In fact, writers ask themselves this question. Where do I get my ideas? How do I know the ideas will keep coming?

I’m going to offer a possible answer, which is inspiration. There was a time when inspiration was something of a dirty word; no one mentioned it in serious discussions of writing, but the ancient Greeks were quite up front about it. Go back and read Homer, Sophocles, Herodotus or any of that crowd, and they’re likely to start off with something like, “Oh, Muse, sing in me and through me the story of that man…” and then they’d go on and tear off a lyric or an epic or whatever. What they were doing is starting off with a prayer; to the ancient Greeks, writing was an act of faith, and it began with inspiration. Literally, inspire means “breathe into;” the prayer was that the goddess would come down and fill their lungs with this magical air, and when they breathed out, naturally what it would be is epic poetry, or lyric, or drama, history, music, whatever they’d been “inspired” to do.

I think talking about inspiration began to fall into disrepute around the 19th Century with the Romantic poets: Wordsworth, Coleridge, Shelly. Those guys. They were always sitting around taking opium and writing poems about birds, and lakes, and springtime, and such. They all had long hair and haunted expressions, standing at the seashore being all Romantic and “inspired.”

A bunch of hippies, is what they were.

Naturally no one wanted to be associated with such trifling, so in the 20th Century, people began to distance themselves from the whole concept of inspiration. “Genius,” said that crabby old Yankee inventor Thomas Edison, “is one percent inspiration and ninety-nine percent perspiration.” Some people were even more dismissive. When someone asked Ernest Hemingway when he got his inspiration, he answered, “Nine to five, weekdays.” Actually, my favorite quotation dissing inspiration comes from the 18th Century, not the 20th in an exchange between Salieri and Mozart. (I always imagine Salieri speaking with enlarged adenoids and a tremolo, like Marvin the Martian on a vibrating bed.) “I get all of my inspiration on my knees,” Salieri said piously. “Gee, uh, Sal,” Mozart said, scratching his head under his wig, “I usually get my inspiration sitting on my ass.” Mozart was referring, of course, to his piano stool. He did not, so far as we know, compose “The Requiem” in the toilet.

There’s plenty of reason to pooh-pooh the idea of inspiration. My own work schedule does not suggest a person waiting around to be filled with divine afflatus. Having, as many writers do, a “day job,” I get up around five-thirty and write a few hundred words every day. I’m very strict about it, and do it even on mornings I don’t especially feel like it. I’m not bragging – I don’t consider myself at all unusual in this regard. Serious writers I know are extremely disciplined and carve out time for themselves to write come hell or high water. Flannery O’Connor would sit on her front porch tapping away at her manual typewriter several hours every morning. If someone came during her writing time, she would just ignore him. He would be able to see her there, just behind the screen, but though he knocked and pounded and shouted, “Yoo-hoo, Flannery!” she would just keep typing.

Nevertheless, I feel the time has come to rehabilitate the belief in inspiration. My mother had a notion which she shared with me, something she had imagined as a child, and even then took only half seriously, but it made enough of an impression on her that she remembered it and told me. Mother liked to imagine that Heaven had a library filled with all the books. All the books. All the books that ever have been written, all the books that ever would be written, and all the books that ever could be written. And if you wanted to be a great writer, you see, all you had to do was get to the shelves of books that hadn’t been written yet, take one down and copy it word for word. You would be guaranteed to turn out one masterpiece after another.

As I write, I often think about what Mother said. Of course there’s not an actual library in heaven, but I can’t help feeling that writing is not so much creating something that isn’t there, but discovering something that in some way already exists. A lot of comments you hear in writing workshops are piffle-paffle of the purest quality, but I found myself listening and even taking notes when someone wanted to talk about what the story wanted to do. Notice that, not what the writer wanted, or even what the reader wants, but what the story wants. As if a story were some entity outside ourselves that the writer has a duty to bring into fruition as clearly and directly as possible. When I see bad writing – my own or someone else’s – so often it’s the writer getting in the way of his own story. He’s so busy showing what a damn fine writer he is, he forgets to pay attention to what the story wants. He forgets his job is just a humble copyist from the shelf of Stories That Haven’t Been Written Yet.

