Murderati

where grace lives

by Toni McGee Causey

[This piece was written during Hurricane Katrina. We had no electricity, but had a generator and, weirdly, DSL, but not a phone. I blogged--I have been online in one journal form or another since about 1998--and I wanted to try to capture the experience of going through a hurricane. My kids had been in elementary school when Hurricane Andrew came through and tore up the place, and I'd written nothing about it. I thought, and it's hard to believe this was my point of view then, that Katrina would be mostly wind, a lot of downed trees, and maybe a few days without electricity, but I wanted to record it.

Little did I realize that I was going to have a blog that ended up getting picked up by several national news sources because I was one of the few blogs getting the truth out there before the national media figured out what was going on.

I post this today as both an urge to awareness--what's going on in the Midwest with the flooding and in Northern California with the fires--but also as a thank you. I think, if you read the piece, you'll see what a difference you made in our lives. Because you did.]

WHERE GRACE LIVES

 

I passed a man at a shelter the other day. He was tall and lanky and sunburned, dressed in cut-offs and a soaked blue t-shirt with a grubby baseball cap shoved on top of muddy curls. There was something about his lean, sinewy body that made me think of the shrimpers I've seen down in Cocodrie southwest of New Orleans--it's a hard life and it makes for no-nonsense, self-sufficient men.

He was sitting in a metal folding chair, slumped forward, his elbows on his knees. The exhaustion in his shoulders made me ache. Between his feet was a medium sized box and he was staring down into it. The box held some basic necessities: toiletries, canned goods, a pair of socks, and a pair of underwear. I realized, then, that he was barefoot -- the grime around his ankles marked him as having abandoned his shoes somewhere along the way. His large feet were probably too big for any of the donated shoes stacked up at a one of the nearby tables.

When I looked back at that box, I wondered what he must be thinking. My first guess, without seeing his face, was that these few items weren’t much to give a man after he'd lost everything. This box wasn't much to hold onto for a man like that, a man who’d clearly worked hard for a living. Maybe he was angry at having lost his home, or frustrated that this was what he'd been reduced to. I had no words that would be of use, no words which could do any good, and I began to turn away when he suddenly looked up and caught my eye.

He had tears on his cheeks.

When I stood there, not sure what to say, he shrugged and said, "I can't believe how generous people are. I can't believe total strangers would go out of their way to help so much."

I mumbled something about it being the least we could do, as neighbors, and I moved off into the crowd, feeling wholly inadequate and humbled in the face of such grace.

It would be one among many things I could not wrap my mind around.

On Tuesday morning, just a few days earlier, we’d been without electricity since Hurricane Katrina had blown through in the early hours of Monday. While there were many trees down in Baton Rouge, the damage wasn't as horrific as it had been during hurricane Andrew, and we thought the worst was over.

It was only the beginning.

We managed to get our TV hooked to the generator and found one local station airing news and video from New Orleans. There was no way to know what images the national media were getting, but on Tuesday morning, I saw some of the first footage of one of the breaks in the levee system. Water was pouring into the Ninth Ward, and I felt all my senses hit hyper alert, felt my fingers tingle from the adrenaline, felt my lungs constrict.

          New Orleans was filling up.

At first, it appeared that no one nationally realized what was happening. After plugging the computer into the generator as well and discovering I still had DSL, I caught bits and pieces on national websites saying things like “New Orleans dodged the bullet."

There was a steady thrum of “no no no no no” in my head, an awful, gut-kick ache, a sense of the world gone topsy. With the water pouring in, the levees were going to keep deteriorating. The pressure from the flow of water was simply going to be too great. The pumps were already down in areas, and more were failing. Saying “New Orleans had dodged a bullet" was the clearest sign that the outside media didn’t grasp what was happening. It was a bit like telling a terminal cancer patient that they “only” had a broken arm (i.e., wind damage, some minor flooding); it doesn’t matter, the cancer’s going to kill them anyway before the arm can heal. New Orleans was already suffering from the worst kind of cancer – years of inadequate repairs to the levees (or no repairs at all), years of talking about a plan to evacuate, years of warnings that a plan was going to be needed, years of awareness that New Orleans was a bowl and if it filled up, it could be devastating. I remember being on the phone with a friend in L.A.  as fresh images of the ever increasing deluge from the levees hit the local news. The chill I felt, I cannot explain. I remember saying, “Ohmygod, we’re going to lose New Orleans."

And we did.

There are images which will crush me and haunt me forever. Moments seared into my heart. Entire neighborhoods underwater, many with just the topmost part of the roofs visible. People clinging to the peak of what had been their homes in desperation, some for days on end, with no water, no food, no help, and little hope. An elderly woman trying to talk her mentally handicapped son into climbing on board the basket being lowered by the Coast Guard Rescue Team, and him refusing unless she came, too. Only, there was no room but for one. He wouldn’t go, and she couldn’t leave him behind. There was the image of a mother trapped on a rooftop, handing over her small toddler to the Coast Guard, and the news helicopter showing her breaking down as the Coast Guard helicopter flew away; they’d only had room for one more, and she wanted her child saved. People stood on their roofs, waving to the helicopters, desperate to be rescued, only to see the helicopters leave since they were full. I remember the image of two men standing in shock on their own roof, watching a home near them burn, knowing the fire department could do nothing to stop it from spreading.

         There are images and moments which scarred us all, embedded deep somewhere in our souls, a slash that will not heal. The sights and sounds of people abandoned, dying, here on our soil. There’s the crystal image for me of the late night DJ for a New Orleans radio station breaking down as he reported on air on a Baton Rouge TV station how he’d been up all night, broadcasting in New Orleans. He told of how his station still had a signal locally, though no one could explain it when so many others had been knocked off the air, and how he realized that the police didn’t have any communication system at all. People were calling in to him, a few cell phones still working. They were begging for help because they were trapped in their homes, trapped in their attics. When he realized neither they nor he had a way to call the police, he’d broadcast the addresses and hope the police heard him so the trapped people would get help.

The DJ told of one call: a young woman, who was holding her infant. She had a two-year-old with her, and her elderly grandmother. They had not evacuated because they had no car to enable them to leave and no place to stay. They were standing chest deep in water, in her attic, and no way to break through the roof, no way to alert police where they were. Her cell phone died before the DJ could get her address to broadcast her location. He never knew if they were rescued.

         There were the talk-radio stories from the frustrated and grief-stricken men who’d responded to the call for boats, any boats, and they’d gone to the designated areas, fully prepared to take on the responsibility for any damage they received – they didn’t care, they just wanted to save lives. They weren’t allowed into the water for a full day due to a series of miscommunications between various government agencies. There were the harrowing stories of having to pass people up because their boats were already full, of the boat operators promising to go back, and then doing so, only for the person to have died or vanished. There were the voices in the dark, a night so deep where no light penetrated, where streetlights and businesses and every imaginable source was out and the voices cried from the rooftops, pleading for help.

