The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo

Obviously the hype is pretty intense - it seems everyone is reading or has read The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo. Entertainment Weekly even made the series its cover story a few weeks ago, which is totally out of character for that publication. Usually "entertainment" is strictly film or television for EW, not a book (though they do devote a few pages each issue to new and noteworthy novels). Of course this current frenzy is being fueled by the recent publication of the third installment in Larsson's series and rumors that Dragon Tattoo is going to be made into an American film (a Swedish version exists already) staring any number of famous actors (I'm rooting for Daniel Craig and Carey Mulligan).

I figured I couldn't avoid reading it and that it would be compelling from the start. Though the first chapter was captivating, it took me a while to get into the novel. The first 80 pages or so skip around between a variety of character perspectives - so much so that I didn't know whose story I was supposed to care about. Ultimately, I didn't trust the author.

Plus it was full of what I saw as a dry diatribe on the inner workings of the Swedish financial system. Cue snoozing noise.

I was so lost in Larsson's narration that I completely spaced out when the title character was introduced. It finally dawned on me a few pages later and I had to go back and re-read. Not a good sign.

I told myself to stick it out, though I put the book down for days at a time. I had just finished the newest Sookie Stackhouse and longed to keep reading books for their entertainment value, not because someone else told me it was good. Yah, well, Dante's Inferno is good too. You don't see me picking up that tome for a light summer read (which I tried once - I don't recommend it).

In fact, the only significant association I made in the first 80 or so pages was that I really wanted to go shop at IKEA (seriously, how many people and places in Sweden are the IKEA products named after, anyway?).

Then something happened. The stories came together and I started to see how everything was related. And Larsson dropped the bombshell - there really was a mystery to solve! It turns out that my patience had paid off. I couldn't put the book down and even found myself semi-annoyed at having to take care of things like the dishes when I could be turning the pages of that novel instead. It was definitely worth the read and, in retrospect, even worth the slow start (which contained many tidbits that were relevant later).

Well done, Larsson, well done.

Summer vacation...finally!

Ah, summer. Welcome back, my friend.

So I suppose an update is in order, first and foremost. On my last post I noted that I was embarking on a plan to write 1,000 words a day until my story was complete. I did just that. At the end of NaNoWriMo, I stuck three freshly printed calendar sheets on the fridge. One for December, January, and February. I crossed off every day those three months and added about 90,000 additional words to the small story I'd started and fell in love with a while before. I ended up with 130 pages of first draft nonsense.

And it is total crap, believe me. However, it stands as the only complete first draft I've ever written. I'm beyond proud of that fact. And, after letting the pages ferment for a few months, I've now set myself the task of molding it into something I can actually ask people to read before I go back to teaching in the fall. And though that frightens the you-know-what out of me, I'm in dire need of feedback.

Right now I'm in the midst of of Chapter 6, which sounds like I've done a lot until I consider that I've only edited 17 of my 130 single-spaced pages. Thank goodness I now have my writing room in order and can spend days at a time in that space slogging through the muck that is my first draft.

My 2009 NaNoWriMo Experience

For those of you who aren't in the know, NaNoWriMo (National Novel Writing Month) is one of the single best ways to jump start the writing process. Why? Because for the 30 days of November, your job is to write crap, plain and simple. There's no time to go back and fret over that sentence you couldn't craft just right, no opportunity to redraft an earlier scene that doesn't make sense when your story took another direction. It's just pure, innocent storytelling at its best.

When I first tried NaNoWriMo in 2007, I failed miserably. I couldn't turn off my inner editor. I kept retooling things in my story that ultimately had to be changed again later. I was so obsessed with writing the perfect first draft that I barely wrote 10,000 words. The worst part? Those 10,000 words were stilted and had no life. I was so determined to be in control that I forgot to listen to my broccoli and wouldn't allow my characters to tell me their story. It an epic failure and a huge learning experience.

In 2008, I was determined to just tell a detective story. I didn't know much about my character or the story, but I played with it and eventually squeaked out 50,000 words and won! (Winning NaNo for you non-WriMos is finishing 50,000 words before midnight on the 30th.) The plot isn't great, but the characters are life-like and full of vigor. Plus I found out all kinds of quirky folks live in the worlds I create if I just let them thrive.

This year, though, was a totally different series of events. I had been offered a JVII basketball coaching position and was actually torn back in August about accepting it. Since basketball starts in November and practices are six days a week, I figured that would totally shatter my dreams of repeating NaNo success. But I accepted the job because I miss hoops so much and figured if I was meant to be a writer, I'd find a way. In reality, I assumed that my coaching life would kill my writing life.

