Shear Happiness--Cutting Away

Yesterday was Happiness day in a writers' group, and I missed it because I had a date with the outdoors to begin the Spring cleanup. Outdoors. Let me say that again. OUTDOORS!

After the longest, coldest, snowiest winter in memory, the ground is thawing, the snow is gone, and the mess left behind became glaringly apparent. I set the date for the day this week that looked, from the ever-reliable forecasters, to be the best, set the time for my yard helper to come, and, of course, the forecast changed from mid-50s and sunny to mid-40s with intermittent showers.

Ha. As if a gray, chilly, drizzly day would stop me. It's Spring, dammit, and I was committed.

We worked for two and a half hours and filled two trash barrels and four large trash bags with the shriveled lamb's ear, the old hydrangea blooms, and, the biggest task--the ornamental grasses.

I have several kinds, from huge maiden grasses to smaller fountain grasses and reed grasses. They are some of the few things that stay when the rest of the gardens are cut back and cleaned up in the fall. In winter, they are lovely, their straw color emerging from the snow.

But by the end of winter, battered down by snow and wind, they become like those passages that survived all the edits. Until the final cut. The time you need to get out the scalpel, like Hannibal, and slice out the last of the lovelies.

Or, in the case of the grasses, the shears.

Okay, the day was chilly, it did rain, a bit. My back, as usual, complained at the bending and stretching. And it was all pure pleasure. Happiness in doing the work. Happiness in being outdoors, feeling the wind, even getting sprinkled upon.

Where tangled, bent things lay, now just shorn clumps remain, ready to spring into action. And that will come soon enough.

Right now, though, happiness is cutting. Actually having cut. Before, doing, and after. That part of any creative endeavor where taking away, eliminating, editing out, is its own reward. Now I can see the daffodils and hyacinths pushing up.

Or maybe it's just that it finally is Spring!

Spring, The Ruthless Season.

It's been a long and brutal winter, but Spring has arrived, and with it, a time for new beginnings.

Pushing up through last week's snow, the snowdrops are blooming in my garden. The first sign of renewal. Outside, just now, in a browned butterfly bush, a cardinal sits, a tiny splash of bright red in a tawny landscape.

It's been a human gestation period since I've visited this blog. I'm obviously not a dedicated blogger. I read so many writers' blogs, all writing about writing. I don't know more than they. Sure, I have a decent critical eye and a fair mastery of the craft, but I have little more to offer than the thousand other offerings.

So chances are, when I blog, it will be more about being creative. Not just with writing. I don't have any formulae. I just keep working at whatever creative activity needs doing, and aren't they all, in some way, the same? Taking our sense, our vision, putting our personal touch to it, and sharing it?

I've had people chat me up when I'm working my gardens to tell me that they drive from other parts of town for their morning walk just to walk past my home to see my yard and gardens. They have no idea how many failures have gone into it, failures that took serious revision. Digging up and moving plants. Replacing ones that just didn't work. Subtracting and adding.

Not unlike what a draft of a novel requires. Or a painting. A sculpture.

So here it is. A new season. Who knows what will have survived this winter? No doubt there will be plenty of pruning, cutting back, moving, and replanting.

I'll be going through edits on my (soon to be published) novel as I renew and plant in the gardens. Not so much different. What will the editor see that I've missed after a hundred edits? I look forward to it, with a bit of trepidation, as I look forward to what will need fixing up in the beds around our home. Each little thing has to work with the whole.

And that's the thing about doing anything creative, meaning anything that needs your personal sensibility to bring it to life. You get it all out there, make mistakes, and some things don't work and need to be moved, revised, changed, or completely deleted. But you stand back, look at the whole, and realize that to "get it right," you have to cut, move, and replant.

Sometimes that takes ruthlessness. I read once, it might have been Gertrude Jekyll, that to be a good gardener, one must be ruthless. So must all artists.

So here we go, into a Spring that may reveal some serious damage to correct. And how different is that from the novel you're working on, or your garden, or your painting, your sculpture, your song? An artist in any medium has to embrace ruthlessness.

But it's Spring. Ahh. Enjoy what's good and beautiful and then fix what needs fixing. I'm loving the snowdrops. The rest will come, and my shears are ready.

Are yours?

Summer, With An Edge

Summer's here. Wet, green, soft. But watch those blades of ormamental grasses. They can cut like a saw. Ah, that edge, the unexpected tear in a balmy day. The flower you cup to bring close, the flower that hides the bee.

Any day now, the third of the series of "seasonal" anthologies will be released from Elephant's Bookshelf  Press. Following Spring Fevers and The Fall: Tales from the Apocalypse, EBP will present its newest, and largest (two volumes):

Summer's Edge and Summer's Double Edge.

Full disclosure. My interest in the first two anthologies came about largely from my involvement with the wonderful writing/publishing community, Agent Query Connect, an amazing group of talented, caring, supportive, helpful people. Fun people. I wanted to taste their work. I was not disappointed.