So how does inspiration tie into the undoubted fact that writing is work and that writers, serious ones, are diligent craftspeople who show up to do the job whether they feel like it or not? Well, I come from a region of the country where many people believe God answers prayer. These people – earnest, intelligent, good people – sincerely believe that the Great All-Powerful, All-Knowing, the Alpha and the Omega, the Unmoved Mover, Creator of the Universe, God Almighty listens and responds to a small quiet voice speaking alone in a darkened room on the surface of a little planet circling an unremarkable star at the edge of a galaxy, which is only one of countless galaxies in this whole vast universe. That God the Master of Heaven will sometimes at least alter His plans and bend the course of destiny to grant such a request if it is asked in humility and doesn’t interfere with something else He’s got cooking. I will not opine whether I believe such a thing is possible or not, but if it is possible, then surely even the most adamant atheist would have to grant this is a miracle, that this would be the very definition of a miracle. And would it be any less of a miracle if the person doing the praying prayed at the same time every day, that he prayed in the same room, and prayed even on days he didn’t especially feel like it?

Tomorrow morning, I’m going to get up as I always do and write a few hundred words. I’m working on a story about a man who has a mysterious neurological condition that makes him have trouble going through doors. For some reason the sight of a vertical opening in the wall just seizes up something inside him, and he’s stuck. I’ve been working at this story for some time now. I keep trying different approaches, situations, combinations of characters, and voices and then – just like the man in the story – I get stuck and have to start over. I’m not so much creating a story as exploring one, feeling my way in the darkness trusting when I stumble on the right passageway, I’ll recognize it. I hope other people will read the story one day, but I certainly can’t guarantee it. I don’t know how long it will take me to write or ultimately what it will be about, but I have a deep sense that if I do not write this story, it will not get written and that somehow I will have failed in my responsibility to it. Tomorrow when I get up, it will still be dark. I like to work with the lights out and just the glow from my computer screen and the rising sun. I don’t know exactly what I’m going to write tomorrow, but I when I sit down, the words will be there.
If that’s not faith, I don’t know what you’d call it.

Georgia Writers Association Author of the Year 2008Visit http://manmartin.blogspot.com/ and manmartin.net

“RUN!”

“Want to know what I tell aspiring writers?” Terry Kay’s eyes twinkled as he surveyed his audience. He paused to let us fill with expectancy. I can’t remember if this was one of his many book openings I attended, or some dinner meeting where he was the keynote speaker, but there were a number of unpublished hopefuls there, as well as lots of people who just loved to read. Even I, a veteran of four novels, was on the edge of my seat. Because Terry, not only is he the author of many novels, bestsellers I should add, but he’s also been a newspaper reporter, he’s written screenplays for a couple of his novels which have been made into movies, he’s been a writer for a television series, and the leader of countless workshops on the craft of writing.
“Run!” he answered at last. “Do anything else!”

Now, that’s a paraphrase as it’s been awhile, but you get the gist of it. I remember being both a little amused and a little shocked at him, thinking to myself, “Yeah, right. Then why have you stayed in the business so long?” (Terry was 70 or so when he said this. I know because he was in my Mama’s class in college.)
I think he was teasing with us, in a fashion. Maybe he was feeling momentarily frustrated, letting out a little of his frustration with this ‘advice’, but I know he couldn’t have really meant it deep down inside that heart of his, because the man is STILL at it, and it’s been four or five years since he said that. In fact I saw an article in my local paper just this past weekend, inviting people to sign up for one of his writing workshops.

But I have to be honest. I understand where he was coming from. Writing is a hard business to be in. It’s a solitary job for the most part, the checks aren’t regular, and you have to be your own boss which can be a lot harder than you’d think. It takes self-discipline, pig-headed persistence, and a huge dose of optimism to sit down day after day at a project you haven’t sold yet, especially if you’ve got another job, a family, and friends calling you up tantalizing you to go out and do fun stuff. Plus, writing is a career where it’s necessary to develop a thick skin so you can handle rejection, because it comes to all of us writers at some point or another - even if it’s just a disgruntled reader who feels compelled to give you a review of your latest novel.

