31 Mar 10 |
Yesterday Deb posted about gardening (no planting until after Easter!) and starting a new book, and that sent me into a dizzying spiral of thoughts that ended up with me concluding that 1) Deb is a genius and 2) I have been going about this writing thing all wrong.
I have written five books in the last two years (I’m turning in the fifth on Thursday) and I thought I had figured out the whole process. Was feeling a little smug about it, actually, and I figured that by now I was a certifiable expert.
More like a certifiable nut, as it turns out. Remember that old definition of madness – doing the same thing over and over and expecting a different result? Well, that pretty much sums up my approach to every new book. I come up with a vague concept. Think about it for a few weeks while walking the dog and brushing my teeth. Consider doing some research but watch funny animal youtube videos instead. Steal ideas from my critique group when they aren’t paying attention. And then…put the pedal to the floor and GO.
The fact that this works at all is a testament to my sheer hard-headedness, I believe, since it’s the literary equivalent of watching a few old episodes of This Old House and deciding to renovate a barn with a roll of duct tape and a box of staples.
And some glitter glue. And yet, never underestimate the power of determination. Because even though my “preparation” is, let’s be honest, one step up from using THE HERO’S JOURNEY as a coaster for my tumbler of scotch and calling it a day – it actually works.
For the first two-thirds of the book.
And then I turn into a sobbing mass of insecurity and it takes a Family Size bag of Fritos Scoops, a tub of french onion dip, and a month of rewrites before I get the thing on track again.
Now let me switch gears a little and tell you about my roses.
When I moved to California from the frozen northern Chicago suburbs twelve years ago, there was dead branch sticking out of the ground in the flowerbed in front of the house. I meant to dig it up, but the move and the kids kept me busy, and suddenly it was April and the damn thing popped out buds all over its homely limbs.
“Hmmm,” I thought, and then I got distracted again until oh, early June when I went out to get the paper one morning and it had turned into a rosebush. And not just any rosebush, but one which my kids dubbed Big Mama after it reached eight feet tall, covered with enormous shell-pink blooms.
Suffice it to say that I turned almost overnight into a rosarian. I learned everything there was to know about choosing, planting, pruning, and encouraging them. I looked forward to the Jackson Perkins catalog like it was Penthouse Letters. I spent the kids’ college fund on six perfect bare-roots for a sunny spot out back.
But most important of all, I learned the Tau of roses: it’s all about preparation. The annual rose journey starts with that stick in the ground. Pruned properly for my zone, it’s a humble thing, a foot tall with just a few limbs in a vase shape, dead and brown. The leaves and prunings from prior seasons are cleared away, and the soil fortified with fertilizer and Ironite and coffee grounds and a layer of mulch. Dormant spray oil is followed, as the early growth appears, with zealous nit-picking or, in this case, aphid-picking.
Gallons of coyote urine and fish emulsion are sprayed and sprinkled and only after the neighbors are circulating a petition to get you kicked off the block for your olfactory offenses does the day come when the first perfect bloom opens and it’s all worth it.
You can skip all these steps and your bush will still bloom, at least in Northern California, but what you’ll have is the floral equivalent of my usual first drafts: adequate for a while, and then an undisciplined mess. There is nothing sadder than an overgrown, underblooming, sucker-infested August rosebush – unless it’s an overwritten, underinspired, cliche-infested plot resolution.
That is why, on Friday when I begin my next book, I am going to try something new. I’m considering doing some actual preparation. Plotting. Character development. Research (gasp! – as noxious as coyote urine, for sure). Reading in the genre. I’m hoping all this well-meaning discipline will keep me from my usual eleventh-hour panic (pass the Fritos!)
So, let’s talk gardening, just because it’s Spring. What’s in your garden? What do you covet? What have you accidentally killed?
And for fun, I’ll choose on commenter to receive a copy of my pal Jennifer Haymore’s newest release, A TOUCH OF SCANDAL – which just happens to have a rose on the cover!
















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