The Write Side of the Law

Scanning through my book shelves the other day I re-discovered my well-thumbed collection of John Grisham novels. Great reads, in my humble opinion. And there, tucked behind them, were a handful of Scott Turows, equally enjoyable tales. It struck me that both Grisham and Turow are lawyers who have turned to writing fiction, and I got to wondering why so many of them make that switch. Because lets face it, there are a whole heap of them out there. Along with Grisham and Turow you have your Alexander McCall Smith, your Phillip Margolin, your John Mortimer, creator of Rumpole of the Bailey. Even Charles Dickens worked as a clerk in a law office; heck, I’m a recovering lawyer myself, and our Jen has a law degree hanging on her wall. Correct me if I’m wrong, but the only other professions that spawn such a profusion of novelists seem to be journalism, English teaching and copy writing.

What is it about lawyers and the law that drives them to turn from the cut and thrust of the court room and seek the realms of the imagination? Probably many reasons, but I really think it boils down to the fact that the leap from lawyer to writer is not as hard as you might think; that the gulf between the world of facts and evidence, and the world of creativity and fiction, really isn’t that wide at all.

If you want to be a lawyer or a writer, you’d better love words - adore them, in fact, their shades and graduations, love manipulating them, love the challenge of selecting just the right ones so your character’s inner turmoil is made crystal clear, or to ensure the letter you’re writing on your client’s behalf conveys the message she wants, without getting her butt sued for defamation.

Writers and lawyers also need to use and hone many of the same skills, particularly that of people-watching. When you’re taking statements from witnesses in the lead up to a trial, for example, you need to be able to decide whether what these people are telling you is more or less the truth - you DO NOT want your case blown out of the water because your witness’ evidence turns out to be a pack of lies - and really, the only way you can make this call is by quietly observing them; their mannerisms as they retell their versions of events, their choice of words, their eye movements, how they react to certain questions you pose them. This ability to deconstruct the way we humans act is what writers have, too - in fact, nearly every writer I know loves a good old spot of people watching - and what they observe, they bring to their work, creating characters with great depth and who are entirely believable.

And lawyers must also be story tellers, in a way, amassing and ordering information to unfold a story that will convince a judge or jury of a particular version of events.

But - and I can attest to this from painful personal experience - coming to novel writing armed with a law degree does have its pitfalls. The main one being that it takes a LONG time to to rid your writing of all the dusty rules and rigid structures you must adhere to when doing legal work. In other words, it takes a long time to learn not to be boring, to shake off a facts based approach to constructing sentences and paragraphs, and let your imagination run free.

That said, having the stamina to sit and write legalese for hours and hours on end means you probably won’t find it too hard to nail your butt to the chair and write fiction.

And despite the image given to the profession by LA Law and the like, practising law can often be a dry and dull affair. Lots of fact finding, double-checking, evidence gathering, drafting wills and leases and …. yawn. Whereas writing fiction lets you use other parts of your brain altogether, the parts where your creativity and imagination reside. When you have to tamp that side down for your day job, the temptation to let it off the leash and write a book can be very great indeed. Believe me. ☺

So, how about you? Do your jobs - past or present - help or hider your writing?

Edited to add - oh, and my sick cat Leo? He's fine. Turns out the source of his problem was not his pancreas, but the two inches of ribbon he'd apparently eaten. *rolls eyes* Just don't ask how we finally worked that one out. Shudder.

When It All Seems Too Hard ...

... what keeps you going? With the writing, that is.

See, I’ve been looking at my calendar, calculating the days and weeks and months that have run like water through my fingers, and I’m feeling the panic rising.

There’s still so much work to be done on my WIP. There are still so many ways in which that work is interrupted each and every day. This week in particular, any progress I’ve made was achieved at a rate equivalent to that of continental drift (which is one to ten centimeters per YEAR, should you wish to know.)

At times like these I start to hear those depressing, moaning, voices in my head.

Why keep going? What’s the point? It’s all too bloody hard.

And I have to work hard at blocking them out, because there is a kernel of truth in what they say. Especially the part about writing being bloody hard.

Nicholas Sparks has spoken about writing and the grind it can be. Now, his books may not be to your taste, but this quote of his resonates with me:

"When asked if I love writing, my answer is always, 'No.' I don't love it. I make my living at it, and some might think I'm good at it, but I don't love it. Writing, for me, is far and away the most challenging work I've ever done. I've hauled bricks, rebuilt houses, worked in offices, sold pharmaceuticals and writing novel is far more difficult. Maybe that means I'm not a natural writer ... okay, I can accept that.