         There are the now-infamous images of the way people were abandoned at the Superdome and the Convention Center; people forced to go days without food, water, basic human needs. People sick and dying. No help in sight. No organization, no FEMA, no Red Cross in many places. There were the images of the looting and the crime. People reduced to the base animal instincts, some for survival, some to prey on others.

         Nothing but dying and suffering in the Big Easy.

         The world changed, then. Shelters went up in every available space: churches, synagogues, and in the River Center, an entertainment complex in downtown Baton Rouge.  Other states took in many thousands, and yet, thousands more were here. Everything was different. Even places as old and forever as LSU.

        When you drive up Nicholson onto the southern end of the LSU campus, rising to your right is the enormous stadium (under even more expansion), with its parking lot a construction lay-down yard. To the left, Alex Box Stadium, with all of the national championships proclaimed proudly on the exterior walls.

If you looked a little past the stadium on the right, you'd see the Pete Maravich Center, or P-MAC for short. It's what many of us old LSU grads still refer to simply as the "Assembly" Center.

Its white dome and curved concrete ramps will always hold a special place in my heart -- it's where I officially became an LSU student, years ago. Back before there was computer registration, we all "walked through,” battling and jockeying in lines on the floor of the Center to claim a "punch card" for the class we wanted -- a slender 3 x 7 card with "chads" punched out, indicating the class for which we'd just enrolled. We'd take the cards and climb to the second level and walk around the mezzanine’s corridor, stopping at the various tables set up for each task required and then finally, on to pay our fee bill.

It was exciting to be a part of that crowd. It was fresh, it was hope, it was a beginning into all potential. It was a promise of something bigger to come.

After the hurricane, we drove onto campus and parked in the Alex Box parking lot, took the crosswalk and headed back toward the P-Mac. There was the white dome gleaming in spite of being overshadowed by the behemoth stadium. There was the newly renovated Mike-the-Tiger cage, a luxurious enclosure complete with rocks to climb, a waterfall, a very large pool and plenty of space to run and play. Next came the concrete ramps which had long ago made me feel like I had been racing up up up toward a future.

Then there was the fence.

A fence.

There had never been a hurricane fence preventing access to the ramps. Or military standing outside said fence. So around the P-MAC we went, getting to the LSU campus side, making a sharp left turn to walk up the street. There was a large white poster-board sign on the guard's gate in hastily written print which said, "Ambulances" and had an arrow.

The P-MAC was still on our left, and as I looked across the fence and beneath the mezzanine, there were tables set up. This time, though, it was not like before, when I registered there, when the tables were about hope and future and innocent dreams. These tables were about loss and devastation and pain. There were volunteers behind the tables and many evacuees in front, having just gotten in from New Orleans.

There was a table set up with laptops so the people could send a message. There were tables of clothes and shoes (which ran out just as soon as the volunteers could get some in), tables of water and food to eat right then, as well as canned goods and other supplies for the evacuees to take with them... for many of them hoped to bunk with family for the night, and that family probably didn’t even know they were coming.

As we continued around the P-MAC, I could tell we were reaching the serious part of this operation, where there were nurses and techs taking medical information, where higher priority (read: in grave danger) patients were taken in immediately to the triage center and where those in dire need but less life-threatening were interviewed by nurses and their stats recorded on brand new files. Nurses and doctors and all sorts of techs ebbed and flowed through this space. There were Guards with guns (wholly over-kill, but they were there). There were volunteers of all shape and sizes -- from LSU and Southern students to firemen to police to little grey-haired church ladies.

We signed in at the non-medical volunteer station and went in to see what their needs were. We were there to volunteer our home to medical staff. We'd heard the staff were working twenty-hour shifts and some of them had no place nearby to just crash and relax.

When you walked inside the entrance, you walked down a slight slope until you reached the wide, round base of the P-MAC. Purple seating had been pushed up against the walls. The last time I stood at floor level like that, I was seventeen, and I remember I stood for a moment in awe of the swarm of people, the organized chaos, the feeling of a small city set to work on one task. It was, in many ways, the same. But this time, that small city was made of dozens of white temporary screens to give the patients some privacy, and many rows of I.V. bags.

There was a M*A*S*H unit in my campus. A field unit triage on the floor of our basketball arena. There were helicopters beating overhead bringing in evacuees from New Orleans, and a row of ambulances, sirens blaring, on their way to the P-MAC.

There was a M*A*S*H unit. In  Louisiana.

In my university.

In the  USA.

It simply didn’t seem possible, that there would be this necessity. That we had so many people wounded in a major catastrophe, that we lost an entire city, that we were still finding and rescuing people, six days later – so many people that our hospitals and clinics were swamped, and a major triage unit was not only critical, but it barely handled the vast quantity of people flowing in.

So many unbelievable things were suddenly true. Families couldn’t find loved ones. People without their medicines, without any identification, tried to remember what they needed so the nurses could help them. A mom cried with gratitude because she found someone's cast-off clothes to fit her children. Others, tears streaming, were just grateful to have their own bar of soap, or a bottle of water.

In the USA.

          It was at the LSU Triage where I met the man without the shoes, the shrimper who was grateful for a small box of goods. He was sitting beneath the mezzanine, just next to the ramps where I’d walked, up up up into the hope of a better future all those years ago. I turned away, knowing his future was going to be difficult and painful, and maybe so much worse.

          Everything had changed.

          We lost New Orleans, and many many homes surrounding it. How can we understand that?

          The business of surviving, or more accurately, of trying to help a huge number of other people survive, took over for many of us who live here. We exchanged information about where there were needs, we gathered what we could, we brought it wherever we could. We met families all staying in one home, forty-five people in a thousand square foot house, sleeping in borrowed tents in the yard, wearing nothing but the clothes they’d escaped with. We heard so many stories of people who lost everything, who had no clue if there was going to be a New Orleans to go back to, if their job would still exist, if there would be a school for their children. In the midst of the pain, they would often get a faraway expression in their gaze, like they were looking off to some memory of New Orleans,  and then they’d look at one another and say, “But we got out. We’re all okay. At least we’re alive.”

          We lost New Orleans.

          My family and I walked into places where there were so many trees and utilities down on the ground, you couldn’t tell a street from a yard. Sign posts were missing, homes were destroyed, one after another. We stepped over power-lines, and visited homes of friends’ families, looking for survivors.

          The heartbreak kept me from sleeping, and I’m not entirely sure I ate anything remotely resembling a proper meal for days. It was grief, I know, so I did the only real thing I knew how to do: I wrote. I poured it into a blog, and many people would post notes about missing loved ones, and others were begging for any information at all about their neighborhoods. These notes chased me in my dreams, always just below the surface. The helplessness etched into every waking moment, acid into the pores, and rendered the grief unbelievably deep.

          We lost New Orleans.

