Charlotte Rains Dixon

A Writer's Inspiration

Thus beginneth.

I woke up this morning with this post in my head and even though it was only 5:30, I jumped out of bed, grabbed a cup of coffee and started in.

Yesterday a character began talking to me.  I've had this character in my head for a year, making notes about her along the way, but I didn't have her voice.  Until she suddenly started talking to me.  I grabbed my Moleskine and started writing as fast as I could.

All of a sudden my brain is engaged and inspired.

Which is a good thing, because lately I've been wafting.  Drifting about the house when my work with clients is done.  Thinking deep, non-writing related thoughts.  Knitting.  Reading.  Sighing heavily.  Vacationing.  Wafting about some more.

It is amazing how easy it is to fill hour upon hour with wafting activities.

Meanwhile my office is still in the same awful, disorganized mess.  I've got projects I want to start, ideas for blog posts written down, inspirational business CDs to listen to.  And let us not forget a garden to put to bed for the winter, and a mountain of papers from my mother's house to sort through.

But instead I've wafted.

The good news is that this time I've been easy on myself because I had a pretty good idea why I was wafting.  After all, I recently finished a novel I've been working on for four years.  Like, finished finished it.  As in done to the absolute best of my ability.

During the time I worked on that novel, new ideas often came to me but I didn't feel I could devote myself to them, so they went in my journal, or my idea file.  I figured when I was done with my novel I would get started on them.

But instead, I wafted.

I expected a bit of wafting.  Generally when I finish a project I'm excited and I think, at last, I can read that book, take that hike, start that knitting project--all the things I've put off as I finish up.  But then when I'm actually done, suddenly nothing appeals to me and I wonder what I was so excited about.  But that usually only lasts a day or two.

This time, though, I've been mega-wafting on a grand scale.  So my new theory is that the amount of wafting one does after completing a project is directly proportional to how long the project took to finish.

And I'm happy to report that the wafting seems to be over, or at least diminishing.  Creativity takes its own time, its own shape, its own form, and while we can nudge it along the way, sometimes the best thing to do is just allow it to happen.

And waft.

Overcomers Book Blog Stop

I am interested in overcoming adversity.  Also overcoming sloth, gluttony, laziness, and pride.  I think those are four of the seven deadly sins, no?  (Does anybody actually remember what the seven deadly sins are?)  I struggle with overcoming all of these bad traits on a daily basis.  Or at least weekly. 

So when Nikki Leigh offered me the chance to be a blog stop on the Overcomers book tour, I said, hell yeah.  I can get on board the Overcomers wagon, despite the vaguely sexual ring to the title,  and write a post about it that will totally inspire people.  To begin with, let's define overcome.  Here are some of the words that I found on my Mac thesaurus (which is way better than the Microsoft thesaurus  by the way.  Waaaaaay better.  Just sayin'.):

beat, conquer, trounce, thrash, rout, vanquish, overwhelm, overpower, get the better of, triumph over, prevail over, win over/against, outdo, outclass, worst, crush; informal drub, slaughter, clobber, hammer, lick, best, crucify, demolish, wipe the floor with, make mincemeat of, blow out of the water, take to the cleaners, shellac, skunk.

Um, those are awesome words, verbs all, and I welcome you to use steal them and use them whenever you want.  I especially like the verbs trounce, thrash and vanquish.  I have learned to vanquish fears about getting my novel published.  Nice sentence, the verb really pumps it up.  But we are not here to discuss verbs today, we are here to discuss this new book.  Here's the deal: when you order the book you get over 85 free gifts. 

Just in case you don't have a clue what the book might be about after reading the post (and I can't say I blame you), I've compiled some interviews and excerpts for you.  We begin with some information from the book's introduction, written by publisher Lynne Kippel:     

At one point in my life it seemed like everywhere I looked, I saw tragedy. My brother, both of my parents, and a dear friend were all battling cancer at the same time. Other friends were losing jobs and fearful about the prospects of finding new work. The evening news was full of financial scandals, plant closings, kidnappings, and war.

As I sat in the sun on my front porch in March 2009, I wished I had a book to send to my brother to read during his chemotherapy treatments - something to remind him that he was not alone and to encourage him to fight for his life. I wanted a book that could give him hope, inspiration, and encouragement on every page.