Still, if I don't love it, why do I do it? Because I love a challenge. It's the nature of my personality to want to do something difficult just to see if I can do it. And, at the end, I am always proud of the work I've produced, because I did my very best. I often say, "I don't love writing. But I do love having written!" It's a myth that a person has to love something to be good at it. But you do have to care about doing the best job possible."

In a way, this is exactly what keeps me going when the writing chips are down - the intellectual and emotional challenge of crafting a damn good story, the intoxicating afterglow of having written, the thrill at going back over my work and finding the little nuggets of gold that my subconscious pushed to the surface while my conscious mind was wrestling with the words.

The fact I am very, very, stubborn also helps me to push on through.

Added to this is the fact that every time I write, I am getting better at it. It’s not obvious on a daily, weekly, even monthly basis, but over time, I can see it. And what I really want to get better at is actually, properly, finishing a book. Even if it turns out to be a terrible book. Because if I don’t ever finish a book, how will I ever learn to do so?

Now, I am sure everyone has a different thought or hope or mantra they hold on to in those grim days when writing seems like an endless chore - the mental image of your name on the cover of your book, the joy of disappearing into another world, the certainty that the satisfaction of seeing something that started off as a single thought in your mind become one hundred thousand words will make all the pain worthwhile…

So, you tell me - what keeps you going when the writing feels all too hard?

And in the meantime I will turn to those moaning voices in my head, tell them to shut up already, I’m trying to write, and get on with the job.

A Writer's Code

Many, many, far too many, years ago, I had to take an oath.

I’d just finished my law degree and in order to practice I, and whole bunch of fresh-faced law students, had to take part in an Admissions Ceremony held in the Supreme Court of South Australia. It was a very serious affair – think barristers and judges in billowing black robes, lace stocks at their throats, white wigs upon their heads. Nervous, young, lawyers-to-be, milling about quietly, lambs before the slaughter.

Standing before the judges of the Supreme Court, our sponsoring barristers beside us, we each had to take an oath that went something like this:-

“I do promise and swear that I will diligently and honestly perform the duties of a practitioner of this Court and will faithfully serve and uphold the administration of justice under the Constitution of the Commonwealth of Australia and the laws of this State and of the other States and Territories of Australia. So help me God.”

And after that we signed our names in a big old ledger book, The Roll of Practitioners. I hope there’s never any cause to verify my signature, because my hand was shaking so hard by this point I’m sure all that came out was little more than kindergarten scribble ...

So, all rather sobering stuff. But necessary. Up until that point, studying for exams and planning which hotels to swim through on our law school pub crawls was about as serious as we got. This was the big time. This was for real. This really meant something. And taking that oath really made us focus on what being a lawyer was ultimately all about.

Should we writers also take an oath? Well, perhaps not an oath – that’s a little to dull and legal – but maybe, each have our own writer’s code? A set of maxims to help us focus on what it is about writing that is important, to each of us? It strikes me that maybe we should. Especially when we get to the point where we want to take our writing from being an enjoyable hobby to being published and maybe, just maybe, the means to make a living. A writer's code would help keep your aim straight; and at the very least, a code would remind you why you ever started to write on the days when it all seems too hard.

Here's what I reckon I would include in my very own writer's code. In no particular order:-

• Write every day. Even when I really, really, really, don’t want to, and even if it's only ten words.
• Try at all times to write the best I can. Don’t be content with sloppy work.
• But remember that sloppy work can always be fixed.
• Listen to criticism. Really listen.
• Read novels for enjoyment, but read to learn, too.
• Critique the work of others honestly, but with kindness and encouragement.
• Remember to fill my creative well by enjoying things that are not writing-related.
• Never, ever, think I know everything.
• Remember that bad writing days are a fact of the writing life.
• Do not compare myself to others. Ever.
• Write for the "reader".
• Write for myself.
• Write for the love of it.
• Have patience.
• Have patience.
• Have patience.

What do you think you would include in your own Writer’s Code?

My Thing

This weekend, I told my next-door neighbor that I had written a book and was in the midst of revising it for my editor. And, yes, five years in my house and, until now, only one neighbor knew that I wrote fiction. Hubby thinks I’m taking reticence too far. To digress, my neighbor got over her surprise and declared that it must take a lot of discipline to write a book, that _I_ must be very disciplined. Me? Disciplined?