It turns out that wasn't the case at all. Though I often fell behind, I didn't get discouraged and I ended up completing my NaNoWriMo story two days early! I learned this time around that I can write all day long and really enjoy immersing myself in a fictional world. I learned that when I give my characters freedom to do what they want to do, they surprise me with plot points I never knew were there. Most importantly, I learned that I can write despite my crazy schedule...and sometimes I write because of it.

I finish NaNoWriMo with a sense of renewal. It's funny how stressing myself out over writing actually creates a desire to do more of it, but that's where I'm at. I don't plan to write another 50,000 words in December, but I do plan to write about 1,000 words a day until I'm finished with the draft of the novel I really want to write.

So bring it on, December. I will write!

Living in the Fog on Planet Jessica

So far this summer, I've been working a lot on my YA book. I can't stop thinking about it. At times, I feel like I live on Planet Jessica where nobody else is invited for conversation or good times except for the fictional characters I'm busy creating. It gets frustrating when I'm actually hanging out with real humans because I'm certain they think there's something wrong with me since I'm not my normal, intuitive self.

Those people are right, of course, there's something very wrong. But it isn't with me - it's with my story. I have an inviting premise. I have interesting characters. I have a fabulous setting. I have great snippets of scenes written down. I even have details that make me smile.

The problem? I have no plot.

This week I set myself the task of remedying that little problem. If you've ever attempted to write fiction I'm sure you can relate. Here are some of the things I tried:

1. Change my main character from a male to a female.

Well, that didn't work at all. I couldn't see the story any differently from a female's perspective. And, if anything, writing it that way limited how I saw the world I'd already created. It suddenly threw into shadow many of the things that I'd clearly defined. Nice idea, but my main character is a boy. The end.

2. Change the way I've been narrating it (from third person limited to first person).

While it totally changes my involvement with the story, writing from my main character's perspective may actually help in the long run. The one thing this does, and the thing I was really struggling with for a while, is that it gives my main character a clearly defined voice. I have him all figured out in my head, but I don't think his personality has transferred very well to paper just yet (of course, that could be the absence of plot). When I started writing in first person, he came alive. I don't know if this change will stick, but it's helping me for now.

3. Interview my characters.

My main character will eventually have three close friends. I haven't had the opportunity to get to know them quite yet because I'm not to the point where their roles become prominent (it's a school setting and they've all just met and don't really like each other). But, as I've stated before, I really believe that characters drive the plot. If I get to know them, they will tell me their stories. So when I went on my three mile run yesterday morning, I spent the whole time interviewing them in my head. I asked questions about their childhoods, why they came to this particular school, and what they plan to do in the future. I uncovered all kinds of secrets that are sure to help. (And, no, I'm not crazy. Writers do these sorts of things - ask anyone who writes.)

While these three "fixes" haven't exactly nailed down my plot, I'm not as frustrated about it as I was a week ago. I once read that writing a book is like driving a car on a foggy night. You can only see what's just in front of you and you have to trust in your ability to get you to your destination.

I trust myself.

Poop Bags, Sidewalk Chalk, and Michael Jackson

Odin and I live next to Evergreen Park. It's a pathetic little thing set in the middle of six or seven different apartment complexes. Odin can't run off-leash, chase balls, or even go after one of the many squirrels living there (though he often tries to drag me along on such adventures). He can walk with me and do his business and that's about it. In fact, the park's lone perk is the stations of free poop bags that dot the walk and the plethora of available trash cans to throw the used ones away in. Because of this, you can usually find us there strolling along in the afternoons which is exactly what we were doing right after I found out about the King of Pop's passing.

The death of Michael Jackson was a profound experience for many of us. It wasn't the fact that this super famous weird dude kicked the bucket - that was bound to happen sometime. Nor was it that this instant "family" of mourners suddenly formed on Facebook - the first time I felt connected to a real, caring community via the Internet. But I wasn't quite sure what made it profound until that afternoon with my dog in the lame-o park: the sidewalk chalk made it all make sense.

Despite being a pathetic excuse for a green space, Evergreen Park does actually have two small groves of trees - there might even be as many as twenty to thirty canopied conifers hiding small groups of teen pot smokers at any given time. It was as the paved path wove its way through this shady area that Odin and I came across a huge section of chalk art dedicated to the late King punctuated with many pink, blue, and yellow stars:

"Michael Jackson is always a real true star!"

Okay, despite the obvious lapse in grammar, this statement composed with child-like handwriting made me realize why I was so struck by Michael Jackson's death: it wasn't about the man or the music; it was about the memories.

It isn't really his death we're lamenting, but the death of something that once meant so much to us. We grew up with this guy in our heads, well, his music anyway, and those tunes punctuated many of our memories. His passing killed some of those bits of previously untouchable innocence and made me nostalgic for what once was.