Due to a series of miracles, the book you are now reading is my wish come true. In a very short time a team of wonderful people came together to create this book with just one purpose: to encourage you, the reader, to overcome whatever obstacles are lying in your path to happiness.

As you read the stories in this book, you will find real life tales of remarkable courage, strength, and perseverance.  You will be inspired, entertained, and uplifted. Some of the stories will make you laugh. Some of them will make you cry. All of them will make you proud of the power of the human spirit. 

You will find this a book of diversity. There are many authors, from many walks of life. However, they all share a common bond. They triumphed over tragedy and gleaned wisdom in this process. While this is not a religious book, there are stories full of faith, of many kinds and flavors. It is funny how in your darkest times, faith often becomes your brightest light.

All of the contributors to this book want to encourage you to hold tight to your belief that a better day will come. It is their sincere desire to pass along what they’ve learned through their own trials, to make your journey easier.

I hope that you wear this book out by highlighting meaningful passages and bending down the corners of the pages you want to read over and over again. There is true wisdom in these pages that can help you feel strong, brave, and hopeful.

May you be blessed by this book and inspired to overcome!

Lynne Klippel
St. Peters, Missouri
September, 2009

And just to whet your appetite, here is another excerpt from the book.  This one is from  Charlon Bobo.  I'll be honest here, I chose the excerpt because first of all I like Charlon's name and second I like her photo.  I think Charlon and I could totally be buds:

One Woman’s Empowering Journey From Fragmented Child To Conscious Entrepreneur
Charlon Bobo

As strange as it even seems to me at times, the lessons of my childhood journey are applicable to every aspect of my life, including the everyday operations of my soulful business. As a conscious entrepreneur, I pull from this experience often to guide me. I’d like to share with you the five key lessons of my pilgrimage.

1.    Protective mechanisms are in place whether or not I realize or acknowledge them. I don’t always understand why a project fails to materialize or a serious prospect seems to change her mind. I do know there exists an over-arching structure and order that conspires on my behalf to bring about my highest personal and professional growth. Whatever that wisdom, I can trust it absolutely.

 

2.    My ”story” doesn’t define who I am. I am a vibrant business owner who grows every day, and occasionally stumbles and falls on my bum! Because I constantly create myself anew, nothing from my past can effectively define or imprison me. I consciously choose to “bring my best game” to every day and know that’s enough.

 

3.    Innate wisdom effortlessly guides me to the most opportune time to take action. When in doubt, I do nothing until ultimate clarity presents itself. Although daily action is a crucial component in accomplishing my goals, I can also watch nature and use Her guidance to positively influence my actions. Nature provides a silent, fallow season – winter – to turn inward to rest and restore. Using this model, I reap the most benefit from my efforts. Smart living requires me to balance action with equal inaction.

 

4.    My history doesn’t determine my level of success. I can accomplish any lofty goal I imagine regardless of any perceived limitations. The past doesn’t dictate my future. I gift myself the pleasure and freedom to envision a life of my design. Family-of-origin, childhood circumstances, real or perceived impediments, lack of skills, none of these compare to the capacity of the human spirit to realize dreams.

 

5.    I choose victimhood or empowerment every day with my words, thoughts, and actions. We do not control the actions of others and yet we may be drawn into their drama. Like cast members of a play, energetically we agreed to these roles to teach AND learn. No matter my external circumstances, my responses can only come from one of two places: damage or abundance. I choose abundance.

 

May you be profoundly blessed by reading my story and take from it any value that forever nourishes your soul.

From Overcomers, Inc.; True Stories of Hope, Courage and Inspiration. To get your own copy and receive dozens of bonus gifts go to http://www.overcomersbook.com/booklaunch

Wise words, and there are more in the book itself.  So check it out.

Guest Review: A Sudden Country

And now, while I am on vacation, I have a guest post for you.  It is from my dear friend Paula, one of the most voracious readers and excellent writers I know.  I trust her opinion and you should, too.  Be sure to check out her bio at the end of the review. 