Anyone who really knows me would readily say that Kristen and discipline do not usually go hand in hand. My house is tidy, in the sense that things are put in their place –or near their place. But look under my couch and you will see dust bunnies. My sink is often full, and empty glasses occupy many a side table around the house. And for the love of God, do NOT open one of my closets, or risk being swept away by a tsunami of laundry. So a disciplined person? Not so much. A disciplined writer? Well, yeah, a bit.

My neighbor was correct: it does take discipline and commitment to write an entire novel, edit it, sell it to an agent, revise it for an editor, then start all over again. We’re talking about potentially years of work and thousands of hours with your butt in the chair. If you don’t love doing it, you’ll probably sputter out and stall. And that’s okay. It isn’t for everyone.

But why am I disciplined in this where I am not in any other avenue of my life? Simple answer: because it’s my thing.

When I was sixteen, I took flying lessons. Every Saturday, I’d get in my car, my driver’s license so new it still smelled of laminate, and drive an hour to a country airfield with a tiny strip of runway (for the record, my parents were way braver than me, because the thought of my child doing the same gives me the willies). For one hour, I’d take a little Cessna 152 up in the sky and fly. I loved flying. Soaring into the sky sent a thrill through me every time. But when my dad no longer paid for lessons, I stopped, thinking, eh, I’ll find a way to get back to it eventually. That day never came.

I love interior decorating. At one point, I must have had 200 decorating magazines crammed into my bookshelf. Sitting down to peruse them, decorating my own house, heck, designing my own furniture, is satisfying and a joy. It never occurred to me to enroll in design school.

There are many things that give me joy, little hobbies that I like to do, but they aren’t my true passion. That is reserved for writing. Because not once, since I first sat down and hit the keys, did it occur to me to give up. Not once.

When I write, I fit within my skin. Everything clicks into place and I feel right.

Often, the question arises, why do you write? Some will answer, because it is what I am. Others will counter with: writing is something I do, not who I am.

I’ll admit here that when I read that latter statement, I think, “Ah, I see, then writing isn’t your true thing.”

Now, I play many roles wife, mother, sister, daughter, and friend. On Sunday mornings, my kids pile into my bed to cuddle with my husband and me and laugh at inane jokes. This is the good stuff. Life works like that, good times and bad. And while my loved ones fill my soul with joy, they do not feed my soul. In writing, I find my true self. It is what makes my soul sing, satisfies my need to create, and fulfills my sense of accomplishment. I am a writer. It isn’t my job. It is my expression. Without it, I become less of me.

Surely, my view point will seem obsessive to many of you. For some, writing is something to do that brings them joy, but at the end of the day, they may well move on to another thing and not feel it’s loss. This is totally okay. However, there is a caveat to that. If your aim is to get published, you have to understand the commitment involved. If writing isn’t in your blood, isn’t something you will never give up on, and you somehow find yourself under contract, it is going to be a slog. Because you will be expected to commit, put in the blood, sweat, and tears.

Often times we keep our eyes on the prize and ignore the process. Writing is about the process, not the prize. Any art done on a professional level is about the process. It will be what you do, not what you dream about. And, really, isn’t that the point?

What is The Point?

So you're a writer. Which means you spend a lot of time sitting alone in front of a computer. It's just you and the pain, as they say. (g) You'll need fortitude to keep going. Because at some moment -okay, at many moments- in time you will wonder to yourself, "What is the point?"

This may happen when you can't get past a plot hole, or get your wip to come together in a cohesive way, can't shave thousands of words off the word count, can't add 25k to the word count, can't find an agent, can't find an editor, get a bad review, get dropped from you publisher...

The list is grand and varied and I've heard all these issues before. I've heard of writers who writes ten books only to have each and every one of them get rejected, never to find an agent. I've heard of writers who get an agent yet never sell. I've heard of writers who sell but their numbers fail and their publisher doesn't pick up that next book. It's a hard place to be, and inevitably, these writers ask themselves, "what's the point?"

Behind each of these examples lies a writer who never gave up, who stuck in despite adversity and made lemonade out of lemons. They dug deep and came up with an answer to, "what's the point?"