A few days into the disaster, many more boxes showed up here with supplies. More and more people wrote to ask what we needed. More and more people were as outraged and frustrated as we were here, and they wanted to help. I know many donated to charities, but these boxes -- they kept showing up, filled to the brim with things people needed, with supplies damned near impossible to find in some of these areas. We got to bring them to the shelters and to the people who needed them, and the recipients treated me like a hero, but it was not me. It was you. It was every single one of you who sent a box or a prayer or letters of support.

I don't know how to explain the affect these supplies had. There was the immediate help, of course. So many things were needed by so many people.

Baton Rouge doubled in size from evacuees, and for those who could get to the stores, they were crowded and often stripped of goods. I saw clerks stocking shelves only to have items plucked out of their hands before they could even set them down. I had to go to four or five stores sometimes to find things that were needed. And while it was helpful and useful and much required, all of these supplies, it was more than that.

It was the message that we're not alone.

The rage I felt watching New Orleans drown is still palpable. I cannot understand the fact that we live in a country which can put men on the moon, which can help build an international space station, which can create phenomenal structures or explore the deepest oceans, but we could not get water to people trapped on an overpass for days. I cannot wrap my mind around why they were trapped in the first place, since there were trucks passing them by. FEMA trucks, which wouldn't stop. I don't understand that. I absolutely cannot fathom that these people were trapped because sheriff’s at the foot of that bridge prevented the people from crossing into their city of Gretna just because they didn’t want people from New Orleans in their city. And I can’t believe I live in a country which could show this on TV, for days in a row, and no one did anything about it.

         New Orleans was dying. People were dying. It was just one scene of so many, and it made no sense. People died on that overpass, when help just drove right by them.

I cannot understand how media crews could show the devastating events down at the Convention Center and the Superdome, and FEMA or our Federal Government not "know" the people were there. How do we live in a country which can drop aid to everyone else in the world, and no one could drop water and food to the people trapped there? How can we handle going into war-torn areas and get aid to people there, but a few thugs prevented us from helping Americans? How?

How is it that more than two weeks later when we were still going to shelters bringing in supplies, I received reports from the outlying areas that FEMA still hadn't shown up?

Still. Hadn't. Shown. Up.

I don't understand these things. I know I live in America.

Well, last time I checked, Louisiana was still in America.

New Orleans was still a major American city. Maybe something happened somewhere that someone forgot to mention to us, but yeah, pretty sure we're still in America.

          And the magnitude of the inept response (including local government) was staggering. It was like watching someone I love get gutted and lie there bleeding and knowing that help was standing a few feet away, talking about golf scores.

          So when I say to you that you've made a difference, I don't mean it lightly or in any sort of frivolous way. When it suddenly became clear that we were the ugly, unwanted step-child of the government, or worse, the beaten, neglected child of the local officials who were hastily trying to cover up their long-term abuse with loud excuses, you made us feel human again. So many of you -- giving, calling, writing, trying. Feeling the outrage on our behalf. Knowing it belonged to you, because you were us, we were a part of this country, and you cared.

We lost New Orleans.

We needed you, and you were there, and the outpouring of that grace and hope helped to get us through the worst of the days when we were watching in horror as our own people died, as our friends and family were left, as people were treated worse than we'd ever ever treat an animal.

You made a difference. A big difference. And we thank you.

 

 

~*~

This essay first appeared online, over several weeks. I was asked (almost at the time of online appearance) to contribute to a little book I have become very proud of: Do You Know What It Means To Miss New Orleans. Publishers Bruce Rutledge and his brother, New Orleans Professor David Rutledge did a fine job capturing the city over a span of time, even the dark, gritty corners of it.

Have you ever been through a natural (if the breaking of the levees could be called 'natural') disaster? How prepared are you?

 

 

I stand as witness

by Toni McGee Causey

Sometimes, there are moments that redefine a life.

And sometimes those moments are when someone else is the star of the show, when you're in the audience, third row, fourth seat from the left.

I stand as witness.

I stand as witness for a sixteen-year-old boy I never met. He changed our lives.

I understand he had an easy smile, dark mop of hair, about-to-grow-into his looks. That gangly stage of boyhood, steaming, bubbling, nearly ready to change the world.

I never saw it.

He was inclusive. Whether by nature or taught at home, it's unclear, but he was the rare kind of kid who would look at someone new at school, and say, "Come on, join us."  He was, from what I heard, warm and friendly. Flawed, sure. Normal. He liked sports and computers and had a new girlfriend.

I never knew him.

There were rounds of meetings in L.A., producers who'd read my latest script. I was on top of the world, in one sense, this was my "show" and yet, I was wondering how to make this work, how to pull up my family and move them a couple of thousand miles away from their home. I remember the evening as clearly as yesterday: I was in a friend's home--he'd had a party so I could see everyone at one time. He'd cooked three kinds of soup and I was astounded at how very good they all were, that he really ought to be a chef somewhere.

His bungalow was not far from Paramount's entrance, and I saw the Hollywood sign on my way there and the night felt light and innocent and full of hope. Laughter erupted every few seconds at the gathering, people mingled, and I had just heard the voices of long-known friends come through the front door when my cell phone rang.

It was my son.

"Mom. Ryan was killed tonight."

I stand as witness.

In the previous months, my son had gone from alone-at-a-new-school to having a circle of friends, and Ryan had been the ringleader. Our lives went from being unsure and wary and tense to being happy because of the actions of this kid. He changed everything.

I never heard him laugh. I had been traveling and had deadlines and teenage boys are not exactly wont to hang out with mom.

I'd heard about him, though. Nearly every day. He brought a light into our home with my son's tales of their latest antics.

I stood in the line to greet his parents at the funeral. They managed to have a grace I could not have mustered, had a drunk driver killed my son.

All of the kids in his class would go on to graduate and some have families. My son now has a daughter. His life changed twice--once when he met Ryan, and again when he lost him.

Because of Ryan, he had made friends, some who will last a lifetime.

I realized that night I did not want to be 2000 miles away if there were ever another call. I did not want to uproot our lives, because there are some things that matter so much more than the latest round of meetings. There are some things we have to do, and some things we choose to do, and for me, while writing was the dream, I realized I already held the other: my family.

My life changed. I decided to pursue fiction and wrote something funny, because I needed something in the face of tragedy, and it's comedy I turned to. I realized that if my life were cut short the next day, I'd have at least been working on something I loved, something I wanted to do, to please my own instincts instead of doing whatever misguided thing I thought I was "supposed" to do as a writer.

At sixteen, Ryan may not have had a chance to change the world, but he changed my part of it.

He was here. He mattered. He affected so many.

The power of one word, one welcoming gesture, can ripple out, affecting those around them for the rest of their lives. In fiction, the power of one act of cruelty or bravery can drive a story. Zoë's post Thursday reminded me of this. I try to remember that the minor characters are witness to the events around them. Writing isn't just about the protagonist and hero--we're all protagonists and heroes in our own stories. Writing is capturing the ripple, from the point of impact.

At Ryan's funeral, six years ago, I was sitting third row, fourth seat from the left.

But I stand as witness.