There are plenty of careers where you’ll probably make more money, get better benefits, and have work associates to chat with at break time. I know plenty of fellow writers who feel cursed by their obsession/possession to write. If you talk to them when it’s been several years between book sales (read, paychecks), or when a long-labored over manuscript has been rejected, or when they worry about having nothing in their retirement account, you’ll hear a bit of disgruntlement (is that a word?).
“It’s not fair!” they’ll say.
But I can’t act all high and mighty, because I hold pity parties, too, with this little tape playing in my head, saying, “What if I’d put all this blood, sweat, and tears into something like learning to be a nurse, or a professor, or a carpenter, or even a librarian! Why, I’d be RICH right now. I know it. I’d have absolutely no worries! I’d be happy!”

I remember one day I was taking part in an Atlanta book festival, sitting at my little signing table, probably moaning about my lack of book sales, and some woman grabbed my arm, and said, “Now, Honey, just LOOK at all the joy you’re able to give to people when they read your books! Think about what a priceless thing that is!”
I’ve thought about her plaintive face a lot over the years. She’s right about some things being priceless, like the joy of reading. I know the giddy anticipation I have when there’s a book waiting on my nightstand. I’m one of those people who can fall in and actually get lost reading a book. There is a joy in that lostness I can’t put into words.

There is joy in writing a book, too. I literally get lost in my own stories. And if you were bitten by the writing bug, as I was from the time I could string words together, you may have no choice but to write. (Well, you do have a choice. You could bury your dream, your desire, but on some level I believe you’d be miserable.) Believe me, there’s nothing like the euphoria, the rush of creating. It feels a bit sacrilegious to say this, but sometimes I feel it must be an eency-weency tiny bit how God feels when He creates something. It’s beautiful. Incomparable. And it’s addictive. This makes me keep on, even when the going gets tough.
Another thing that helps is getting emails or letters from people my books have touched. It makes me feel I’m doing what I was made to do, called to do. But writing is a business, too, and on that note, I must dispense some advice from my experience in the publishing world:

* Read Read Read. There’s no other substitute for this, and most likely you do it naturally anyway. If you have the desire to write books, I’m betting you enjoy reading them. I’m always in the middle of a book. Even when I’m writing a novel. I cannot help it. Sometimes I’m in the middle of two or three. I read them for the pure pleasure, and rarely study them for the author’s sense of characterization, or premise, or point-of-view. But I’m sure I pick these things up on a subconscious level.

* Study your craft. I’ve got shelves of How-To-Write books. All the way from plotting to character to how to write a novel in one year. I read them over and over, consult them often. I’ve heard it said that novelists must spend no less time studying their craft than brain surgeons do studying theirs.

* Write Write Write. Do this regularly whether you feel like it or not. I try to write every day but Sunday. When I’m writing a novel I like to write a minimum of a thousand words per day. A lot of them end up getting deleted along the process of editing, but out of them springs my story. Even when I don’t feel particularly creative, I sit down and write. The words always come. I’m a morning writer, before anyone else is up I like to jump in. Summer is hard because my youngest child is home and he’s eleven and still likes me as a playmate. I know that all too soon he’ll be a teenager...

* Keep a journal. This is about being conscious. I keep a Flora and Fauna journal throughout the year. Today I’ll record how the poke sallet is higher than the okra in our garden, and how every night at dusk, the bats circle just over our heads. I use this stuff in my books. You think you won’t forget what’s blooming when, what the sunset looks like, but you will, and if you have a journal, there it’ll be. I also write down real-life scenes, ideas, and bits of life. It’s about being conscious. I’m heightened all during the day as I catalog stuff in my brain to record later. It makes me so much more aware of things; like the expression on the cashier’s face at Publix or the overheard dialogue of a couple at Taco Bell.

* Enter contests - I did get my share of rejection slips early on, but I feel indescribably blessed to have won a short story contest sponsored by a local entertainment magazine and a publisher. To make a real long story short (if you want to read the whole story you can do that on my website - http://www.juliecannon.info ) I ended up getting a publishing contract with Simon & Schuster, then an agent, and another contract with Penguin from winning this contest.

* Learn how to speak/entertain in public. This is really important if you want to help sell your book. Countless times you will be called on to speak to a group, to give a reading, and you want to be ready. I actually had to take a course through the University of Georgia’s Continuing Education on being a dynamic public speaker. Now I really enjoy it and get paid to do it.