So the question of the day is this: what is the point? What does it mean to you? Why keep going? Find the answer and hold it up during those dark hours, because believe me, there is a point. (g)

--something to keep you going:

There's a New Girl In Town

Susan here. Consider me your Girl Friday, as my sister-bloggers have already dubbed me. Today’s post is a bit of an introduction and hereafter my own musings on the writing journey will appear on, well, Fridays.

Why do I write? I could lie to you, give you lofty reasons, tell you I’m driven to do it, that it’s my gift, my calling, my Reason For Living. Honestly? I write because I’m selfish. It’s all about me.

You see, I’m defined in many ways - daughter, sister, wife, mother, communications consultant, church treasurer, homeschool teacher, dog-fish-lovebird-parakeet keeper… the list could go on, but the point is I’m defined by my relationships. Writing is the only thing I do for me and me alone.

Even though writing is a solitary thing, I don’t write in a void. My writing journey started a loooong time ago and continues because of the encouraging words and advice I receive. My confidence grows in proportion to what I’m willing to share and have critiqued. It’s scary every time, but I come away with feedback that's like fuel -- feeding my greedy need for having something that is purely mine. So I write some more. (I told you I was selfish…)

What do I write? Literary fiction best describes my work-in-progress. I also write for a non-profit agency that serves frail elders and their families. I also journal my life in Alaska, the adventures of raising two sons on the edge of the wilderness, of my husband’s many projects and harebrained ideas. (Thankfully, he’s a man who can do just about anything he puts his mind to.) I write all the time.

My current literary work-in-progress started as a germ of an idea when I was a twelve year old penciling away in spiral-bound notebooks. About fifteen years ago the story grew into a screenplay. Its current re-incarnation as a novel has been the most rewarding, best learning experience I’ve had with fiction writing.

Requiem for a Warrior is the family saga of the three Rivers brothers and the woman they love. As deeply connected as they are - bound together like the tendrils of grape vines that grow in the Rivers’ family vineyard - they are torn apart by events beyond their control and by unforgivable acts of their own doing.

Requiem is Nathan River’s story. He’ll tell you life’s not fair, that it’s a bitch, even. He’ll tell you, without a hint of self-pity, that life was once good and sweet and tender. He would also tell you, if he could speak of it, when life ceased to be all that.

In April of 1967 his mother opened the door to find an awkward young Army lieutenant standing on her doorstep. She had two sons in Southeast Asia: her oldest and her youngest. The Army doesn’t send men to your doorstep for social calls. The Rivers’ ordinary world crashed that evening as she gripped the door frame, looked the young soldier in the eyes and quietly asked, “Which one?”

Requiem is about loss and redemption, about a man caught up in secrets he can’t share from a war he chose to fight. It’s about a love he can’t forget. It’s about having the strength to face the things that make him run and about finding love again.

Look for an excerpt of Requiem soon. I’m still figuring out the finer points of posting work at ATWOP. Meanwhile, I’ll be selfishly grabbing a few moments to call my own, to do what I’m driven to do: write.

Begging the Question

During a routine bout of exercising my procrastination muscles, I came across some sample pages a writer had put up on an open forum for critique. Brave soul! One who probably, deep in her heart of hearts, wanted to hear that her writing was brilliant. Don’t we all?

Unfortunately, it was quite the opposite. Comments ranged from helpful to nitpicky to petty. Poor soul. It’s hard to bounce back from that. Yet we all will be there at one point or another. I don’t think there has ever been a writer who has coasted through life without a bad review. There is always someone who will say the work sucked. Better to get used to it now, toughen up the skin and all that.

Only.

Only it makes me wonder. It’s easy to lambast bad writing. Okay, there are those who do it so well that it becomes it’s own entertainment –for better of worse. People have made a living tearing others down. And I admit to having a good chuckle now and then upon reading a scathing review.

Only.

Only one day that might be my writing someone is slashing to bits. Sure, I’ll have a thick skin by then. Already my skin has taken on a nice leather-like quality. Kid leather, perhaps. Strong enough to protect, but still supple. If one uses a sharp enough knife, slashes with enough gusto, it will tear. Perhaps someday I’ll have skin like pure rawhide.

I mean, beside the obvious errors of craft, what exactly qualifies as good or bad?

Case in point. My husband loves seafood. Oysters being on of his favorites. Raw oysters. Gak! I am often forced to sit there and watch him slurp down those glistening globs that resemble dead labia –yeah, I said it- and try to NOT vomit. Yet every time, every stinking time, I have to hear, “God, this is so good. Want to try?”