-toni

How about you? What do you stand as witness?

one hand in my pocket...

by Toni

Punching through radio programs, picking up songs, random associations, which end up telling a story.

#1

Mustang Sally  (ZZ Top)
She's Got A Way (Billy Joel)
I'm Gonna Miss Her  (Brad Paisley)

#2

Before He Cheats  (Carrie Underwood)
I Can't Make You Love Me  (Bonnie Rait)
Johnny Be Good (Chuck Berry)

#3

I Stay Away  (Alice in Chains)
Alone  (Alice in Chains)
All She Wants To Do Is Dance  (Don Henley)

#4

How Do You Tell Someone  (Cowboy Mouth)
What Might Have Been  (Diamond Rio)
So Hard  (Dixie Chicks)

#5

One Hand In My Pocket  (Alanis Morrisette)
Don't Make Me (Blake Shelton)
Save A Horse, Ride A Cowboy  (Big & Rich)

~*~

Now, I thought about making this all "Trust Your Reader" or "How Random Associations Spark Ideas" or even "Brevity Works" and then I realized you all knew me well enough not to be fooled by any of that. This is totally "My Brains Have Melted, SEND HELP" -- so let's just pretend I said something smart up there and now you get to be smart, too. Your turn.

-toni

Congrats go out to Brett Battles for his super cool starred review in Library Journal for THE DECEIVED this week and J.D. (Dusty) Rhoades for the fantastic Publisher's Weekly rave review of BREAKING COVER. Way to go, guys!

writing what you know

by Toni

Write what you know.

That's the big stick sometimes used on writers, especially new writers. The implication, of course, is that you'd better not start writing until you know stuff. I went for years thinking that one of these days, I was going to get to a point where I knew for sure that I knew stuff and horns were going to sound or maybe music would play or some crisp-suited pseudo-TV-host would pop up and let me know that I'd just won the ability to go forward and write. Then I came to the realization, of course, that other people were writing about murders (and one hopes not from first-hand experience) and writing about blowing up the world (again, hoping that's not a part of their resumé) or assassinating the president (now there's one to guarantee Google hits), and that's when I understood that I didn't have to know anything, and since I was an expert at that, it was quite freeing. Not having a clue? I'm so there.

Which is when I really examined that old piece of advice, the one that felt like it was keeping me from breaking through, and I realized, I already know what's important. It's one of those pieces of advice which can sound very limiting, until you turn it around a bit.

I know the sound of the crack of a watermelon rind as it splits open, juice dribbling down onto the table, and the sweet cold crunch of the first bite on a hot summer day.

I know the electrical shock of betrayal in the midst of utter silence as I see a boyfriend's other woman.

I know the stunning incredulity of how one three-year-old can fill an entire bathroom with suds, floor-to-ceiling, wall-to-wall with just a little shampoo and a whirlpool attachment for a tub.

I know the chaos and terror of running red lights to get to a hospital in time.

I know the shushing, oppressive silence of standing in the back of a funeral home.

The thing I've been asked at writer's workshops I've given lately is, "How can I write about anything exciting? I have a normal life, but I've been told not to write something so autobiographical for a first novel, that that's the kiss of death. So what do I do?"

And my answer is simple: you know yourself. You know people. And you know how to research whatever it is you need to know.

I know the scent of an old, worn leather glove and the sting of a line drive ball hit across the pitcher's mound.

I know the first strawberry of the season, picked from my paw paw's farm, eaten right there as I sat in the dirt between rows.

I know the clink of fine white china as it's set down on a glossy mahogany table.

I know the safety of my dad's hug, the tears in my mom's eyes, the laughter of my brother.

I know my husband's smile, the sly one he doesn't show to others.

"But how," someone asked at the same workshop, "will I know I have a story? How will I know where to begin?"

Begin where the conflict starts. That's where your story begins, and trust the reader to know that. This, I think was the hardest thing for me to internalize, was that I could trust that the reader knew that in the world of these characters, stuff had happened to them before this point. That there was backstory, that there were reasons for them being the way they were, and I had to break myself of wanting to put all of that in so that the reader understood them so that they would know this moment, this conflict was a big deal.

The conflict does need to be a big deal -- to that character. But readers don't have to know everything about the characters in the beginning to know that. They're going to trust that you're starting at the point where something in the character's life has come to an abrupt, dramatic moment. Or maybe it's a quiet, dramatic moment, but the point is, there is a moment. There is conflict. It may be internal, it may be external or some combination, but the story we care about as a reader is that struggle. They may not even overcome it, but if you connect us to their lives, to the little details that make them unique, we're going to care if they try to win that conflict.

I know the feel of rain on my face, sluicing down my clothes, saturating through to the bone.

I know the joy in my sons' eyes on Christmas morning.

I know the chaos of running out of time, everyone depending on me to get there, with the thing, whatever the thing was.

I know the rush of relief when I made it.

I know failing, the sitting-on-the-floor, stunned, too stunned to breathe, to form tears, to speak.

I know the rush of success, wanting to dance with the world.

What you know, already, is wanting something. You already know successes, and you know failures. I'm betting most of you know losing something that you never, ever wanted to lose, and the numbing pain that caused. That's where your story starts: the character is going to lose something. And they care, deeply, that they not lose it.

So, write what you know.

And while you're at it, tell me something you know, some detail of what you've seen, what you've heard, what you've learned, because I'd like to get to know you better.

oh, the things they don't teach in school

by Toni

I broke my brain this week. So for lighter fare, here are 

random observations on the little things that might save y’all some trouble:

1) Nothing good will ever come from someone saying, “Hey, I think this has gone bad. Taste it and see.”

2) “I couldn’t even do this if I was sober,” is probably not a great thing to say to an officer.

a. Or on your first date.

3) If you have to check off, “Have been recently committed for mental instability” on the form, they’re probably not going to let you buy the gun.

a. Unfortunately, that’s not true of you asking, “Now which way do the bullets go?”

4) The very toddler who rarely speaks to tell you when he needs to go to the restroom will be the child who will shout at the top of his voice that, “MOMMY I HAVE TO GO POOOPOOO NOW.”

a. While in a department store.

b. During Christmas rush.

c. When you’ve finally made it to the cash register.

5) This is the same child who’ll be mortified by your clothes when you go to his sporting events.

a. You will be tempted to wear the ugliest shirt known to man.

b. Go for it.

6) The likelihood of you hearing the words “Mom! I can’t find the snake!” is greatly increased when you’re on the toilet.

7) “The bridge is out” sign is probably not a suggestion.

8) The person who tells you up front that he or she is an asshole is probably in the best position to know. Listen.

9) Someone is going to notice when you try to steal a pool table if you strap that sucker to the top of your car.

10) Those wacky IRS agents might take exception to you addressing your return to: Ha ha, you bastards.

Okay, your turn: random observations of something dumb that people do.

~*~

WINNER FROM LAST WEEK -- Julie P. !!