Now I'm very happy to have a short story of mine in Summer's Double Edge.

President and Chief Elephant Office, Matt Sinclair, has edited all three anthologies, and, as word has spread, the quantity and quality of submissions for the summer anthology demanded two volumes. Twice as many delicious bites (stings?) of summer, that shortest of seasons, like many relationships. Every good thing must end, right?

Ironically, this has come about for me when I'd decided that I would not pursue the traditional path. That inclination solidified for me into a definite choice when, upon receiving a rejection from an agent on a full submission request for my novel, I breathed a deep sigh of relief.  Whew. No one breathing down my neck but me.

So I've tended my gardens, I've written as I've wanted (which hasn't, for a human gestation period, included posting to me own blog here,) and I've been a happy guy.

I don't know, really, much about this soon-to-be-released anthology, but I can't wait to read it. Okay, I'm kinda excited to see my story in print, too. But if the diversity is as wide-ranging as the previous two, and I can't imagine otherwise, it will be like Mrs. Gump's box of chocolates, only with some very surprising centers.

Are We What We Create?

In the loud and crowded world of the information age, we need, we're told, to develop a brand, gather a tribe, then focus like a laser on staying on target.

Well, I'm not one thing. I doubt you are, either. I don't write one kind of fiction. I don't read one kind. I am as invested in my gardens as I am in my writing. Cooking, too. I never expected my writing t bring me wealth, any more than I expected that of the gardens I've created.

People who walk by when I'm in the yard stop to tell me it's lovely, that they walk by just to see it. Prettiest in the neighborhood. One woman drives to this neighborhood for her walks just to see my yard. That's gratification enough. To share my vision and have someone say, wow, terrific. Well done.

That's all I want from my writing, too. Sure, having a book on the NYT top 10 wouldn't hurt my feelings. Who wouldn't love it? Promote the hell out of it? Absolutely. But I don't need it.

I create because I love the doing of it. I love rearranging words to see what fits best where. I love doing the same with my landscape. Often things that promised beauty turn out not to work, must be edited out or moved. A paragraph, an image, a shrub or perennial, stunted, obtrusive in one spot, thrives as a coherent element in another.

Raised Presbyterian, I eventually discovered The Tibetan Book of the Dead, read the Tao Te Ching, consulted the I Ching and runes, and delved into various mystical branches of many world religions. Who knows what is legend and what is history? Or what comes from enlightenment and what springs from wishful thinking?

With age comes perspective. Every faith believes itself to be the one true path to God, but none can pin down who or what "God" is. Certainly not some bearded wielder of lightning bolts or judgments. I've stopped trying to understand. I accept that I can't know. I can't even know if there's a greater Force permeating all creation. I still kinda tend to think maybe. There's just too much that can't be explained.

Each religion has branded what that is, that concept of original universal creative intelligence, whether called The Way, or God, or Allah, or Yahweh. I can't even say for sure there is one, though I'll hedge my bet. If there is, great, if not, I'll never know. So I choose to live as if it's true, but, as this invocation puts it so well, "in the names of the one who is all love."

Okay, pretty huge jump there, from me and writing and gardening to the mysteries of the universe, and I don't intend to get all religious. But, you know what? It's not really such a leap. Those mysteries inform my writing, my work with my little patch of earth, and every act of creation, however small.

There are hundreds, more, who can instruct on the craft of writing with far more authority than I, or on the ins and outs of publishing. I'll certainly bring up things I see that make me fucking nuts, or that make me need to share the beauty, or the absurdity, or whatever.

I am a writer. I work the earth. I'm fascinated by all aspects of creation. That could be writing as a craft, storytelling, the art of scaring the shit out of you by turning something everyday, something you cherish, into something that might take your soul, eat your children, and turn you into the monster. It could be a miraculous virgin birth as the cover for as miraculous an alien intervention.

So where does that put me? A perpetually skeptical spiritual explorer. Let there be Light, yeah, but those dark places sure are intriguing, aren't they? What's that around that corner? Was it human? Is it here to save us or destroy us?

Let me go into the garden and think about it while I move a few hostas. There's magic the the rearrangement of plants. And words. And body parts.

Damn. I haven't narrowed me down! Guess I'll have to live with who I am. And I'm okay with that.

We are creators, but are we what we create? How do you see the acts of creation?

Branding Your Writer's Self

I resist the idea of making "a brand" of myself and my work, but they say I must. We all must. So how do you accomplish that when it feels like shoeboxing an entire wardrobe?

I've written before about finding one's niche as a writer. About finding your tribe. Speaking specifically to your audience.

My tribe would be humans moved by humanity, what makes us and drives us. And what may lie beyond our human perception or comprehension.

As a writer, the first part of that statement would have me writing literary fiction. The second part puts me firmly in the speculative fiction camp.

I'm a split personality. And to that duality, I have to add a third: being a gay man with a desire to be a voice in that tribe. So I'm a writer of gay literary speculative fiction? Try to find that section of your local bookstore.

