People ask me all the time where I get ideas for my books and stories (particularly those who have read some of my more twisted works and who, while asking me, appear to be edging toward the emergency exits in case I decide to act out a choice scene).

The truth is, inspiration comes in many forms for me, but it almost always starts with the same question: What if?

For example: What if someone who was already mentally unstable were subjected to social ostracism and isolation? What if you found out that someone whom you thought you knew and loved turned out to be a complete stranger to you? What if prayer really worked? What if we had the power to truly change ourselves?

I don’t always immediately recognize the question as the nucleus of a story; more often than not, the question lodges itself in my mind and nags at me, always there,  irritating the lining of my brain like a grain of sand in an oyster. Sometimes, the journey from grain to pearl, from inspiration to completion, takes years (my first novella took five); sometimes, it feels as though the pearl was born complete and lovely and whole right from the start, delivering an entire plot from beginning to end to my mental doorstep. I love it when that happens.

I am inspired to write today, however, not by a question (the “What if?” moment for the new book I’m working on occurred two months ago), but by a lovely French song, “Le Festin” by Camille (featured in the Disney movie Ratatouille.) The lyrics are in French, but loosely translated, are all about not hiding your light from the world and the conviction that your life is a feast, just waiting for you to tuck in: “Let me astonish you, and take flight.”

That song does it for me every single time. Every time that I feel discouraged or uninspired or frustrated about my writing, about what to do with it next, all I have to do is listen to that song and I find myself renewed, restored, and ready to write again. My “What if?” questions today are more about process than plot: What if today, I find my voice? What if today, I weave the loose ends together just right? What if today, I bring to full and vivid life the character who’s been whispering in my ear nonstop for the last two months? What if today is the day?

Vacations can be deadly things.

I thought I was distracted before, moaning and groaning about the interminable winter here in Minnesota and my resulting inability to concentrate. But now, with the roll of ocean waves still rumbling in my ears and the memory of potent Florida sunshine still warming my cheeks, I find I cannot concentrate at all. I am badly in need of a renewal of my former discipline (and a cessation of whining about my situation no matter where I’m at.)

I recently attended a writers’ conference where the keynote speaker stressed repeatedly the need for discipline if a writer is to attain any kind of success, and in principle, at least, I totally agree with him. But agreeing on the need for discipline in my writing habits and actually finding discipline in my writing habits are two completely different things.

So now that I’m back from vacation and have caught up with some of the return-to-everyday-life chores inherent in coming home, I’m turning over a new leaf. Scoff if you will, but now it’s in writing, so I have to do it. I will spend time each and every day writing–sometimes it will be this blog, sometimes it will be an article, sometimes it will be work on my next book, but I will write every day. I promise. No, really–I do.

Just as soon as I can tear my eyes away from this album of vacation pictures here on my desk. Isn’t that just a gorgeous sunset?

As I write this, I am gearing up to share the first draft of my finished novel with some folks who have generously (and perhaps foolishly) agreed to take a look at it for me. Out of morbid curiosity, out of pity,  because they’re bored and not traveling over spring break, because they owe me one–take your pick.

I’m doing this because I have been a faithful little writers’-book junkie, and all those books tell novice writers that they must, simply must, show their work to someone before shooting it off to a publisher or literary agent or the chances of their manuscripts being published shrink dramatically. I believe them, because at this point, let’s face it, their books are in print, and mine is still in a Word file. But the very thought of sharing my manuscript is giving me the heebie jeebies.

It’s not that I don’t trust the people who want to read it; I do. But the combination of my low self-esteem and my occasional lack of faith in myself makes me fearful: What if they don’t like it? What if they read it and laugh at my feeble attempt at storytelling? (Note poignant illustration of esteem problem.) What if they pass it around to other people and use it to make fun of my unattainable dream behind my back?

In my demented mindset, it never occurs to me to ask, What if they love it?  What if they have good suggestions for it? What if they know somebody who knows somebody who knows somebody who can put it the hands of somebody who can really help me with it? Nope–other than at this very moment, it doesn’t occur to me to look at it that way at all.

So, I will make copies and send file attachments to these wonderful, patient (they have to be if they know me) people and hold my breath until they’ve finished reading it. I will submit myself to their examination and cross-examination of my manuscript, even though I’ll hate every minute of doing so. It’s not that I think my work is perfect, it’s that it’s easier for me to submit it to an anonymous publisher or agent than it is to submit to people I have to see or work with or look in the eye.