A Sudden Country               

Karen Fisher

Random House

13.95 Trade Paperback

I really love good historical fiction, “good” being the operative word. It’s not so easy to find. There are many historical novels that are, as far as I can tell, historically accurate but dull, dull, dull, totally predictable, written in such a plodding style that it takes a reader with far more patience than I to get through them. Then there are historical novels that are real pager turners but so lacking in historical accuracy that even a casual historian like me is put off by glaring errors. So when I run across a book like A Sudden Country, I savor every page, can’t wait to see what happens next but hate it when I see I’ve almost reached the end. Where the heck was I when the book was published in 2005?

In the opening paragraphs James MacLaren, sick with smallpox himself, treks through the snow carrying his one surviving, very ill child, trying to reach medical help. The bitter cold, his desperation and exhaustion leap off the page. Then we meet Lucy Mitchell. She’s just given birth to a daughter and is greeted with the news that her husband is thinking of taking the family over the Oregon Trail. Her pain at leaving the home she’s made and cherished, her foreboding that she will loose one of her five beloved children along the trail and her lack of choice in the matter is a knife twist to the gut.

This beautifully written book tells the parallel stories of Lucy Mitchell, reluctantly traveling the Oregon Trail with her family and James MacLaren, once a successful “gentleman” of Hudson’s Bay Company, trader, and mountain man. Lucy is grieving the loss of her home and the life she’s always known. James mired in sorrow for the beloved wife who has deserted him and the death by small pox of his children. Tracing the man he believes has stolen his wife, James finds that man driving a wagon for the Mitchell family. At this point, James and Lucy’s stories merge.

The beauty of the land she is traveling through is not lost on Lucy but neither is the hardship. She dutifully and capably tackles every chore set before her, carefully monitoring and instructing her three older daughters and little son while nursing her baby. But her sadness at leaving the old life behind and her disappointment in her husband’s subtle ineptitude creates a growing distance between husband and wife.

James, realizing he has, however unintentionally, deprived the Mitchell’s of a driver, reluctantly helps them along the way. But his search for Lise, his lost wife, never ends nor does his mourning lighten. How James and Lucy find the courage and strength to go on to a new reality makes wonderful reading. This book is lyrical, almost dream-like in places; yet it makes so very real the difficulty, the brutal reality, the beauty and wonder of the grueling journey westward.

Reviewed by Paula Harris

Contest Winner!

I've been running a little contest this week to give away a free copy of The Midnight Disease.  Today I chose the winner in a most scientific fashion--I wrote the names of the people who commented on pieces of paper, and had my daughter choose.

So, drumroll please....

The winner is....

Heather Justesen!

Heather's new book, The Ball's In Her Court, has just been released and it looks like a good one, so you should hop on over to her blog and check it out.

Heather, email me your address and I'll get the book in the mail to you just as soon as I return from vacation.  

Thanks to everyone who participated!

It is done, it is done, it is done

A ritual from an energy-healing technique that shall remain nameless ends thusly: it is done, it is done, it is done.

This is meant to be the signal that the healing has taken place.  But today I am co-opting it to announce that the novel is done.  Finished, finito, fini, DONE. 

I can hardly believe it.

I can also hardly believe how carefree and energized I feel--ready to tackle new projects, and return to some old ones as well--like organizing my office.  It is bad, I tell you.  If I took a picture of it you would be shocked.

But first it is off to New Mexico for a week.

No matter how painful, and I know it will be, I promise to share the ups and downs of the novel submission process.  Current status: query sent to agent I have personal recommendation for.  Please think good thoughts.

DON'T FORGET THE CONTEST to win a copy of The Midnight Disease.  You have until the end of today to comment on that post and then I will choose a winner, randomly.  And let me just say, as of now, your odds are very good.  So get on over there and make them bad. 

It Is All For the Book

When my kids were little, it seemed like every other week there was a social event I didn't want to attend.  I'm a pretty social person (all these hours I spend alone writing need some balance) but sometimes there were things I just didn't want to do--school parties where all the mothers seemed far more together, knowledgeable and hip than I come to mind immediately.  I was shyer then than I am now, and far less confident.

But I always went to these events.  Always, once even after I'd had gum surgery and was in so much pain I could barely talk.

When I was moaning and groaning about having to go, I would tell myself one thing--it is for the kids.

It didn't matter what I thought, or what anyone thought of me.  The most important thing was that I was going for the benefit of my child and I needed to be there for her/him.  This bit of perspective has actually served me well through the years when I've used it to remind myself what is important in other arenas.