Like last week, I put the names in a hat and my neighbor chose. So Julie, please email me at toni [dot] causey [at] gmail [dot] com with your address and I'll get your signed copies mailed out to you this week!

(A SEPARATE CONTEST running on my personal BLOG today -- for a $15 B & N certificate, plus a "shuck me, suck me, eat me raw" t-shirt - through tomorrow, only. Check it out here.)

the tipping point...

by Toni

Eleventy quibillion years ago, when I was in fourth grade, I wanted to be a writer. I wrote terrible poems, which I think only got worse as I got older and the teenage years descended like locusts, leaving only WOE and ANGST. By college, I had brief bouts of sanity, whereupon I attempted architecture (ohmyGod, they do not tell you about the math), business (my first accounting teacher gave me the final exam in advance, with the answers, if I would swear to her I would never, ever, take another accounting class again), and then journalism (where I learned they had the picky little annoying habit of wanting reporters to not make crap up)(this was before Fox News).

And in spite of a fine history of liking to eat and wanting a roof over my head, I still wanted to be a writer. If you asked a question, you would get a story instead of an answer. If I could sidetrack into a couple of tangents? You might as well park a while, because the stories? They would not stop.

All the while, I wrote. Much of it was bad.

I ran into a former high-school teacher, who'd also been a librarian, who asked me the tough question: why wasn't I submitting for publication? Have you ever run into one of your former teachers? THEY ARE SCARY. It's like they can retroactively fail you or their eyes shoot truth serum rays or something, and I did not want to stand there in front of my two-year-old and explain I hadn't submitted anything because I was a big honking chicken. So I took her advice and started writing and submitting to the local paper. (They were insane enough to buy the very first one. That's like feeding a stray puppy. They did not realize this, I think, until I was around so much, they added me to the regular staff AND the food staff, and this was a fairly prominent paper. One of my relatives realized that I was being assigned to write about how people COOK things. He asked, "Isn't that... fraud? You use the fire alarm as an oven timer." I look back on this as the beginning of my fiction career.)

Over the years, and we are not discussing how many, maybe more than two but less than a hundred, I wrote more articles than I can remember or count for newspapers and magazines. I started querying and submitting (and getting sales) at national magazines, but my real love was fiction. I tried my hand at a novel, but it was a spiraling mess, and my husband could see how frustrated I was. (And EVERY husband out there just substituted the words "complete raving loon" for "frustrated.") So, being a very wise man who liked to wake up breathing in the mornings, he encouraged me to go back to school for some writing classes.

For a while, I was lured to the dark side (screenwriting), and landed an agent, and did a lot of stuff that was almost-but-not-quite what I wanted to do, which was to sell something I made up. Hollywood, by the way, will kill you with encouragement, because when you meet the executives, you will be told you are the most brilliant writer they have read in forever and where the hell have you been all this time and they want to be in the "Toni Causey" business. Swear to God, they will say it and you will believe it because they are that good at sincere. Until you're sitting in the Warner Brothers commissary waiting for the next meeting, furtively looking around to see the FRIENDS stars on their lunch break (yes, I am dating myself, hush), and the same executive walks by with his arm around someone else who is not you, telling them how utterly brilliant they were, the most brilliant person they'd ever read. That's when you look down at the script in your hand that is an action thriller that everyone absolutely loves but could you make the man a woman and the woman a duck and wouldn't it be great if the horse saved the day? and you think, "I'm crazy, but I'm not this crazy." Some writers (our very own Alex and Rob) have the tenacity for that. Me? I kinda wanted to just kick people. (I never claimed to be mature.)

See, I had this idea. An idea for this funny, take-no-prisoners kind of southern woman, who loves deeply and means well, in spite of the chaos she causes, and I wanted to write that story and be true to that story. So I quit screenwriting. (I had had some offers if I'd move out there. I was not going to move the family.) I had a hard time convincing my former agent that yes, I was serious. I was quitting to write a novel. (I think she still thinks I am going to change my mind.) But I quit, and I started writing Bobbie Faye. I wrote a quick draft in script form, because I was used to that format, then a friend showed a friend, the lovely Rosemary Edghill, who said, "Send me some chapters." And I did. She gave me some notes (smart, smart woman), and taught me how to write the kind of synopsis an agent needs ("I did not think you could make this worse," she said of one draft of that synopsis, "but you did." That's because I am an overachiever. It took a lot of tries before I figured out that writing a marketing synopsis is a lot like writing a non-fiction article, and that I could do.) Next thing I know, I'd signed with an agent and Rosemary had pitched it to an editor, who made an offer, and St. Martin's Press bought that book and the next two based on three sample chapters and a synopsis. Almost twenty years from the point where I saw my old high-school English teacher and she'd said, "Why aren't you submitting for publication?"

(Thank you, Mrs. Ross.)**

There is a great big huge world of "no" out there. Sometimes, following the dream does not mean hoppity-skipping down the easy path. In fact, a lot of times, it means zig zagging past mortars and incoming and a lot of almosts-not-quites and despair and frustration what-the-hell-were-you-thinking? and ugh-this-sucks and occasionally wow-show-me-more. And in spite of how long it took, and how much hard work, I have been exceptionally lucky--there have been friends and mentors who've said, "keep going," and who've said, "send that in." They changed my life. They were the tipping point for me.

So how about you? Who encouraged you? Or what's something you tried that someone encouraged you to do and now you're glad you did?

~*~

CONTEST: just stop in and say HI or name someone who encouraged you OR something you've tried as a result of encouragement. ANYTHING's fair game here.

Remember, it's CONTEST MONTH -- every commenter on today's post will be eligible for a signed copy of BOBBIE FAYE'S VERY (very, very, very) BAD DAY as well as a hot-off-the-press, not available in the stores 'til the end of the month BOBBIE FAYE'S (kinda, sorta, not exactly) FAMILY JEWELS. Excerpts from book 2 are now up HERE. Winner from this week to be announced on next Sunday's blog.

WINNER FROM LAST WEEK -- Billie! billie! Sister of the soul. ;)

Like last week, I put the names in a hat and my neighbor chose. So Billie, please email me at toni [dot] causey [at] gmail [dot] com with your address and I'll get your signed copies mailed out to you this week!

**This is part of the interview I did with Bethany Hensel over at Lux Magazine... I'll post a link here to the rest as soon as I have it. Thanks, Bethany!

the lesser known superpowers

By Toni

 

I must’ve dug in that big, yellow box for fifteen minutes, the first time. Just could not believe I wasn’t finding what I was searching for. Damn them. I wasn’t just looking for the prize. I was searching for it. Dug around the outside of the waxy paper bag the cereal had come in. Slid my hand down the flat of the wide sides first, scrabbling my fingers below the bottom of the bag, feeling the rough cardboard against my knuckles. And coming up empty. Then retreated, reorganized. Listening for my mom. Pushed my scrawny little wrists down the skinny sides of the box, thinking it was wedged there. Still. Nothing.

