Organically Speaking: Writing that Makes a Difference

Some of you may want to know how the book signing in my hometown went.

It came. It went. A few people braved the torrential rain to come out and support me. The microphone echoed and the people in the back row couldn’t hear me. There were multitudes of cell phones, pagers, and random college study group conversations peppering the reading session. We had to start the signing late because at about ten after four, no one had showed up, except for the family members I’d brought with me.

We sold a few copies of the book, but the bookstore will return a good number of the copies it ordered. We expected a crowd; we got a handful.

An objective analysis tells me the reading went well. Hey, at least I wasn’t mute or blind this time…. Still, it makes me wonder why I had an underlying expectation that, simply because I was in my hometown, more people would show up. Book signings aren’t exactly the hottest ticket in town on a Saturday afternoon.

I suppose my point here is that we have to be careful of developing expectations about how an event should unfold because we think we know the situation. I’m certainly guilty of that. I thought I could coast easy on this one—it was my hometown, after all. I expected to be reading to my third-grade Sunday school teachers and other folks who remembered me in pigtails and braces and whose sons used to jump up and down on my bed and pull my hair and hide my shoes and… well, you get the idea. I felt secure in knowing that people would come simply because they’ve known me since I was six years old.

This business is tough. People’s tastes and affinities are fickle. People say things to be polite. People have great intentions, but when they see the sky turn black and it starts raining buckets, they balk. They become faint of heart and they understand that I’ll understand why they didn’t come. And you know what? I do.

I understand that doing this book tour was not about the number of books I could sell in one day. It was about the experience of sharing something I created with people I’ve never met, and of giving back to those who have supported me and believed in me all these long years. A decade of writing, summed up in the few random shoppers in the store who put their day on hold for almost an entire hour to listen to me read something that I wrote. If that isn’t awe-inspiring and humbling, I’ve completely lost my perspective.

So, how did the book signing go? It was a home run.

Sorry I haven’t blogged in a while. I’m still recovering from the trip back home. Whenever I travel by myself, it’s always very interesting trying to manage my luggage. The irony of traveling with a bad back—you can’t travel light. Too many “peripherals” are necessary for maximum functionality. Or maybe I’m just a girl who likes to have wardrobe choices…

So to finish my library story. On Friday, I did in fact commandeer the microfilm reader, after stalking the front door of the library (remember the old Mervyn’s commercial—Open, Open, Open!) with another fellow researcher a few minutes before opening time. He was there early, too. I had a sense he might want the microfilm reader, so I moved closer to the door. He eyed me. I appeared nonchalant. The door opened and I made my move. I shoved my list of microfilm reels in the library workers’ hands as I listened to the other guy ask her to show him how to search the newspaper microfilm. She looked at me knowingly. My expression must have spoken volumes. She said she was going to let me go first since I’d been there yesterday trying to get on the machine. Yes! Sweet victory!

On another note, I was amazed to discover that absinthe was being served at a restaurant in San Diego within walking distance of my hotel. Since absinthe plays a key role in my novel, I decided to do some research on my own. I looked rather silly sitting by myself with a generous 3-oz pour of approximately 90-proof liquor (after diluted), taking pictures of the pretty colors… Needless to say, I didn’t finish it, as I needed to walk back to the hotel without falling down. But now I can say I know what it tastes like.

If you haven’t figured it out by now, I take my research very seriously.

But it is good to be back in Texas, where people open doors for you unbidden, and people say hello with a smile, just because they’re friendly. As much as I hate the fire ants and big squishy bugs and quirky weather and the occasional softball-size hail that comes with living in Tornado Alley, there really is no place like home.

I went through stacks and stacks of old photos and microfiche newspaper indices today. My mission is to return tomorrow so I can commandeer the only microfilm reader available at the archives library. When doing historical research, you should try to do it at the location where the story is set if at all possible. There are things you can’t possibly learn from surfing the Internet. Experienced research staff can help you find what you’re looking for much more quickly, and most of them even take joy in digging up obscure treasures for you.

