"Call me Ishmael"

"It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a good fortune, must be in want of a wife."

"Ships at a distance have every man's wish on board."

"It was a bright cold day in April, and the clocks were striking thirteen."

"Mrs. Dalloway said she would buy the flowers herself."

"It was the best of times, it was the worst of times..."

"It was the day my grandmother exploded."

"It was a wrong number that started it, the telephone ringing three times in the dead of night, and the voice on the other end asking for someone he was not."

"124 was spiteful."

"It was a pleasure to burn."

"You better not never tell nobody but God."

I've been giving a lot of thought to opening lines lately.  When I first met my husband, he told me that when he picks up a book, it isn't the cover that makes it or breaks it for him--it's the opening line.  He reads one sentence and then makes a decision.

I thought he was nuts.  After all, if I'd stopped after "I am an invisible man" and considered it too obvious, I may never have breathed through the masterpiece that is Ellison's novel (and one of my husband's favorites, by the way).  What if I had indeed dismissed it by the first line?

Yet the truth is that, like it or not, opening lines matter.  For some novels, it's all the majority of people know about it (Moby Dick comes to mind); for others, it is the line that continues to resonate long after the cover has been closed.  The opening line sets the tone, the narrative voice, and the style.  A lot hinges on those carefully chosen words.

The opening line of Sweet Divinity reads: "One of my earliest memories of my mother involves pot leaves and sprinkles of dirt raining from the heavens".  At various points it was: "One of my earliest memories of my mom involved pot leaves raining from the sky" and "When I think of my mother, I see pot leaves falling from the sky."

Miranda begins this way: "It is an uncommon sight to observe a young woman vanish into the sea."  It originally read something like, "It is a sight uncommon to watch a young woman disappear into the water."

Visions and revisions...searching for the most precise words, for the appropriate tone, for the exact voice one hears in her mind.

Different tones, different voices, different novels.  All made clear by the opening lines.

As I begin work on my next project, I'm keenly aware that the opening line matters. And so I will craft, and recraft, until it is just right...until my husband says he would definitely read that book.

Time's Ticking Away

I'm in a slump.

I'm reading a lot.  That's positive.  So far this summer I have read mystery, science fiction, literary fiction, chick lit, young adult literature, memoir, and literature in translation.  I think I'm up to eleven books, and I'm deep into two others at the moment.  You can find me on GoodReads if you'd like to keep up with my frenetic bookshelf!

I've also signed up for a cooking class where I will be learning to bake sweet summer treats and make ice cream.  I'm hoping this will be a great experience so I will be driven to sign up for another class that involves entrees...but we'll see.

I've been traveling this summer.  I went to Tampa overnight to the U2 Joshua Tree 30th Anniversary tour (one of the best nights of my life, hands down), journeyed to St. Augustine with the hubby and kids where I toured a pirate museum, ate too many donuts, and single-handedly kept the Rita's Italian Ice open.  I also read five books that week.

I just returned from Georgia where a trip to our family's farm for my grandmother's birthday turned out to also include the surprise wedding of my mother (yes, that's right, a surprise wedding).  While there I did some outlet shopping and went on long walks through the fields with my son.

Back home, I've taught a college essay writing camp and tutored several kids in a variety of areas involving writing.  I've had the opportunity to catch up with some amazing former students.  My family and I have been tearing through our "Summer of Fun" jar, including travelling to a city in North Carolina we'd never visited, and having the worst best-looking-burger I've ever encountered.

All along, I've been editing Miranda, and it's coming along quite well, but I haven't had the time to write fresh words.  Which has me thinking, is it in fact that I haven't had time, or is it that I haven't made time?  I've never been one of those writers who sets a daily quota or schedules time to write.  I'm someone who can be going along with her day and suddenly it hits me: that turn in my stomach and tinge of pressure in my chest...it's the story trying to get out.  And when that happens, I write until I cannot possibly write one more word.  It just flows out of me like a purge of emotion and life.  It's an amazing experience.