Surely they wouldn’t have buried it in the cereal?

Okay, fine. Shoved my hands down in the cereal. (I don’t know how old I was. Probably old enough to know that I wasn’t supposed to be shoving my hands down into the cereal.) (I only did that to the cereals I didn’t like and knew I wasn’t going to eat) (oops) (Of course, I could have gotten down the big bowl, poured the cereal into it, searched for the toy, gotten it, returned all of the cereal back into the bag, bag back into the box, box back into the pantry, but then I’d have had to also clean out the bowl and put it up and I ask you… you’re standing there with eight things to do or you know you have a little brother—the same little brother who thought it was hysterical to DRUM on your door, day in and day out, 24/7, using your head sometimes as the crash cymbal, yes, THAT little brother—and you can use said little brother as a fall guy, what would you do, hmmmmmmmmmm?)

Then, most of the time, there was the finding the plastic toy, and it was always simply that: stupid, plastic. Nothing close to the real thing.

I wasn’t disillusioned. I just knew I hadn’t found it yet. And it was out there.

I knew that finding it was just a matter of perseverance.

Looked into all of the Cracker Jack boxes. (Hated Cracker Jack. I don’t think my parents realized ‘til years later why I would agree to a box of the damned stuff. My brother, though, was good for getting rid of whatever I didn’t want to eat. Younger brother, very handy to have sometimes. Especially if someone is going to get into trouble for digging in the cereal box.)

Still, it was not there.

I was pretty convinced. Some people had superpowers. They had to have found them somehow.

Tried the towel pinned around the neck thing. (Turns out, this will not make you fly.)(ow)

Tried the wiggle-your-nose-to-make-something-float-to-you thing. (Not highly recommended to be done in front of witnesses.)

Never managed anything close to the supersonic hearing, although I am CERTAIN my parents had this one and have NEGLECTED to mention exactly how they got it. (My dad has selective supersonic hearing. I want that.)

Scoured the hell out of my brother’s comic books, though I was old enough by then to understand that maybe superpowers weren’t ever really going to happen. (I’m still not 100% sure I’ve given up all hope.) (My brother, by the way, forgave me for the cereal boxes.) (Well, last year.) (I think.)

Then one day, my little brother and my (slightly barely hardly at all younger, ha, she is going to kill me) cousin, Danette, and I were together while our parents visited. We’d pretty much exhausted our imaginations, and there were no such things as video games, wargaming, internet, iPods… (YOU, YES, YOU THERE IN THE BACK MAKING THE “OLD” JOKES, I CAN HEAR YOU, I LIED ABOUT THE SUPERSONIC HEARING, DON’T MAKE ME GET MY CANE OUT TO BEAT THE CRAP OUTTA YOU)… anyway, out of complete desperation to keep them from arguing, I made up a story. I have no clue what the point of that story was, but in it, we were superheroes (with some sort of super bus or super car, I was just radical with the transportation there). And Mike and Danette were quiet. Completely quiet, the entire time, and if I tried to bring it to an end, they’d ask for more. And then the next time Danette visited, they wanted the story… first.

I was hooked. Hot DAMN, a superpower.

Do you remember that Daffy Duck cartoon where he’s all determined and snatching something away from Bugs, claiming, “Mine, mine, ALL MINE,” and it blows up on him? LET’S PRETEND MY SUPERPOWER IS NOT LIKE THAT. Thank you.  

Now I realize that a bunch of other people have the same superpower, but we are still going to call it a superpower because that is a LOT cheaper than paying for therapy. And I also realize that a lot of these other people have this same ability but in the MEGA HUMONGOUS SUPER WATTAGE size… they are sort of like the Superman with all of the bullets bouncing off and I’m over here with my little silver surf board thingie and the only thing I may be able to do is surf around, but by God, I’m going to do it with enthusiasm, so I’m happy.

Meanwhile, having not completely given up the idea that there still may be another superpower out there that I have that I’ve missed, I’ve thought about this. (Yes, the fever is fine, why do you ask?) Those superheroes, with their cool superpowers—they suffered. They had a lot of angst. Sometimes they didn’t realize just how valuable their superpower was, even though others could see it clearly. Which got me to thinking that maybe I actually have a superpower, but it’s just not something that I realize is a superpower. Because God knows I have angst! Plenty of it! It would fit the pattern! All was not lost! So I thought long and hard about the things I’m really exceptionally good at, and my list looks something like this:

1) Able to detect anyone even thinking about drinking the last diet coke in the house

2) Able to shove an entire two rooms’ worth of junk into ONE closet, and still find stuff

3) Um. Hmm. Wait… wait. Hmmm. Did I mention the diet coke thing?

Okay. Well. Maybe not.

But how about you? Did you want a superpower as a kid? And right now, what is your superpower? (I know you have one.)

~*~

CONTEST: just stop in and say HI or name your superpower (or name someone else's, it's all good).

Remember, it's CONTEST MONTH -- every commenter on today's post will be eligible for a signed copy of BOBBIE FAYE'S VERY (very, very, very) BAD DAY as well as a hot-off-the-press, not available in the stores 'til the end of the month BOBBIE FAYE'S (kinda, sorta, not exactly) FAMILY JEWELS. Excerpts from book 2 are now up HERE. Winner from this week to be announced on next Sunday's blog.

WINNER FROM LAST WEEK -- Lisa Richardson! (Can I just tell you all how blown away I was? I know it was a holiday type of entry, but I wanted to thank every single one of you who took the time to stop by and email. I was floored.)

Like last week, I put the names in a hat and my neighbor chose. So Lisa, please email me at toni [dot] causey [at] gmail [dot] com with your address and I'll get your signed copies mailed out to you this week!

Dear God... (the stick turned blue)

by Toni

Dear God, Universe, or Elves (I am covering all bases, I cannot afford to be picky here):

The stick turned blue. I'm 19. And a half. The stick turned blue. I think my brains just leaked out of my ears because THE STICK TURNED BLUE. It cannot turn blue. I only had sex once. Okay, maybe twice. That's in base 200. Or something. (Shut up, I am an English major, we're not expected to know higher math.)

Is this like... trial-sies? Practice run? Just to see how good my adrenal system works because let me reassure you right now, IT WORKS JUST FINE, though I think my neighbors might need a hearing aid after all the shrieking died down.

Signed,
Seriously, you're kidding, right?

Dear God, Universe, or Elves:

This is pregnant? This can't stand to move morning sickness bloated pasty can't fit into anything anymore look like a whale and where the fuck is my GLOWY feeling? What? Were you out of Deep Fried Crazy Hot for the highs this summer and thought you'd just go ahead and substitute Miserable Seventh Level Of Hell like I wouldn't notice?

Signed,

So very not happy with you right now.

Dear God, Universe, or Elves:

It's a boy. Two-and-a-half weeks overdue. GET HIM OUT GET HIM OUT GET HIM OUT GET HIM OUT GET HIM OUT.

Signed,

Hate you and your shoes.