No, for the ten millionth time. I do not. Yet my husband can’t understand why I don’t. How can I possibly turn my nose up at one of nature’s most perfect foods?

Dude, CHOCOLATE is one of nature’s most perfect foods. Oysters are not. That is why they are protected by barnacle-covered shells. It’s nature’s way of saying, “Stay out! Only attempt if you are really, really, on the verge of dying from starvation, hungry.” Which, as anyone who has seen my ample butt can tell you, I am most certainly not.

Ahem. And then there is TV. My husband can happily spend hours on the couch watching Formula One racing. While I fall asleep next to him.

Whether an artistic work good or bad is really begging the question, thus one that won’t be solved by you or me. But it does lead to other slippery questions. *bg* Such as, how do you know if this writing gig is worth it? How do you know if you suck or not? The word of your critics? What if you simply haven’t found the right critics? What if you get a room full of oyster haters when you’re serving up a raw bar? If you’re published? Hello? Been on Amazon lately? A book might have a world of five star reviews and one star haters.

Yes, I’m aware that I’ve veered into sweeping generalizations here. But if one’s crap is another’s treasure, then what do we make of bad feedback? More importantly, what keeps us going?

Because this really isn’t about bad or good reviews. I’m more concerned about when to say when. Sometimes I think about how it took Deanna Raybourn fourteen years and multiple shot-down books to get published*. Would I have that sort of perseverance? I just don’t know. The idea of facing that makes me want to cry.

The truth is I am still in awe of Deanna for that. And thankful, because that never-die attitude brought us Julia Grey –a wonderful character –and brought me hours of entertainment. She just as easily could have said, “That’s it! I give up. Agents and publishers are telling me no. I must really suck.”

So I’m asking all of you: when do you give up? And why do you do keep at it?

Method in my madness

Wow! I’m a little stunned by all the messages of support we’ve received for our little old blog - you guys are awesome! It truly means the world to us all (you should see how nervous we are behind the scenes here! LOL)

I’m Rachel, Thursday’s child – the one “with far to go”, if you remember the old rhyme (quite apt, really, since I’m the only one of us four gals yet to finish a first draft) – and I’m here to round off our “getting acquainted” week with my answer to the question, “why do you write?”

Deep breath ...

Because if I did not, I would be insane.

I know it sounds flip; but it's completely true. Let me explain ...

A few – ok, many - years ago, I worked as a lawyer for a government board that basically functions as Internal Affairs for lawyers. My job was to investigate and prosecute other lawyers for “unprofessional conduct” - things like running a brothel out of the spare offices in your law firm, or billing clients for your time when you’re actually out test-driving a Porche (I kid you not, these things happen!)

To do my job, I’d listen to people’s stories of how their lawyer was screwing up their case and ripping them off; I’d listen to lawyers bemoan their impossible-to-please clients. Then, after having every side of the story, and once I’d hunted down and dissected every objective fact I could, it was up to me to work out what the dickens had actually happened, and pull together a coherent story from a morass of facts, suspicions, rumours and downright lies.

I really loved that job.

Then life marched on, and along came the three best things in my life – my children. I tried the juggle of kids and career, but in the end it became clear that for me, I could work, or I could be sane, but I could not be both. So I became a stay at home mum. The daily juggle disappeared, I loved spending more time with my kids and for a while, I thought I had my problems licked. But soon, a different kind of madness began to descend. Not the manic, out of control crazy I’d left behind; this was the slow, cell-by-cell, turning-of-the-unused-brain-into-sludge, type of madness. I felt incredibly guilty for feeling this way; shouldn’t staying home with the kids, using my brain for nothing more challenging than compiling the weekly grocery list, be enough?

For me - no.

So, what to do?

I’d always read, voraciously. I wrote (bad) poems and (even worse) short stories through my childhood and teens … why not try to stop my brain from rotting by using it to write a book? After slogging through two degrees and a career in law, I knew I could pump out the words; and really, exactly how hard could this novel-writing caper be?

I hear you all laughing.

Yes - it is HARD.