And I've thought about it a lot lately as I wind down the final revisions of my novel (ha! you knew I'd get it in here). 

I'm reworking a crucial bit in one of the last chapters.  By all accounts, I had a problem with this scene.  My critique group recommended solving in one manner.  Other readers had different ideas.  And when I started working on the changes, I knew that neither were right.  However, dumbly, I kept going.  I tore apart that chapter. I kept telling myself that my instincts were wrong and that I needed to listen to others because they knew best.  I was too close to the work, I told myself.  I couldn't see the forest for the trees.  (Those thoughts, of course, alternate with panicked ones like, Who is going to want to read this damn thing anyway?)

Finally, after much heavy sighing, staring out the window, and pacing (all crucial aspects of the rewriting process that honestly don't get their due) it hit me.

It is all for the book.

It doesn't matter what I think, doesn't matter what my critique group thinks, it doesn't matter what my readers think.  What maters is what works for the book.  Period. 

It is all for the book.

That brilliant epiphany cleared the path for magic to happen--a third direction appeared.  A different way in which to solve the problem occurred to me, and it is a stronger, better way.  It is the way that is best for the book.

I had a nutritionist who dabbled in Jungian psychology once, and she would have called this grace.

I am grateful for it.  (And honestly, I really am close to finishing this protracted rewrite.  Truly.  I'd probably have been done with it ages ago if I'd just quit writing about it.)

PS.  Don't forget to enter the contest to win a free copy of the book, The Midnight Disease: The Drive To Write, Writer's Block, and the Creative Brain by Alice W. Flaherty.  You can find out how if you go here.

The Writing Disease

I'm not exactly sure where I am going with this, so bear with me as I attempt to connect two trains of thought.

Train Number #1--On Writing a Novel (you knew it was coming)

When I was a MFA student, I loved always having an excuse to get out of things I didn't want to do, such as certain social events.  Since I had harrowing deadlines every three weeks for two years, I could always says, "Sorry, I can't come, I've got a school deadline."  This always worked magically, with people taking pity on me and absolving me of all guilt.  But for some reason, once I graduated from school and got out in the real world (a cold, hard shock for MFA students) this excuse no longer flew.  Even though I was gainfully working on paying projects for clients.  Somehow, being a student trumped all. 

Flash forward six years (lord, has it really been that long?) and here I am finishing up my novel.  My office is a terrible mess (I was going to post a photo but I can't, it is too embarrassing), important things are going undone, like picking up cleaning and sending cards, and I broke down and hired a house cleaner so that we didn't get a visit from the department of health.  I dream of being able to actually concentrate on a whole book, start to finish, and not just peruse bits and pieces of nonfiction, and I have knitting projects I would love to work on.  Emails go unanswered, and everything on my body widens and spreads as I spend hours at my desk.  But it is all for a good cause--my novel.

Train Number #2--On reading The Midnight Disease

At bedtime, I am reading (at least in the 5 minute snippets I manage to focus before my eyes close and the book falls out of my hand) The Midnight Disease by Alice W. Flaherty.  She is a neurologist who takes as her starting point hypergraphia, or the incurable writing disease.  It is when people, often in a manic state, take up the pen and write pages or even volumes of florid prose.   Through this lens, she examines the drive to write and create and it is fascinating reading which perhaps sheds a wee bit of light on Train #1.

What Flaherty says in the current chapter I am reading, is that creativity is ultimately judged on both its novelty (if it is same-old, same-old, where's the innovation?) and value (something that is "useful or illuminating") and that these standards are essentially socially defined.  Says Flaherty, "Creativity is not the property of a work in isolation: novelty and value have to be defined in a relation to a social context.  When I use a lever and fulcrum to move a rock in my garden, I don't get the creativity points that I would were I a Cro-Magnon."

So perhaps my messy office and tardy answers to email will be forgiven because they are in the service of art and my little Cro-Magnon mind has been creating something that will illuminate your lives.  (I know writing novels doesn't fall into the category of useful innovation, especially in the case of Emma Jean, which is something I struggle with.  Shouldn't I be spending all this time doing something real and important, like saving the world?