See, here's the thing. I love good horror, but I hate the often cheesy places it goes. I love the idea of alien interaction, ancient or current, in, upon, or among humans, but I don't always love reading science fiction. And while I would love to be one more author making gay characters an integrated part of everyday life, I don't want to limit myself to gay fiction. And I don't want to write gay "issue" stories. There are plenty of those.

So, shouldn't we speak to those with whom we'd love to speak, who would like to speak with us? People who are moved by or interested in what moves us to write? And wouldn't that, shouldn't that be found in what we like to read?

Well, no shit.

What moves me in reading, besides beautifully crafted images, language that sings, is what's amazing and beautiful and heartbreaking and brave and heroic about the human experience.

That can be found in fantasy worlds, of course, but I prefer to write about the world I know, with elements of speculation, because I love "what if…?" And if the suppositions are about horrific possibilities, well, I'm there, too. Bring it on.

So, back to branding. I think I prefer variations on a theme. But that's just me. And where's the niche?  Can I be an author of Speculative Gay Literary Fiction?  Author of Gay Literary Speculative Fiction? Or gay author of Literary Speculative Fiction? Yeah, show me that shelf.

Hello? Gay and gay-friendly wonderers, are you there? Can we talk about our fears, hopes, disappointments, tragedies, and joys? About what brings us together and tears us apart? About what makes all of us human? And, in some cases, decidedly not human? What I can bring to the party is a slew of good questions, some deep, some silly, some sad, some scary, and some without answers—at least from our limited view. We are, after all, only humans.

Or are we brands?

What say you?

Baiting the Hook

New Post today on the Speculative Fiction group blog on crafting suspense. Read it here.

Expect Less, Gain More

Sounds counterintuitive, doesn't it? It's not.

First, remember that everything is relative. What's rich to me may be near poverty to someone extremely wealthy, just as I may appear wealthy to a huge percentage of the world's population. I'm not. Far from it. But there are a lot of folks I'd never say that to.

And yet, I do think I'm pretty damn rich.

A couple years ago I was in close contact with a bright Danish woman who was beta-reading for me and I was helping, on occasion, to put her English, which is embarrassingly excellent, into a more English-sounding vernacular. During that time, Denmark was named by some credible source as the "happiest" nation on Earth. I asked her why.

At that time, and still today, it was obvious that, for all the awesomeness of the USA, land that I love, we are nowhere near that happy, as a nation. Why would little Denmark, with its winters of endless nights and summers of endless daylight, its cold, wet climate, be so damn happy?

Her answer? That they were a country of lower expectations. Maybe not lower. Maybe fewer.

Sounds wrong, doesn't it? We're taught to dream big. To hitch our wagons to the stars. We deserve the American Dream, right?

But think about it. Today I read a terrific blog post by MarcyKate Connolly on From the Write Angle. The title reflected what I'd been ruminating on for a few days:  The Journey Is the Destination. Check it out.

Whether it's the journey of the writer, from blank page to draft to revision, querying, publishing, and back to blank page, or just how we live our lives, if we're always looking beyond where we are to where we think we should be or want to be instead, we're missing the moment.

Our power is in that moment. It's in the now.

Sometimes that now feels great. We're in the flow. What a high! But sometimes that now seems stagnant, frustrating, hair pulling, and we'd rather be anywhere else.

Big mistake.

How does this relate to expectations being too great, set too high?

Let me refer back to another blog post from the inimitable Nathan Bransford, wherein he warns against letting dreams become expectations.

But aren't we supposed to dream?

Sure. Dream. Have expectations. But don't let them become what you live for. Because you'll never get there. There's always the next level, the next step, the next bigger, better thing that you'll need when what you have or where you are just isn't enough.

That's how we set ourselves up for disappointment. For failure. Even if we succeed at a level for which we should be kicking up our heels in a happy dance, we don't, because now we expect we should do better, get more.

Back to Denmark. They enjoy a very high standard of living. They pay high taxes. They enjoy many benefits in return. (This is not a political statement, by the way.) There are probably more bicycles than cars. Okay, I just made that up, but it seems so. They just don't expect the kind of overblown life of riches that's become the carrot dangling in front of us. They're content with what they have and they enjoy it. Ergo, they're happy.

I could list things I'd like to have and don't. Actual things (newer car, refinished floors) or writer's goals (an agent, a book deal, a best seller, a work-in-progress humming along), but, fact is, I'm cool with what I have and where I am. And I think a lot of that is because I don't expect that I should be elsewhere or have more than I do. I have enough. I like the journey. If I get those things, well, great. If I don't, I haven't failed.

So, again. Everything is relative. Especially when you measure what you have and where you are against what you've set yourself up to expect. Don't give up the dream. Just don't let it rule.

Hitch your wagon to whatever star you want, but don't forget to enjoy the clouds and the heavens as you pass through.

(This is a re-post from Friday, Aug. 3)