* Be a self-promoter. Go walk around a Barnes & Noble one day, and while you’re there take note of all the zillions of book titles and authors you’ve never even heard of before. Only a tiny fraction are well-known. But the rest of those authors poured their blood, sweat, and tears into their words, too, and they had hopes for their book, yet so many of those end up being lost in the shuffle, remaindered by the publishers. Many are wonderful books. But it seems to take a kind of alchemy to get a best-seller, and hopefully, when you do land that book contract, your publisher and your publicist will put all their might behind you and your glorious creation. BUT, and this is a big but, you’ve got to do your share of promotion, too. You’ve got to do those radio shows, those blogs, the interviews with magazines and newspapers, visit book clubs, visit libraries and bookstores, etc. etc, etc. I don’t have space to elaborate here, but there are plenty of books on this subject as well as stuff available on-line.

Now, go pour that beautiful story out onto paper. You won’t regret it.

Truly,
Julie
Julie L. Cannon is the author of the Homegrown Series, a trio of books celebrating the enormous healing power of the Southern garden, as well as The Romance Readers’ Book Club, a Target Book Pick. You can learn more about her by visiting http://www.juliecannon.info

Prayers for Wanda Jewell

Wanda Jewell heads up the Southeast Independent Booksellers Alliance, and she's due to have breast cancer surgery next week. One of our bloggers, Karen Spear Zacharias blogs about Wanda and her importance to the Southern literary community.

Best wishes to you, Wanda and we wish you a speedy recovery.

Interview with Debut Novelist Samantha Wilde Author of This Little Mommy Stayed Home


The novel introduces Joy McGuire who has gone from being skinny and able to speak in complete sentences to someone who hasn’t changed her sweatpants in weeks. But now with a new baby to care for, she feels like a woman on the brink and as she scrambles to recapture the person she used to be she takes another look at the woman she is: a stay-at-home mom in love with her son, if a bit addled about everything else. As a new mom herself, Wilde, a graduate of Yale Divinity School, wrote THIS LITTLE MOMMY STAYED HOME after the birth of her son when she was experiencing the ups and downs of new motherhood

Do you have show and tell with your first draft? Who do you trust for honest reaction, or is so fragile you show it to one you love who you know will be kind?

My mother, Nancy Thayer, is almost always my first reader. She’s just published her 19th novel and as a bestselling writer who’s been in the industry for thirty years I trust her opinion. She’s a good critic for me, not too soft or too hard, and I always know she has my best interests in mind.

What has brought you the greatest joy since you were published, and what has caused you the greatest angst?

Publicity has been difficult. I find self-promotion challenging on many levels. I don’t know what I’m doing, but I know I need to do something. My greatest joy? Probably realizing that my happiness has nothing to do with my book. I know that’s counterintuitive, but here’s the thing. When you long to be a published writer your whole life, you imagine when it happens, something will change—fireworks, lottery-style money, fame, etc. Getting the book published has put my dreams into perspective. I feel so blessed to have the book out there, but I am also relieved to find that my life is rich enough to sustain the possibility that it is—simply—a book. My treasure is in my children and my family. Strange kind of joy, isn’t it?

Do you have a favorite genre? If so, who are your three favorite writers? If not, who are your three favorite writers and how have they influenced your work?

I am a cross-genre reader. I don’t have three favorite writers—that’s too few! I adore Anne Lammott as well as Alice Hoffman, Cynthia Kaplan, Jen Lancaster, Caitlin Flanagan, Oscar Wilde, among many, many others, and in no particular order.

What was the one thing you learned in getting your book published that you were really surprised to find out?

You never get to the top of the mountain. Getting published is not a lighting bolt. Life does not change in any substantive way. You never arrive at the place you long to be from outward things. The inward changes are cool, though. I feel like, impossibly, I am learning to be more gracious.

What is one of your strangest / most quirky author experiences?

Telling people I’ve just published a book. It’s amazing to me how they respond. I feel like I’ve just announced that I floss. I’m surprised by how “not-a-big-deal” it is to most people, when it’s such a hard world to get in to.