My measure of success for myself is whether or not I have written.  I am not hypergraphic, but I am driven to write.  I suspect many of you out there are, too.  It is an interesting drive, and sometimes a frustrating one which is why I am enjoying reading The Midnight Disease, so that I can learn more about it.

And sometimes I wonder at what price the drive to write comes.

Are the hours that I spend at my desk worth it?  Defining this from a social point of view the answer is, that depends. If I get an agent, a contract, and the book sells well, everyone will think I'm a fantastic, creative heroine.   But if it doesn't, I'm just another poor sap who thought she had talent but didn't.

Here's what counts: never, ever in my life have I worked as hard on anything as I have this novel.  I've written other novels before, but always stopped short of truly having a finished product I was proud of.  I loved My MFA novel, a chapter of which was published last year, but I could never get it to a place where the whole thing hung together as a coherent work.  It was close, but never quite made it.  I knew there was more I needed to do to make it work  but then I got so sick of working on it and the obstacles to revision seems so steep, that I've put it aside.  The fire for it just isn't there anymore.

But Emma Jean is different.  I am finishing up the eighth draft, and it was only a few days ago that I realized what one of the major themes of the novel is (for the record, it is: if its love, the Lord won't mind).  With every draft I've gone deeper and deeper into Emma Jean's head and heart and strengthened the throughlines of the novel so they are nice and taut.  Many a friend has urged me just to send what I have, that it is good enough, but I've come this far and I'm not going to quit now.  There is a lot to be said for knowing when you are done. 

If the novel never sells, I will have the satisfaction that for once in my life I have done all I could do with it  I have done my best in every way.  It feels really good to be able to say that, and though I'll be terribly disapointed if it doesn't sell, it will be enough.

And that, to me, is what the drive to write is all about.

NEW CONTEST

The thought occurred to me as I was writing this post that I have a copy of The Midnight Disease to give away.  Amazon sent me an extra copy (maybe I ordered it by accident, who knows) and this copy could be yours!  Leave a comment on this post and I'll randomly pick a number for the winner.  You can comment up until this Friday only because I'm leaving for Santa Fe next week and I will want to get it in the mail before then.  Comment away!

I'm Not Writing, I'm Putting on Make-up

We interrupt finishing the novel to bring you this slightly weird post.

If weird posts offend you, stop reading now.

Yesterday morning as I was getting ready for the day I had thoughts that were directly related to the putting on of make-up.

Now, this may sound like a bit of a stretch to you (hence, the weirdness).  It was to me as I thought it.  But at this point in my life, especially this point, it would be easy to say that I endeavor to link everything in my life to writing.  Actually, this happens naturally, but sometimes the thought process is, well, weird.  And I'm leery of sharing it because  I've read posts seeking to link writing to odd bits of life that come off just sounding labored.

But if you are a writer, such is life.  It seeps into your bones, your living quarters, even the putting on of make-up.

So here goes.

I've been wearing make-up and thus having to put it on, every day of my life for an alarming number of years, back to high school days.  Yes, I know its vain and silly, like pretending my hair is naturally platinum blonde, but I do it anyway.  I do it on weekends, I do it when I know I'm not going anywhere, because, you know, you can never be certain who might turn up on your doorstep unexpectedly and it is important to look good and be wearing full make-up at all times just in case.

This morning, as usual, I put on my make-up.  But I was in a hurry to get to the novel revisions, so I told myself, just slap it on, baby, you can fix it later.

(Am I the only one who talks to myself in the second person?)

So slap it on I did, in order to get to my writing.  And last night when it was time to go out, I looked in the mirror and thought, hmmm...not great, but not horrible.  A little more mascara here, a bit of blush there and you'll be looking better.  And then, how about some lipstick?  Suddenly things are looking pretty good, presentable even.

I sometimes forget to slap words on the page.  Just get 'em out there.  Write something, anything.  It does not have to be perfect and nor will it.  But the act of getting something out of yourself and onto the page then gives you something to play with.  It gives you a sense of satisfaction, and it gives you courage to write more.  And when you go back to it, you may think, hmmm...not so bad.  Not great, but I can make it better.

Why, you may ask, was I bothering to put on make-up before getting to work on my novel?