Dear God, Universe, or Elves:

HE CAN STAY IN, I swear, I will shut up, forever, please do not make me have to OHMYGODTHATHURT. If I die and there is a heaven, I am bringing a LEAD BASKETBALL and you'd better not bend over.

Signed,

Never having sex again, ever.

Dear God, Universe, or Elves:

Wow. I just... wow. He's perfect. Unbelievably perfect. And just... wow. Who knew?

Signed,

Okay, you're forgiven.

Dear God, Universe, Or Elves:

Oh, shit. How am I supposed to know what to do? How am I not going to break him? I don't know enough. Maybe when I'm forty. Or fifty. Maybe. I am so going to screw this up.

Signed,

What the hell were you thinking, trusting me?

Dear God, Universe, or Elves:

Um, I hate to mention this, but there is one SERIOUS flaw in your design here. WHERE IS THE OFF SWITCH? I'd like to be able to shower, five minutes. Five. I don't think that's too much to ask.

Signed,

So bringing my stinky self to your doorstep in about three seconds if you don't FIX THIS.

Dear God, Universe, or Elves:

My husband came home and heard me arguing with our two-year-old and took me aside and said, "You're the adult. You have to outsmart him."

The sad thing is, I'M TRYING TO.

Signed,

Send brains. Quick.

Dear God, Universe, or Elves:

Okay, I get the whole "have sex, can get pregnant" thing, you can't fool me. And okay, I'm not wholly surprised that I look like I ate an entire football stadium, but they just told me they expect this one to be over nine pounds. NINE. That's like giving birth to a TWO MONTH OLD. WITH TEETH. Why not just go ahead and shoehorn in a COLLEGE GRADUATE while you're at it. Maybe you've got a couple of missing OCEAN LINERS from the Bermuda triangle you don't know what to do with; you can just SHOVE THEM IN MY UTERUS, I DON'T MIND.

Signed,

I hope your hair falls out.

Dear God, Universe, or Elves:

That was really freaking EVIL of you, playing that "cutest kid on the planet" card, twice in a row. It gets easy after this, right?

Signed,

Delirious.

Dear God, Universe, or Elves:

Look, I know you're really busy with all that famine and war and mythical alternate universe of Reaganomics and Wham!, but if you could just take a couple of seconds out of your busy schedule? Because my kids are infected with the HE'S TOUCHING ME HE'S LOOKING AT MY STUFF OH WOE!!!! disease. How much trouble will I be in if I duct tape them together?

Signed,

Duct Tape On Sale Now

Dear God, Universe, or Elves:

He's never going to forgive me for wrapping him in multiple rolls of aluminum foil to turn him into the Tin Man for Halloween, is he? Or the eighteen blocks I made him walk (while re-wrapping him) because we were going to trick-or-treat and we were going to BY GOD HAVE FUN, DAMNIT. I'm still going to hear about this when he's twenty-five, aren't I?

Signed,

Seriously thought about tying the bathroom rug around him for "lion fur"--he doesn't know how lucky he is.

Dear God, Universe, or Elves:

They are sticking a needle in my four-year-old's back. A needle. They are holding him down in the other room, and he is screaming. They made me leave, because he was lunging for me and he's supposed to be absolutely still.

I just sat across from one of my childhood friends. She's our pediatrician now, and one of the smartest people on the planet. We made mud pies together when we were five and six years old. We even managed to sell them (well, she did, she is that smart).

I never dreamed I would be sitting across from her one day and that she would have to say, "meningitis." That the words "risks" and "death" and "possible brain damage" and "spinal tap" and "could paralyze him" would float, jumbled, over the space between us, that we'd ever talk about the fact that she had to stick a needle in my son's back. A pediatric emergency.

She is sending me to the ER. I'm carrying him (passed out), while my oldest son is clutching his brother's spinal fluids in some sort of glass flask, and I'm supposed to drive to the ER, because we do not have time for an ambulance.

She said to try not to stop for red lights. I CANNOT BREATHE right now, and there is no oxygen going to my brain and I CANNOT STOP FOR RED LIGHTS.

I don't care what it takes, do it to me, not him. I will give you anything. I will give you everything. Just do not do this.

Signed,

begging.

Dear God, Universe, or Elves:

Four days later, and his brother and he are making a slide out of the hospital bed's mattress.

It is the most beautiful thing I have ever seen.

Signed,

thank you.

(your hair grew back in nicely, by the way)

Dear God, Universe, or Elves:

The oldest is fifteen, and in this state, he can legally drive. HAVE YOU FREAKING LOST CONTROL OF THE UNIVERSE, OR WHAT? How in the world am I supposed to let him drive? I can barely keep from hurling myself in his path to keep him safe while he's WALKING AROUND, BREATHING AIR, damnit. I have tried to remember that they are supposed to grow up to be independent, strong men. I have tried to remember to reinforce their decision-making skills. But this is just asking TOO DAMNED MUCH. It's too soon.

Signed,

Where is the time machine? Damn you.

Dear God, Universe, or Elves:

ANY PHONE CALL THAT STARTS WITH "Mom, I'm okay, DON'T WORRY," is NOT GOING TO BE GOOD, I don't care HOW earnest you make them sound.

Signed,

Like I am that easily fooled. Ha.

Dear God, Universe, or Elves:

I sat on the floor in the hallway today where I could see into the door of each of their rooms. They are empty, now, of boy stuff. One is an exercise room, and one a guest bedroom.

I did not break them. I screwed up. A lot, sometimes. I got self absorbed and busy and short tempered. I lost confidence and lost my way, but I did not break them. I remember the smiles, the laughter, the tooth fairy, the Christmas mornings, the late night talks. There were baseball games, wrestling tournaments, graduations and hysterically funny meals. I remember tears and heartache and not knowing if just loving them more than breathing was going to be enough. I remember too many close calls where it seemed like it might not be. But they are funny and smart and good hearted men. They have (mostly) outgrown the HE'S TOUCHING ME HE'S LOOKING AT MY STUFF OH WOE!!!! disease, and so get along pretty amazingly well. They make me laugh and surprise me and are fascinating people. They are kind. They treat people well, and they not only love deeply, but they are loved deeply in return. They are both the kind of men who, if I just met them somewhere, I'd like them tremendously. They have started families. Wonderful women I'm so lucky to have in our family. A granddaughter (the most beautiful, happy baby in the world).

You did not tell me when you gave me that blue stick that you were giving me my heart. You did not tell me that you were giving me everything that mattered.

Dear God, the stick turned blue.

THANK YOU.

Signed,

toni, a mom.

~*~

CONTEST: just stop in and say HI or wish someone a happy mother's day (your mom, someone else's, doesn't matter) OR tell me what did you do to drive your mother batty?

Remember, it's CONTEST MONTH -- every commenter on today's post will be eligible for a signed copy of BOBBIE FAYE'S VERY (very, very, very) BAD DAY as well as a hot-off-the-press, not available in the stores 'til the end of the month BOBBIE FAYE'S (kinda, sorta, not exactly) FAMILY JEWELS. Winner from this week to be announced on next Sunday's blog.