It’s been a whirlwind of activity from dawn ‘til dusk here in sunny San Diego. My recent excursions to the Hotel Del have yielded some interesting photos of the hotel and surrounding grounds. Many of the hotel staff seem like career professionals. One spectacularly tanned valet parking manager in Oakley shades wielded an intimidating traffic cop “talk to the hand” move when he firmly commanded me to stop to allow a taxi to pull out in front of me in the gridlock of the main circular drive on Sunday morning. Since then, the traffic has thinned out a bit, but it is fun to watch him being the alpha male of the pack. You gotta love what you do, I suppose. My waiter at the restaurant said he’d been with the hotel for thirteen years. Wow. Most people don’t stay at executive-level jobs that long these days.

I met a woman in the gift shop who’d just moved to San Diego three weeks ago from Fort Worth. While we were talking, the man next to me commented that he was from San Antonio. What is it about Texans? We always seem to find each other, wherever we are.

It was quite lovely dipping my toes into the Pacific and sitting on the beach with my journal, being writerly though looking pretty darn dorky. Good news? The self-portrait function on my new camera seems to work swimmingly, so I’ll have all kinds of photos of me in tourist-geek getup. In this photo, I’m not smiling because there was sand blowing in my face at the time.

Today I prowled the campus of San Diego State University in college coed disguise, hopefully incognito, looking for the Special Collections section of the library. Did I mention that I didn’t have a campus map and was counting on my oh-so-infallible sense of direction to guide me to the right place?  Yes, indeed, I called the library office and asked how to get to the Dome. The answer: by walking around to the other side of the building I was sitting in front of. The end result, however, of this excursion was a treasure trove of old photos of places I needed to see in my mind. Funny little historical details that make me marvel at the way art imitates life and vice versa. And how much this story has found me and taken hold of me, how it begs to be written, and how I am forever entwined with it.

Despite the long grueling research sessions and the musty smells and uncomfortable chairs, I wouldn’t have traded the past two days for anything. I have learned so much and come so far already. I just hope I can store it all in my mind for future use. Oh, and the weather: absolute perfection. Thank you, San Diego, for not disappointing….  

I think I’ve officially qualified as an HMG (High Maintenance Guest). The girl who can’t remember where her car is parked in the hotel self-parking garage, drags the longsuffering bellman in the elevator, out the elevator, up the floor, down the ramp to the floor she was originally on, then can’t find her car keys anywhere, decides to go back to her room to look for the keys. After she gets separated from the bellman on the elevator, she goes to her floor, where she promptly finds the keys in the front pocket of her bag where she put them for easy access and safekeeping.

Can’t find the bellman anywhere because she didn’t listen carefully to where she was supposed to meet him, pounces on a frightened housekeeping girl in a mad tizzy because she’s going to be late for her Sunday brunch at the Hotel Del and doesn’t know who to call, finally finds the bellman at his post in the lobby, where he said he would meet her, and drags him up the elevator and to her car again. Forgets to give him the express checkout envelope and has to accost a startled valet parking attendant in the front driveway as she zips by in a tornadic blaze of boy-am-I-pissed-at-myself energy. By the way, thank you, John, for putting up with me.

So after that, everything went absolutely perfectly. The drive was beautiful, the navigation system was annoying but useful, the hotel was glorious, the dining experience memorable.  

As I walk along the beach, the roar of the ocean is hypnotic, the crisp glint of sun on the water is crystalline. The endless expanse of the Pacific is freedom from worry, stress, and busy-ness. I am in a time capsule, where there is no past and no future, only this moment, this bliss.

How often do you take the time to lose yourself in a place, experience the completeness of a single moment, in all its existential clarity? The place can be ordinary, sitting outside on the porch looking up the sky, or out the window at a bird building a nest in a tree. Meditate on the truth of how small you are, and how big God’s creation is. Touch it. Feel it. See it with your soul and your mind. Sense your significance in the midst of the mystery.