But back in 2006, my naivete is what started me off on my book - tapping away at the computer when the kids were napping or at school, not telling a single soul what I was up to - not even my husband - for the longest time. It felt damn good. I was using many of the skills I'd needed in my job, I had something to do that was just for me; and slowly, the tide of madness retreated. And from that inauspicious start – writing to stay sane - I’ve discovered I have many reasons that keep me writing:-

~ I get to indulge my passions for history, research, and all things French. I studied and fell in love with nineteenth century French History at university, and that’s where I first plonked my characters –on the platform of Paris’ Gare du Nord, disembarking from a train in a swirl of steam and cinders. Writing lets me spend part of each day in a city and an era that I love; where I can watch the sun rise above slate-grey, mansard rooftops, or inhale the exquisite scents of the roses blooming in the glass houses of the Bois de Boulonge, or listen to the clatter of hooves and coach wheels over cobblestones … ah, it’s magic.

~ I adore working with words, and I’m endlessly fascinated by the process of transferring the story in my head to the page. I’ve climbed one HUGE learning curve in terms of craft these past years, and I’m still learning. I hope I always will be.

~ Creating characters with lives so much more interesting than mine, yet making them believable … that’s a thrill like no other. And I will freely admit that messing with my characters’ lives very much satisfies the control freak in me!

~ I’ve always loved stories; writing my own is a serious blast. I thrive on the challenge of telling the kind of story I love to read – suspense, mysteries, thrillers - and it’s a little intoxicating to dream that some day, my words may keep someone perched on the very edge of their seat – the exact spot I love to be when I read.

~ And these days, I write because the end of my first draft is nigh. My youngest child is now at school, and with the extra time and the confidence boost of winning a short story competition a little while back (my kids love me for that – they couldn’t care less about the story, but the prize money did buy them a crazy-big trampoline!), I’m getting down to the business of finishing the first draft of my book. Maybe – just maybe – I’ll have it done by Christmas. Stick around and see how I go!

Bottom line … I write because it gives me the intellectual and creative stimulation I crave; I write because I am now completely addicted to it and cannot stop; and I write because if I didn’t, I just KNOW I’d be typing this post from inside a padded cell ...

So – what do you do to stay sane? Do you write? And if you do, what is it - beyond keeping you sane - that keeps your butt in the chair?

(And when you comment, you'll be in the running to win a copy of this week's book giveaway - Fire in Fiction, by uber-agent Don Maass. How cool is that?)

Daydreamer Finds a Home

Hello All,

First off, thanks so much for all the support and well wishes. We couldn't be more thrilled.

I'm Kristen, Lady Wednesday, and -believe it or not- probably the most shy one of the lot. If you've been following us thus far, you know that this week we are all discussing the theme of why do we write.

Why do I write? Hmm...Let's go back in time, shall we?

It is 1999, the world if freaking out over the dreaded Y2K computer/end of the world fiasco looming ahead, I’m stocking up on bottled water, and have just graduated college with a BA in socio-cultural anthropology. No longer in class, I am missing the intellectual stimulus of debating over just why the Naciremas are the oddest culture on earth –sorry, anthropology humor. To fill the void, I turn to decorating magazines. Oh, how I love this Art Deco look, how much would a 1920’s sideboard with ebony inlay cost? That much? Damn. The magazines are not satisfying my need for creative expression. I try writing. I’ve always liked the idea of writing. Fingers flying over the keys, words of great depth and wisdom flowing like so much wine. Except my next Great American Novel with the neo-Holden Caulfield character is not working. I get a page down at most. Even I’m bored with it. Damn.

Flash forward to spectacular sounding new job at world famous TV production company. Visions of becoming a high-powered TV producer are dancing in my head, save I’m stuck in meetings that go something like this: we’re doing one more [add meaningless subject here] show! Ten shows about [meaningless subject] are NOT enough. The public likes it, so we’ll give ‘em more, more, more! Okay, that was the highlight of the job; most of the time I’m counting the pixels on my computer screen and daydreaming. I’ve always been a dreamer. Reality does not compare. Sound familiar?

Now I am full on in my young-life crisis. I want to do something meaningful –for me- and am beginning to think I’ll never find it. In the middle of my pajama wearing, moping around the house with the odd foray to the bookstore phase, I pick up a little known book (heh) called Outlander. I was floored. I never thought a book could straddle so many genres and be so good. It was like an Alexandre Dumas book on steroids. And there were three more of them! (The series was up to Drums at that point) Five million words later (g), and I was in need of more. Only I couldn’t find any other books like Diana’s. Damn!

Then it occurs to me; this woman was obviously having fun when she wrote these books. Writing to have fun? Well, why not?