I so wish I could be curmudgeonly and fierce about not wanting to show my work to anyone before publication. Wouldn’t it be wonderful to be Philip Pullman: “Do they imagine writing as a collaborative activity where you write a bit, then share it and talk about it, and people take it to pieces? Then you go back and write a bit more and show it again, and they take it to pieces again?… For me, anyway, it’s not like that. Writing is spending a long time in silence, by myself, and covering up the work when anyone comes in the room so they can’t see it. ” (from an interview with Dave Welch for Powells.com) I guess once you’ve gotten yourself published, then you can afford to wait until publication to show it. But how do you get yourself published without showing it to others (not publishers and agents) first? If there’s anyone out there who’s figured that one out, I’d love to hear the answer.

In the meantime, I’ll share, uncomfortably and with great trepidation. But listen up, once I get published, nobody gets advance copies. Not nobody, not no how.

Well, after taking a week, more or less, to catch up on my responsibilities as a domestic goddess (stop laughing right now) I’m back to the work of trying to get my novel published. At this point, that translates to total drudgery: editing, passing it by friends and family, more editing, researching Markets and Agents and Publishers, oh, my.

You know, I read somewhere once that it takes a special kind of crazy person to actually complete a novel. I don’t think I’m going out on a limb here by asserting that that’s only half of a writer’s insanity plea: if you’re not already crazy from writing the book, then the massive amounts of work required to try to get it in front of the right publisher will finish the job nicely.

I have been sitting at my computer for three hours straight, and have done nothing but edit, research, create basic initial synopses, and rough out potential queries. I have to say, I was actually happy to take a break from doing that to visit my friendly neighborhood freelance job site (Whorelance, I saw one fellow writer call it) to try to track down some freelance work that will actually pay. No, I don’t get credit for ghostwriting, thank you very much for pointing that out, but at least they pay–well, some of the time.

Back when I was a teacher and had to do 12-page district applications (complete with essay questions, no less–can I put those in my portfolio?) to find a job, I thought that was a time-consuming process, but schools have nuthin’ on literary agents and publishing houses for making you jump through inexplicably complicated and time-consuming sets of hoops.

I know, whine, whine, whine–what can I say? Two more sub-zero days in Minnesota this week (I don’t care if the sun is out or not–it’s cold!) and my resolve to give up negativity for Lent has frozen to death.  Hopefully it’ll thaw out this weekend. In the meantime, I’ll just keep plugging away and hope that somebody puts me out of my misery (Hey! Figuratively, not literally!) soon. Anybody got an extra space heater?

I was talking about movies this morning with some good friends, and we were sharing our opinions of a movie  two of us had recently seen. Now, I had loved the movie in question. I had found it lushly animated, voiced with an uncanny marksmanship, and intensely imaginative. One of my friends, however, made a moue of distaste when asked her opinion. She didn’t care for the darker, more disturbing elements of the film.

Perhaps it was that I was already acquainted with the writer’s larger body of work, so I was prepared for more of his unique dance on the line between darkness and light, his unnerving portrayals of the unseemly and unsettling aspects of what lies beneath all that is goodness and sunshine. For some, that vision is too discomfiting to be enjoyable. I was transported, while she found herself squirmingly rooted to her seat.

Our “potato–po-tah-to” parting of ways about this movie wasn’t earth-shattering; we all like what we like, for reasons sometimes unknown even to ourselves.

What struck me about it was how unpredictable those reactions can be in any given audience, for we have seen movies together before and had violently identical reactions to them. But, particularly because I am beginning to prepare my second novel for (hopeful) publication, I find those differences in opinion a bit more unsettling now.

 I find myself imagining that every person who will be reading my novel now, just as every viewer who watched that film did, will have a slightly different reaction to it, one colored by their experiences, by their tastes, by their sleep habits, by the amount of patience they have, whatever happens to be at hand the day it comes to their attention. 

And imagining, I wonder: Will it land in the hands of someone who will see it as I saw it? Who will read it as I wrote it?  Will the one person who reads it and doesn’t care for it stop it from getting into the hands of one who may love it?

 The onset of this new round of submissions has me fearing (in all honesty, knowing more than fearing) that publication, if it comes, may come more as a result of luck and timing than any other thing, and I find that daunting and not a little depressing, though it won’t stop me from submitting.

Anyway, that’s what I’m thinking today as I continue my research of publishers and agents. Which one might be the one who will like it?