Friendship beyond Words

Hi all,

Weeks ago, Lynn asked me to guest blog for her today. Knowing that I had a new book coming out October 1, she thought it would give me a chance to “talk it up” to an audience of avid readers. That’s Lynn—a loyal, thoughtful friend.

Well, we writers have to shamelessly seize self-promo opportunities these days, as publishers expect us to pitch in to sell our books. But somehow, I don’t really feel like trying to write some pithy prose concerning my plot and characters, or ramble on about why I find the Regency era so fascinating.

For you see, writing is also an inherently lonely business. We sit in out little rooms, creating people and stories in our heads, and trying to find exactly the right words to bring them to life. It’s exhilarating. But it’s also hard. And frustrating, frightening. So real friendships—especially those with other people who do the same weird thing that you do—take on a special meaning.

I first met Lynn in 1997. I had just sold my first Regency romance to Signet through a serendipitous twist of Fate that I won’t recount here. Suffice it to say, I knew absolutely nothing about the world of publishing or the world of romance. I’d never heard of RWA, I’d never met any fellow romance writers. My new editor told me about the annual RWA Conference and suggested I go to meet other authors. Sounded good, so I blithely got on a plane to Chicago. The trouble was, she had failed to mention that you had to pre-register. When I walked in and announced I was there to attend the workshops, they gave me a pitiful look and explained it didn’t work that way.

Slinking off with my tail between my legs, I did manage to find my editor in the hotel. She shrugged and said not to worry, because I could still attend her Author Dinner (I think to this day it’s the most expensive meal I’ve ever paid for.) So that night I showed up at the restaurant, not in the best of moods. The first thing I heard as I approached the table was a deep, throaty laugh. In my novels, I’d probably describe it as a smoky, sexy sound, reverberating with depth and nuance. Like a Siren’s song, it drew you in.

And so I found myself seated next to Lynn Kerstan. THE Lynn Kerstan. I’d read her books, and was absolutely in awe of her. Now those of you who have met Lynn know she is no shrinking violet. She looms large in every way. But most of all, it’s her heart that overwhelms you. She immediately welcomed a nobody into her circle (naturally everyone was gravitating around her) going out of her way to make me feel part of the group. And then she proceeded to keep the table in stitches with her funny stories, knife-edged wit and insightful observations. I thought she was one of the coolest people I had ever met.

In the Regency, Lynn would have been dubbed an “Original”—a woman who was not bound by the strictures of convention, but dared to be herself, no matter what anyone else thought. In other words, she was true to herself and had the courage and conviction to “live large.” Of course, it helps to have a sense of humor to carry it off. And we all know that Lynn has that, In Spades.

Since the day we met, we’ve been great friends. Lucky me. We live on opposite coasts, so we don’t get to see each other that often. Still, we keep in touch via e-mail, and always get together at conferences to share laughs and wine. We had lunch in San Francisco in early August and I knew she was hurting. But even though her body was causing her pain, her wit and her good cheer were undiminished. When she told me the news about her diagnosis, I . . . well, I guess you all can imagine how I felt. As a writer, I should be able to craft some lyrical passage expressing my feeling, but right now I find myself bereft of words. Except to say I love her very much.

Maybe next week I’ll tell you about my book, but today I just wanted to tell you about my friend.

Andrea Pickens
www.andreapickensonline.com

Wordplay (LynnK)

Just lately, I’ve been inundated with teaching, critiquing, and editing jobs. You know, the jobs that pay the bills. I knew that changing genres would be a problem, but I never realized how little time I’d have to work on new projects while keeping Lymond in Fancy Feast and me from pushing a grocery cart.

Yup. I have nightmares about becoming the Bag Lady of Coronado. “There she is, poor dear. Used to be a teacher and singer and writer. Now she’s digging for soda cans in trash bins.”

Editing is work that I like, though. And if I do say so myself, I’m exceedingly good at it. Oughta be, after so many years. Even when I’m being merciless, which is generally the case when dealing with an author who shows real promise, I invariably love and respect my clients. Writing a story for publication is not for the faint-hearted. Submitting it for a critique and paying for same shows true dedication.

In the early nineties, my own painful apprenticeship as a writer of fiction—during which I made every mistake known to man and invented several of my own—taught me the hard way how many things can go wrong between the visions in our heads and the words on the page. Nitpickers looking for flaws (unless they’ve been hired to do exactly that) should lighten up.

But writing troubles are by no means confined to those of us who labor in the trenches. Desperate to escape editing a story in which the characters were chuckling, blinking, and groaning every page or two (by page 30, I was considering ways to kill them all off!), I wandered over to the New York Times in search of relief.