It started with a scene: a man and a woman arguing in a meadow. What was that all about? I dunno; let’s see! Then another scene, same man and woman arguing again! –what can I say, I love me some back and forth dialogue. Oh, the joy of it! Writing was like reading a book, only _I_ was in control. It was euphoric, like falling in love without the angst. Hours could go by unnoticed while I wrote. I was somewhere else, having an adventure. Ten years later and I’m still at it.

Is writing easy? No. It is a challenge. When I think of how little I knew of craft back then…shudder. But then that’s the point -in no other endeavor am I constantly learning, constantly being challenged, AND having a hell of a lot of fun in the process. After my husband and children, writing is the biggest love of my life. I cannot wait for that time of day when I get back in my chair, say hello to my trusty partner -the computer- and go off into the wild blue yonder. So, as I said in my intro…

Hello, my name is Kristen Callihan and I am a writing addict. How about you? Are you an addict too?

Do or Do Not. There is No Try.

Your Girl-Tuesday here.

As Claire said, this week we’re all going to take a shot at answering the question – Why do I write?

I have to tell you that this is a very difficult question for me to answer. It’s difficult because my gut reaction is to answer, “Because I suck at everything else,” and that makes me sound like a complete Looo-ser! (Are you picturing me with my thumb and forefinger plastered to my forehead? Good.) But even more importantly, that statement isn’t exactly true.

Bear with me while I explain.

As I mentioned in our welcome message, I’ve been a storyteller for as long as I can remember. What I didn’t mention is that I only started writing a few years ago—in the literal sense. Oh, I’ve dabbled over the years, but most of my storytelling took place Here. I’m tapping a finger to my temple now. (Bet you didn’t expect to get so many cool visuals with this post.) What writing I did, I did on the sly—too nervous, and yes, embarrassed to let anyone know.

And do you want the truth about my fledgling stories? Well, here it is: They sucked. Big Time Sucked. In fact, they were the suckiest suck to ever hit a piece of paper. I mean it. They were bad.

Are you getting the picture?

Say it with me… “Why were they so bad, Jen?”

Oh-ho! I’m so glad you asked that question. I’ll tell you why they were bad. They were bad because I was downright lazy when it came to writing. You see, I had this romantic idea of what “writing” was supposed to be. I thought it would all be soooo easy. That I’d sit down at a keyboard and pages upon pages of pure magic would flow from my fingertips. That whatever I wrote would be a bestseller, and that writing that Next Big Thing would take no more than a couple of weeks—a month, tops.

Are you laughing yet? Yeah, me too.

As I’m sure you’ve guessed by now—when reality collided with the fantasy, a bestseller it did not make.

So how does this explain my opening statement? Well, it illustrates my point. You see, I’m a girl who likes to live inside her head. When writing proved too difficult, I went on to the next “fantasy” career. This time I would be a singer! Or maybe a lawyer. A marine biologist. No, no no…I should go into the FBI! (Did you guess there was a movie involved with each of these decisions?)

Okay, I’m really not that flighty. I had legitimate reasons for wanting to do all of those things. I can sing—I had a voice minor in college and one of my vocal instructors urged me to shoot for Broadway. I did in fact do undercover work that I thought would lead to my joining the FBI. And I went to law school and got my JD. (I’m at a loss to explain the marine biology thing. Especially since I hate science and went to a college that’s land-locked by cornfields.) That said—the reality of actually doing these things never lived up to the fantasy I had created in my head.

Why? Because I’m a storyteller. Always have been, always will be. It just took a while for me to realize that I couldn’t trick myself into a career I didn’t love with silly romantic notions. Not when my heart and mind would always be longing to do something else.

Namely, I wanted to write. Great. One problem, though. I still didn’t know how to.

I won’t bore you with the details of that particular journey. Suffice it to say that writing isn’t easy for me. I struggle each and every day to plant my butt in the chair. I struggle each and every day to transfer the image I have in my mind to the page. Most days I think every word I write is Total Suckage. Most days I think I should chuck it and go figure out that marine biology thing.

But I won’t.

Why?

Because sometimes I do find the right words. Sometimes I’m able to create magic.
And if I can make readers laugh or cry right along with me, then I know I’ve done my job well.

Yes, the reality of writing is a lot harder than I ever thought it would be. (Can you believe there are no music montages involved? Not even short ones. ) And most days I probably do more hair-pulling than actual writing. In truth, though, I can’t imagine living my life any other way.

My stories are who I am.