And yet I think I've been ignoring the feeling, setting it aside in order to do the other things I feel compelled to accomplish (or to binge-watch episodes of Friends while working jigsaw puzzles...a mindless pleasure).  My arms are aching as I write this post, because the sequel to Sweet Divinity is inside me, and it so badly wants to live on the page.

So maybe I'll second guess the scheduling and quota.  You can't force good writing, that's for sure, but I'm beginning to think I should spend a little time setting the mood.  Maybe I'll lock myself away and light some candles.  After all, I clearly have a love affair with words.

Musings

The summer has been busier than I anticipated.  Though I read five fantastic books while at the beach, I'm way behind in my reading goals.  In addition, I've been sloughing through my manuscript, which is all well and good, but I'm so thirsty for new words!  My writing goals have also been suffering as a result of the tutoring and essay camps that have been filling my days, and I may have been giving into temptation a little more than usual when drawn to the playroom where a jigsaw puzzle and every episode of Friends are waiting at night (that is one fantastically written show!).

I've had several ideas for new manuscripts marinating in my mind for quite a while.  I find that my greatest struggles as a writer are finding the narrative voices.  For example, several years ago I experienced a horrifically difficult time in my life.  A piece of my extended family was fractured and then permanently disconnected, a piece that I had emotionally relied on for years.  When I came out on the other side of that mess, with the help of my husband and an amazing counselor named Alice, I was able to see that my story was one that needed to be written.  When it was happening, my husband and I used to joke that if someone wrote this story in novel form, publishers would laugh and decry it as "unrealistic"; it was more soap-opera worthy than literary fiction.  But I kept notes, my husband kept artifacts, and I allowed the story to sit on the back burner for a while.

I tried to outline a manuscript that developed the story, and I even wrote an opening paragraph once, but it just wasn't ready.  And any writer worth her salt knows you can't force it and expect art.  And yet this summer, as I was relaxing by the ocean, watching the tide come crashing in, I found it.  Or rather, perhaps it found me.  The narrative voice arrived in all of its complexity and emotional toil.  I always sought the voice in a modern day library or bookstore, or maybe in a small, country town.  And yet when she arrived, she arrived from the past, from the turn of the century in fact, and she arrived from the coast.  Whereas in Miranda, the protagonist disappeared into the water, in this new piece, she was emerging from its depths.

When I looked at him, all I saw was a shell.  The eyes were wide open and darting about, and yet the body was emaciated; the vitality melted away from the bones and through the sheets.  There were no more doctors, no more pills, no more antidotes and trials.  Death had won the war.  And though the eyes in those sunken sockets were desperately searching, I knew the look they conveyed.  It was fear.  Fear of a life ill-lived.  Fear of an eternity of wandering.  Fear of demons denied.

And thus we begin again...

Summer Reading Has Arrived!

My family knows that they will not see me for at least an hour.  And they may as well not bother to call my cell phone.  I cannot possibly answer.  This is the day I walk through the library, collecting books for our family's summer vacation.

I, quite literally, judge the books by their covers.

I begin with the "A" aisle and walk slowly, running my eyes over each spine, allowing my mind to read the title, take in the colors, font, design.  If the spine piques my interest, I take the book from the shelf and give the cover a glance to decide if I wish to read the inside flap.

I tend to gravitate towards the thin paperback books with bright colors or a font with character.  A font with an elegant script will ensure I will slide it from the shelf for further inspection.

If the cover features a woman looking longingly into the distance, especially if she's wearing clothing from the Puritan/colonial era, it's a no.  If there is an animal on the cover, it's quite possibly a no (don't judge...I'm still recovering from Where the Red Fern Grows).  If there is a plantation house front and center, back on the shelf with you!

Do I consider that sometimes I'm missing out on an amazing read?  Yes.  But I believe fate will reunite us.  Do I ever run across a dud in my stack of beautifully covered tomes?  Indeed.  It's a bummer.