Or a good laugh. The NYT is nothing if not pretentious. But there’s enough variety to keep me entertained, and sure enough, I came upon a skewing of book reviewers: “Seven Deadly Words of Book Reviewing.” You can check out the original piece here:
http://tinyurl.com/2699cp

Mind you, we authors are not fussy about praise. If it’s about us, and if it sounds good, we love it, even when it reads like a ‘phone-it-in’ review. A money quote like “Master Storyteller Lynn Kerstan soars to new heights with the splendid . . . .” Okay, I made that up. But from words used about my books. Honest!

However. Reading Bob Harris’s list of words overused by prestigious reviewers caused me to feel rather sorry for the poor creatures. Unless they are dissing my books, for which eternal damnation is only a little too harsh. It must be difficult, though, to keep coming up with innovative ways to say “This is mediocre,” or “This is superb,” or “This really sucks.”

Not that anyone should be excused from writing “eschewed” or using “muse” as a verb. I do have my standards. But Mr. Harris’s screed was outdone in the comments section, where scores of NYT readers noted their own pet peeves. And, I must add, defended “eschewed.” Go figure.

Readers do pay attention, though, God bless them. And here are a few of the words and phrases in reviews that make them want to claw their eyes out:

magisterial
subtle-but-powerful
taut
lofty
weaves a rich tapestry
darkly comic
page-turner
timeless
evocative
searing
cracking good yarn/read
XXX is at the top of his/her game...
spare and elegant prose
deceptively simple
a fresh new voice
plumbed the depths
deeply felt
a luminous parable (and its cousin, luminescent)
transcending genre

I confess that last one really gets my goat. What’s wrong with genre fiction? Not a damn thing. At its best, genre fiction tells great stories that people want to read. It can even be timeless, evocative, darkly comic, luminous, and deceptively simple!

Any words—in reviews, books, or any context—that you majorly loathe?

Let me start our list with "very unique," "a tremulous sigh," and “nether lips.”

Where the Stories Come From (Lynn Kerstan)

So there I was, flapping my elbows against my sides and clucking like a chicken. In front of several hundred chortling people.

What? You’ve never done that? Well, neither had I. But in its way, that long-ago night was a transforming experience. Even though I, unlike the other "subjects" on the stage, was not actually hypnotized.

I certainly didn’t feel under any power but my own. So what that I went along with all the hypnotist’s instructions? I have a degree in theatre. I like to perform. When he said, "You are Anna Pavlova dancing the dying swan," I loped and pirouetted and finally shuddered to stillness in a heap. When he told me I was watching the saddest movie I’d ever seen, I wept.

I can fake all that stuff. To this day, even though I was selected to appear in the popular San Diego nightclub show a dozen times, I remain convinced I was just playing along.

Which is, of course, exactly the heightened suggestibility produced by hypnosis. Hmm.

I wanted to know more about this phenomenon. The hypnotist, a brilliant entertainer, was also a scholar (with Ph.D.) dedicated to teaching people how to access and use the power of the subconscious mind. In exchange for some basic research work, he took me on as a student. Later, utterly fascinated, I studied with a non-entertainer expert in the field. Then I found another all-consuming interest and moved on.

What does this have to do with writing? Very sketchy, non-tech outline here. The imagination that creates whole worlds and complex characters and powerful stories resides in a mysterious no-place (related to brain activity), described by some as the alpha state. When the brain vibrates at the frequency range in which nocturnal dreams and daydreaming takes place, we are in the realm of the subconscious. But imagination and dreaming are not its only functions. Far from it.

Almost everyone has experienced the subconscious doing its silent work. Driving is a good example. You set out for a familiar destination. You’ve got a lot on your mind. Suddenly, you look up and discover you are almost there. You have little or no recollection of changing lanes, stopping at lights, making turns. While you were planning the day’s schedule or trying to make a tough decision, your subconscious was driving the car. Conscious and subconscious minds, working together.

During our waking hours, our brains operate at a higher frequency range (beta), which lends itself to the practical, the rational, the decision-making roles. But always the subconscious is there, like an underground river. And just beneath it (at a lower frequency, theta) our emotions thrum.

All good stories require imagination (subconscious), craft (conscious), and emotion. A writer must access and interweave them, which is no easy thing.

We court these mysterious forces that are intricately contained within ourselves. Give them names, like "Muse" or "Gertrude." Stephen King says that his ideas come from the Boys in the Basement. Women writers often call them the Girls. They are rarely within our control, or even within our power to summon on demand.

So we use tricks. Rituals. Affirmations. Sometimes even self-hypnosis. Lucky for us, the subconscious can be programmed. Unfortunately, that’s easiest to manage before adolescence.

But nothing stops a writer with a story that has to be told. We summon our inner Peter Pans, tell ourselves we can fly, and keep telling ourselves that until we are airborne.

Next time . . . the Tricks of the Trade.

(It was going to be this time, but I got diverted. And as any hypnotist knows, a good subject possesses the ability to concentrate. Which is why I was never actually hypnotized. Maybe.)