WINNER FROM LAST WEEK -- Angelle! (wow, you ALL were SO FREAKING AMAZING) -- thank you for all of the comments. I put all of the names in a hat and my neighbor got conscripted to choose. So Angelle, email me at toni [dot] causey [at] gmail [dot] com with your address and I'll get your signed copies mailed out to you this week!

random things I do not understand

by Toni

Random things I do not understand, but will somehow make it into a book:

Two men decided to move a meth lab through Baton Rouge. In their moment of brilliance, one of them must have turned to the other and said, "Hey, let's move this highly flammable lab that can blow up." Wherein the other thought, "Why do it half-way? Let's take the bumpiest interstate on the planet! I know! Let's go through Louisiana!"

Saving spiders. I do not understand this. A friend of mine wrote a funny blog about the spider that was sort of taking over her bathroom, and I responded:

I had one in the kitchen once and I felt sort of bad (poor, lost spider, didn’t mean to come inside) and I caught him in a glass jar. He wasn’t huge, but was quite fuzzy-looking and I was curious so I got my trusty field guide on spiders out (what do you mean, what field guide? you all don’t have field guides? geez. I have a field guide for every critter around here that can possibly slither in and/or eat me. I’d like to be able to leave a coherent description of the culprit if I’m dying, thank you). Anyway, so I check the trusty field guide and find its photo and the spider on there is kinda fuzzy, but not as fuzzy as my spider, and then I realize… my spider’s fuzziness is… moving. As in, separating. It was like the Borg. There were more than 100 (I am not exaggerating) baby spiders stacked up on Mom or Dad or Uncle Walt there and they started leaping off and investigating the glass, which then made me realize… if that spider hadn’t been under glass, all of those babies would have been in my kitchen.

Now? I kill the damned spiders. I have a rule: you stay outside? you live. You cross that line? you die.

When they start paying they mortgage, they can make the rules.

I do not understand relationships where the women "let" the men do certain things as a reward for doing everything else they're told to do, nor the men who let them. This particularly applies to those loud, well dressed reality based housewives shows where I think the point is to not only out bitch each other, but out maneuver their husbands, more than anyone else has done at the same time. But then I realized, I just must not have known the rules for using my Glittery Hooha (technical literary term there, as defined by Lani Diane Rich and explained by Jennifer Crusie). (For the romance world, that blog explains it best... and I want to know why two people fall for each other, no matter what genre.) (I love that blog and term.) (I know. I wrote about glittery hoohas.) (My mom has probably had a heart attack just now and when she wakes up, I am going to be in big trouble.)(Because this is the deep south and we do not admit in public that there are hoohas, no matter how glittery.) (There was a sale on parentheses.)

So, what do you not understand? Wide open, anything goes.

And starting today, every Sunday until my book release, end of this month, as in May 27th, I'll be giving away two signed copies of both books -- Bobbie Faye's Very (very, very, very) Bad Day and book 2 -- Bobbie Faye's (kinda, sorta, not exactly) Family Jewels -- to one of the commenters  (US/Canada), 18 years old and up. (Hey, there is cursing and murder and mayhem and sex, almost all at the same time. I am not getting in trouble here.) So post anything you do not understand in the comments and next Sunday, I'll announce a winner... each Sunday for four weeks.

the most important contract a writer will ever have

by Toni

One of the terrible things about learning to write (and I'm still in that group) is realizing just how many plates you constantly have to keep spinning to tell a novel or script-length story successfully. It's easy to get overwhelmed by the multiple tasks and then drop a plate (or two, or ten). It's easy to start worrying about things like marketing and agents and breaking in or staying in or growing sales because those things are at least somehow quantifiable. Identifiable. These things are not, as Alex so eloquently put it yesterday, ways of trying to find the murky method to creating a book that is alive, and so they are easy substitutes for forward motion.

But I had some clarity a few years ago. This is after publishing (at that point) for twenty years, so I guess better late than never. And that clarity was in finally figuring out the most important contract a writer will ever have:

Pick the kind of story you want to tell and then deliver on that promise to the reader who reads that kind of story.

That would seem kinda obvious, huh?

And yet, it's a simple truth which gets lost in all of the other tasks a writer has.

I've seen too many writers try to finish a book while, at the same time, worrying too much about being important. They want to write something worthy of those awards, of the critics, of their peers, of their family. They want everyone who ever reads the manuscript to set it down, weeping with either awe or envy. They would dearly love for it to be the thing that makes the editor run over sixteen people in the hallway while trying to get that manuscript to the publisher for quick approval of that big, fat advance.

And in all of that pressure, they try to be everything to everyone and forget to do the one thing they have to do: tell the damned story.

Here's where I get (somewhat) ranty.

Pick the kind of story you want to tell...

Be honest. What do you love? Do you have an answer you tell everyone, but you secretly read something else? Then you're not being honest, and that's going to show up in the work, or in your inability to finish. Do you not want to admit to a specific genre because it somehow doesn't seem "important" as a writing goal? Let me ask this, and this is my serious pet peeve: when did we start valuing one genre over another, as if one kind of reader was somehow more important than some mythical "average" reader who might buy more books but who, somehow, isn't perceived as more discerning?

If I hear one more person denigrate readers who bought something like, oh, say, The Da Vinci Code, I'm going to smack 'em. If you don't think Dan Brown's language / style was all that great, fine... the more important point is to realize that he delivered on the kind of story that he promised: mystery/thriller. Most of those readers, God Bless Every Single One Of Them, either bought the book or borrowed it from a library (or a friend), and if they enjoyed the book, they probably went back to find something else.

Do you love stories with lush language? Great, write that. Do you love stories which solve a mystery? Or an action adventure which can make you laugh, but keep you on the edge of your seat? Or maybe you like the tense action of a thriller? The eroticism of a romance where characters find some sort of happiness, in spite of the odds? Maybe you love to be completely scared out of your wits?

Language skills are wonderful, but they're not more valuable than storytelling skills. Depth of character can be found in any genre, but long character introspections are not going to be prominent if the book is, say, a thriller, because that's not the point of the kind of story the writer is telling.

And ultimately, the kind of story you choose to tell will then have certain expectations inherent in its type. Not formula, but expectations. And if you try to shoehorn everything into that story, you're probably going to have mush, unless you're just a master storyteller. I'm not sure there are many masters on their first attempts at writing a novel. I'm pretty sure the rest of us would have them killed. (I am sort of joking.)

**I am adding this in here a little later, due to comments below** ... and by "pick the type" I'm not saying "pick one and only one genre... I'm saying "know what type of story you're telling." If it's multi-genre, then you're upping the ante of the expectations and you've got to make sure the story delivers on all promises. More in the comments section **

then deliver on that promise...

Read widely in the genre you've picked. Part of that promise is that you kno