I took a couple of photos of the artwork with the camera on my phone, but they didn't turn out well. I suppose that's the nature of memory itself: what we remember is often richer than what we can physically hold on to. So though I can pull my copy of "Number Ones" off the shelf and grasp in my fingers the magic that once was Michael Jackson, the CD doesn't even begin to compare to that summer in 1987 or 1988 when my friend Jeremy and I serenaded the cars whizzing down highway 47 from his front porch. We sang "Bad" and "Beat It" over and over again. We danced. Jeremy even wore a single glove on his hand and grabbed himself yelling the tuneful M.J. signature "he, he!" We weren't playing the music, we were living it. That's what I miss.

I've hired myself as a writer...

I've hired myself as a writer for the summer and, after six days of recovering from a school year's worth of stress and last Friday's oral surgery, I think it's time to put away the pain medication and get to work. The job doesn't pay much now, but I'm hoping that by the end of the summer I'll have something more valuable than a check: a working manuscript that I can schluff off on would-be editors/friends for feedback :)

Two novel-length projects have been simmering in the back of my head for at least six months now. Maybe it's the inexperience speaking, but I truly think it will be a joy to finally get these tales down on paper (and by that I mean typed up in the magical thing that is Microsoft Word: I praise you, O Holy Computer Program, and pray that you continue working flawlessly on my laptop all summer long. We don't need another meltdown any time soon).

So, what am I writing about? One story is what I would categorize as upper elementary age fiction; the other is a non-fiction passion project of mine. That's all of the details I'm willing to divulge at the moment...more later, I'm sure.

But perhaps even more important, what does my writing space look like? Well, let me tell you about that. I sit at my old high school desk that's traveled with me from living space to living space for the past 15 years or so. It's currently stationed at the back of the living room behind the love seat facing the wall in what I like to call my little nook. My chair is a red exercise ball that I bought for ten bucks at Target two or three years ago. Actually, I think Dave bought it. On my left sits a lamp and a small stack of books: a blue composition book with all sorts of important notes on my projects hidden inside, my new day planner calendar thing, and a copy of the 2009 Writer's Market (because I like to get ahead of myself). In front of me (besides my ancient laptop) is a framed certificate that says I completed the most recent NaNoWriMo: it reminds me that, above all else, I need to give myself permission to write crap every day. Finally on my right sits my printer, a jar full of wine corks and writing utensils, and an empty bowl of gelato (which, if I'm not mistaken, means "soft but delicious" in Italian).

So with my writing nook all set up, my mouth nearly healed from having my wisdom teeth removed, and nothing but the good 'ol dog days of summer before me, I am ready to embark upon my writing mission. I hope all goes well....

Go boldly in the direction you've chosen

These past few weeks I've been working on a college research project with my AP juniors. On a daily basis, students approach me with the following concern: "how am I supposed to complete this project when I don't even know what I want to study in college or do with my life?" I'm forced to remind them, for the umpteenth time, that colleges don't necessarily care about what you want to do, they care that you're driven and motivated to do something. Once you get there, you can change your mind. So I tell them to pick something and go boldly in that direction.

Inevitably when I'm giving such repetitive advice, I find myself pondering whether or not I'm following it myself. Am I going boldly in any direction right now? It turns out I'm not.

I've had this non-fiction/memoir in my head all year long, but haven't exactly been able to get a solid start on it. Why? Fear. I'm afraid I'm not a talented enough writer and that I'll let people down if I attempt something too great and totally fail. I keep spending time on the little things (like putting together a scrapbook of old newspaper clippings about my subject or reading books by other authors who wrote in a similar genre to start thinking about my own "angle") in order to sidestep the actual writing work I know I need to do.

Listening to my fear of failure is a trap I fall in far too often. It looms over me every time I sit down to write, every time I start researching, every time I think about setting up interviews. But the truth is that I can either fail right now as I sit typing at my computer - I can quit and nobody will judge me for it because not too many people know about this passion project of mine and because I'm good at making excuses - or I can persevere and get through drafting a manuscript that, after many editing sessions, I can attempt to find a publisher for. If I fail then, fail to publish a memoir I'm proud of writing, what of it?

The truth is I don't know. I've always been too scared to pursue anything that I deem "risky". I take the safe road, plain and simple. Why did I become a teacher? Because I knew the system, I knew the schedule, I knew that if I followed a prescribed path I would easily attain the goal. That's why writing scares me. There's no "do these things and you'll be a writer" formula out there. It's sheer luck, a lot of hard work, and a bit of talent emerging at precisely the right moment.

But it will all be worth it. I figure if I can run a marathon (Portland Marathon, 2007) and complete a 50,000 word draft of a novel in a month (NaNoWriMo, 2008), then I should be able to go boldly in the direction of writing an actual memoir and see what happens.