However, I am prepared for that moment.  Which is why I allow myself to check out ten books for our week long vacation.  After all, a girl needs options!

I look forward to library day all year.  For me, it is the official start to summer.  And I love the moment when I see a book and I know, just know, that it's going to be remarkable.

There are two series that I am devoted to and I read the next book in the series each year on vacation, and I often take one extra book in the series, just in case.  But the others are completely random, and I love the moments of discovery that this method brings.  Besides, who doesn't love loitering in the library amongst all the possibilities?  For this girl, it's true love.

What I'm taking on vacation this year:

Oscar Wilde and the Dead Man's Smile by Gyles Brandreth (I LOVE this series.  Oscar Wilde is my
jam!)
The Limpopo Academy of Private Detection and The Saturday Big Tent Wedding Party by Alexander McCall Smith (I always anticipate my summer reunion with Mme Ramotswe!)
Manuscript Found in Accra by Paulo Coehlo
When the Emperor Was Divine by Julie Otsuka
Is Everyone Hanging Out Without Me? by Mindy Kaling
The Iguana Tree by Michel Stone
Orhan's Inheritance by Aline Ohanesian
A Fine Imitation by Amber Brock
The Mortifications by Derek Palacio

Check out the covers...I think you'll like what you see.

Now...let summer begin!

Summer of Fun = Summer of Inspiration!

I wish I could claim this idea as my own, but the truth is that I saw it in a magazine years ago and then adapted it for my family.

At the start of every summer, my kids and I gather around the table and create our "Summer of Fun Jar" list.  We each get several scraps of paper and write on them various ideas we have for fun this summer.  In past years, the items have ranged from "Visit the Zoo" and "Find a Waterfall" to "Create a Harry Potter Themed Meal" and "Have a Camp Out".  Some new additions this year? "Visit a State Park", "Turn the House into a Museum", and "Spa at Home" (believe it or not, that wasn't one of mine!).

The idea here is to get us out of the house, or at least away from the screens for a little while, and to do so on the cheap!  Most of our items are free or take the place of money we'd spend anyway (like a themed meal).  A few of them incur a cost (the zoo, a museum, a baseball game), but we can splurge occasionally!

We draw an activity at the beginning of the summer and once we've completed it, we draw another.  We began back in 2012 by drawing just one a week, on Sunday night, but we quickly realized it was too much fun to hold off...and we really wanted to make all of our ideas happen.  Besides, everyone's excited when it's time to draw the next little slip of paper from the jar!

I believe that creativity is one of the best gifts we can give or receive, and many of our activities are just that, whether it's writing a story or going to see a free concert, baking a new treat or buying something from the farmer's market and figuring out what to do with it!  And we work our creative muscles together, as a family.  This way we try to show our kids know how important creativity is!

Last night, as part of our "Summer of Fun", my ten year old daughter made dinner all on her own, a three course meal.  Simple? Yes.  Delicious? Mostly.  The best?  Absolutely.

Let the fun commence!


It's been a bit since I've updated you on my bookshelf.  What I'm reading this week:
Queen Isabella by Alison Weir
The Alchemist by Paulo Coehlo (I know, it's a crime that I haven't read it before now!)

In the meantime, I've also read: Are You There God, It's Me Margaret, by Judy Blume; Good Omens by Terry Pratchett and Neil Gaiman; and The Notorious RBG, by Irin Carmon.

I also want my readers to know that if you recommended a summer reading book for me, I've ordered it or put it on hold at the library, and I'll keep you updated on my reading!

We Need Kindness Now

Regardless of your political persuasion, I'll bet you can agree with me that we need a little kindness in the world right now.  Every morning I open my news apps with trepidation.  I know that I need to be informed, that I need to see the reality of what's happening in the world, but the truth is, I'd rather not know.

And yet I've realized it's important to face the difficulties of the world in order to figure out where the help I can give is best placed.  This is also what drives me as a teacher.  I know I can spread positivity in the world, and where better than with the future difference-makers?