I’m sitting in my hotel room near LAX, barely functioning, listening to the pod coffeemaker brew my one perfect dose of Starbucks coffee. It sounds like someone peeing into a cup.

I’ve somehow lost a very important item that is necessary when I travel for me to sleep well (no, it’s not a teddy bear named Binky), and in my current non-caffeinated, definitely-not-a-morning-person brain fog, this development seems quite devastating. I have several more days of research to do in San Diego, and more driving (and getting lost) to do.

Maybe I need to go do some yoga on the beach today. Maybe it will take me less than an hour to drive there. Maybe traffic will be good. Maybe I won’t get lost. I guess beaches should be one of the easiest things to find. The Pacific Ocean is quite a big landmark.

Maybe this is one of those moments that requires faith (but don’t all moments in life require faith on some level, in something?). Even when I can’t sleep, I still believe.

I’m in L.A. for a few days to spend some quality time with a friend of mine I haven’t seen in several years. What precious moments these are!

My synopsis is finally coming together. My re-vamped characters are starting to form in my mind, and their voices come to me in possible first lines, “tag lines,” if you will, that capture the essence of their souls.

Deciding on the physical and emotional histories of my characters requires a lot of experimentation. It’s almost like going shopping with my characters and trying on a lot of different costumes. Sometimes I have an idea of a look or feel of what I want; other times I simply have to try a lot of different hats before the perfect outfit jumps out at me.

Sadly, there doesn’t seem to be a short way around this “I’ll-know-it-when-I-see-it” approach for me. When I try to pull something out of the air that makes “sense” in my general idea, it’s almost never the one I ultimately use. I think the act of “thinking” of something draws from the left brain, and these ideas aren’t products of my creative nexus. Really good ideas don’t result from a carefully organized flowchart or list–they waft in on sheer wisps of dreamclouds. They sing to me while I’m asleep, or whisper their intent when my eyes are closed but my mind’s eye sees clearly.  

The mystery of how I write is almost a sacred process. I know when it’s not going well. There are no guarantees when it will start going well. But when it is going well, it’s a feeling like nothing else in the world.

We don’t get snow very often around here, and it’s always a big deal when any of this funky white stuff hits the ground and actually sticks.

People often ask authors and creative people how they get their ideas. How do we become inspired, and can we train ourselves to be inspired on cue? Hmm. I don’t know if I have an answer to that one, because creative endeavors are so personal and individual, I think it’s a bit unfair to “cookbook” the idea to apply to a general population of artists.

As I’ve grown into my creative “skin,” so to speak, I’ve learned more and more to trust my instincts. The gut is a powerful organ, in my opinion, and though society tends to pooh-pooh what it terms emotional decision-making, I believe there are paths of knowing that cannot be rationally explained. The intellect cannot always process what the heart instantly knows or senses. Same thing with creative inspiration, the muse. What part of our mind works on creative problems while we toil away at our day jobs? What part of our mind reveals the solutions to us in our dreams? And what part of our mind tells us instantly when we’ve found our North Star?

Creativity breeds creativity. I think artists have an affinity for each other. Every soul desires community, but perhaps the artistic soul craves it more because of the very personal nature of the creative act. Creative professions are also very competitive and subjective. It’s hard to feel anchored when your success can sometimes depend on what a decision-making person had for breakfast that day and what mood they’re in when they judge your work. So when we come across a person that anchors us and creates a lightness or calmness in our soul, we immediately recognize it.

These are our North Stars. For me, this is the foundation of inspiration. I work in creative “fevers,” and most often, these fevers are inspired by a North Star. Someone I know or meet who has that certain grounding quality, an energy that hums in sync with mine, and brings back a lightness and joy to my writing. Seek out these kindred spirits to inspire you, and you’ll find yourself being a North Star to someone else.