That is the crux of the matter.  Because there's this weird thing that happens.  If I don't get it on first thing in the morning, it never looks right.  There's something about getting make-up on first thing that allows it to meld and soften on my skin.  If I try to put it on later, it always looks garish and harsh.  It is as if the make-up becomes part of me.

So, too, with writing.  If I get to it first thing in the morning, whether I'm writing in my journal, doing a blog post or looking at the pesky novel revisions, my day is set.  The work becomes part of me.  It sets the tone for the day.  I've put writing first because it is the most important thing in my life and somehow that intention colors my whole day.

So there you have it.  Writing and make-up.  Who knew?

Revising a Novel: Slowly, Slowly

I have ideas for blog posts. 

I have brilliant thoughts to share with you.

I have illuminating commentary on the world at large.

I even have a brand new journal that is going to be devoted to ideas and information for this blog.

However, the journal has remained unopened, the ideas unprocessed, the thoughts simmering inside. I'm sure you can guess why.  I'm still working on the novel.  Slowly, slowly, as my mother used to say.  And this final rewrite is coming way a bit more slowly than I had anticipated.

I tell myself this is a good thing, and here's why.  At this late date (the eighth rewrite) everything in the novel is so intertwined that changing one teeny, tiny thing reverberates through it all.  So moving Peter's dramatic scene from one chapter to the next means changing everything that led up to it and everything that follows. 

And then, of course, there are the moments of panic.  As in, I'm pretty sure I liked it better the way it was before.  Those come about once a day every half hour or so, and that slows the whole process down.  Also, when you spend your whole, entire day at your desk working, with only one wee break for acupuncture (during whence you snore loudly and with abandon), you need to take yourself some breaks in the form of checking email, every minute hour or so.  It is a requirement of the job.

But, step by step we travel far, (which is another Mom saying if you hadn't guessed).  And I have travelled almost to the end of this draft.  Almost.  Just a couple chapters away.  Never mind that they are the most complicated ones to change.

I will be finished soon.

And then I shall return, refreshed, renewed and ready to write something, anything, other than my novel.

PS.  Check it out--I've been added to the Top 100 Writing Blogs on The Daily Reviewer.  Its that cute little badge to the right.

On Not Being Able to Write

Has this ever happened to you?

You're working along on a manuscript of some sort, circumstances force you to take a break, and then when you have time to work on it again, you can't get back to it.  No matter how hard you try.  Even though there is plenty of time and you know exactly what it is you need to do, you just can't make yourself work on it.

It happened to me this week with my novel, Emma Jean's Bad Behavior.  I had so much to do for Path and Pen and the Loft while in Nashville, and then so much to catch up on when I returned, that a couple weeks went by before I could get back to it.

Diligently I finished up all the little odds and ends so that I could devote myself to Emma Jean, who gets very cranky when I ignore her.  And then I was ready to get back to work.

Except I couldn't.

Now let me remind you, I'm working on the seventh draft of this novel.  I know precisely what changes I need to make to finish it and get it to the agent.  And let me just add there are not many changes, and there are small ones.  So its not as if huge, horrible chores loom in front of me.  No, just garden variety edits.

But still I couldn't do it.

Literally, I opened the file on my computer and stared at the words.  But the words made no sense.  So I would minimize the file to convince myself that I would get back to it that day, yes, indeed, I would.  But I didn't.

I could blame it on Mercury Retrograde, and I did.  I could blame the fact that I'd lost momentum while in Nashville, and I did.  I could blame my family, my friends, my pet if I still had one....I could blame many things for my inability to write.

And then, yesterday, suddenly, for no discernable reason that I could see, I was writing again.  The clouds lifted and light shone through.  I opened the file and the words made sense.  I knew what to do and I did it and the task seemed, well, not easy, but at least doable.

So what's the takeaway lesson from this?

Damned if I know.   I don't think anything like this has happened to me in years.  After all, I make my living encouraging people to write, helping them to overcome blocks, urging them to get words on the page.  But following all my own advice and tips and tricks did nothing.

The only balm I could offer myself is one of my favorite mantras:

This, too, shall pass.

And it did. 

PS.  The title of this post is a takeoff on the wonderful book On Not Being Able to Paint, by Joanna Field, which is a pseudonym for the Freudian pysychologist Marian Milner.