That’s why I write.

One luminary clock against the sky

Good morning world!

It's Claire here, your Monday buddy. Our grand plans for this blogging empire see us each contributing one sage, witty post a week, and so nobody can shirk out of their turn, we've each chosen a day. Because I spend most of my days chasing an 11-month-old tiny person around the house, trying to disentangle her from the dog/ cat/ refrigerator/ power-points/ rubbish bins (just insert whatever babies shouldn't touch and that's where I find her most of the time), I've picked Monday in the vain hope that I'll get my posts written on the weekend.

Time shall tell.

Well, this week, you can look forward to a post each day from your new friends in which we'll elaborate on the grand question: why DO you write?

Those who have frequented my individual blog, Stones Bones and Artillery Shells, will know that I'm not good at brevity when it comes to pouring out my thoughts. But I'll try to be concise and entertaining here, I really will.

You've already seen in my introduction that I love reading and I love words. Books have always been an escape for me and I can't imagine life without them. I had a very international upbringing, growing up in Europe, Asia and Australia in an oil industry family, and for me books were a form of stability. I used them to make sense of the world, and to understand that human beings, by nature, think and feel in a multitude of ways. I still do.

I use my writing for the same things. When I write, I'm taking myself to a familiar world where I have all the control. If I want sunshine or rain, it's up to me. If I want flowers or mud, I can choose. And I can use that place and the people I meet there to help me understand the way people think and feel. In turn, this helps me understand how *I* think and feel.

It's all very deep, I assure you. I guess that's why my genre is literary fiction.

The ability to be a control freak might be one of the things I like about writing, but it's not what drives me. Nor is the enjoyment I get from understanding how people think and feel. What drives me is the way my breath catches when I read about those things as presented by a real master- when the mode of expression grabs me, makes me think, refuses to let me go.

And that's what I aspire to do to all of you with my writing.

The title of this blog post is a reference to just that- the breath-catching moment when you read something and think, "Yes! Yes. I understand- but not only that. I feel."

It comes from a Robert Frost poem, Acquainted with the Night. When I first read that poem, I was about 15 and I'd been working for a little while on a story about the London Blitz in WWII; a time in history that interested me. I had a head full of two-dimensional characters, some vague ideas about what I wanted to say. But I was lacking a certain... electricity. And then I read the Frost poem, and the spark was lit. My mind was crackling with possibilities.

I'll quote you some of the poem:

I have been one acquainted with the night.
I have walked out in rain - and back in rain.
I have outwalked the furthest city light.
I have looked down the saddest city lane.
I have passed by the watchman on his beat
And dropped my eyes, unwilling to explain.

I don't know exactly what Frost saw when he wrote that poem, but when I read it in the context of my story, I saw a man. Alone. Lonely. Walking in darkness, but not afraid like everyone else. And I wanted to know why- why wasn't he scared of being killed by a bomb?

The answers came flooding in; because he felt he had nothing left to live for. He wasn't even supposed to be there. His son was missing in action. He was desperate; desperately without hope, but for some reason hoping still. There was a woman. A child. A confessional letter.

A sense of history repeating.

Time began to unravel in front of me, and I saw how his life had led him there. The First World War. Love. Loss. Betrayal. The one constant thing in his world- his son. Gone. Now what?

Don't worry if you don't see the same from those few lines; you will. It's all in BETWEEN THE LINES, which tells the tale of Bill Cutler, an Australian who goes to fight in World War I and comes home to find himself a single father to a son, Jared, he knew nothing about. He struggles to raise his son while fighting the demons of his war experience, but the Second World War is coming, and the inevitable happens- Jared enlists. Bill's world falls apart when Jared is declared missing in action over Britain, and stricken with grief he crosses the world to search for his son. In London he finds Jared's fiance Laura, her eccentric sister Meredith, and their orphaned young neighbour Archie. And slowly, slowly, just when Bill thinks he's lost everything, he finds himself coming back to life for the first time in twenty years.

I'm delighted to have such wonderful company to share my writing journey. We may be all over the world, but we still see the same moon- that luminary clock against the sky. It's one example of the things that unite us.

So, in the interests if kinship, and friends both old and new, how about leaving me a comment to tell me this:

What makes YOU catch your breath, in writing, reading or otherwise?

(And in commenting, you'll also put yourself in the draw to win this week's book giveaway- FIRE IN FICTION, by super-literary agent Don Maass).