Yet at this time of year I find myself getting a little down about it.  It's the end of the school year and I'm tired, the students are tired, my children are tired.  And when I get tired, I turn into the gumpiest, most impatient woman on the planet...or at least in South Carolina.

And yet the world finds a way of bringing me back to hope...

Yesterday I attended our school's graduation excercises.  I always look forward to them as I'm a sentimental, nostalgic type and I love seeing the kids transition from what they've always known to that for which they will be known.  But this year was extra sweet for me.

I teach a creative writing independent study, a class limited to four students who choose to write a novel, a short story collection, a poetry collection, or a play/screenplay.  It's a tall order--especially for second semester seniors--so I usually end up with the kids who have been waiting for a reason to have to find time to write creatively.  This year I worked with two novelists and two poets.  You should probably make note of their names, as I'm certain the world will be blessed with their writing quite soon.

Katherine, Sophie, Louisa, and Jacob gathered around me after their graduation, when their peers were heading to the cafeteria for cake or taking pictures with family.  They had two large reusable grocery bags containing five boxes, and they were so excited it was barely containable.

They had created for me what has to rank as one of the best gifts I've ever received.

Inside the boxes was a tea set.  Each writer had painted a teacup and saucer that illustrated some element of their writing.  Katherine's teacup featured a pair of eyes staring at me, a la The Great Gatsby, eyes being pivotal to the characterization in her novel, a fantasy surrounding specially enabled humans and a mysterious and (hopefully) misunderstood stranger.  Sophie's depicted a cat on a windowsill and a school bus to remind me of her book of poetry, a glimpse through the eyes of several students who were experiencing the same events with different emotional responses.  Louisa's was painted rainbow because each of her poems focused on a different emotion, and Jacob's was covered with a passage from Deuteronomy, a chill-inducing moment from his Jason Bourne-esque novel.  The crowning piece was a teapot featuring the title character from the novel I had worked on with them, Miranda.

They had gathered at a local pottery studio after exams to make these pieces for me.  That's right, four high school seniors, during the week when many of their peers go on beach vacations and throw last minute celebrations, had spent an afternoon painting pottery for their teacher.  Wow.

So today I feel better about the world.  Because these four stand as examples of the kindness that is on its way.  These creative, intelligent, compassionate minds are making their way into the world and are determined to share their voices in it.

So when you look at the news and feel the anxiety I share, let your heartbeat slow and your breathing regulate.  The future's looking mighty bright indeed.

And now for something completely different...

One of the questions I've often asked myself is: What kind of writer am I? And by that I mean, in what genre does my work fit?

As I've written on this blog, I love writing in the chick lit genre, particularly about the American South.  I have stories for days, a veritable well from which I can draw inspiration. Certainly Sweet Divinity fits perfectly into this style and genre, as does My Literary Boyfriends.  Yet I also enjoy writing literary fiction; at least, I have enjoyed writing it when working on my manuscript of Miranda.

So the question remains: What genre suits me best?  And I think the answer is "both".

When I first set out on my journey to publish, I just sent out whichever manuscript was ready, not a worry about a long-term career.  I just wanted to publish.  But the more I work, the more I know this is what I wish to do, consistently, for the rest of my life.  Therefore I came to the realization that perhaps I had to choose: Am I a Sophie Kinsella or a Jane Green, a Caassandra Clare or a Chris Cleve?  It seems as if in order to market your book, one must market herself, and that requires defining yourself as a writer.

But the truth is, I am both a chick lit writer and a writer of literary fiction, and I'm pretty sure I've got some nonfiction inside of me as well.

So while I'm still seeking representation for Sweet Divinity, I think I'll give Miranda a little bit of love, and we'll see if she strikes an agent's fancy.  Besides, while I can be sweet and humorous, I certainly believe I'm complex enough to be gothic and metaphysical as well.  We should all own our unique complexities.  And I'm ready to own mine.