Can’t WAIT For the Muse

I'd like to welcome back Tawny Weber to Over Coffee. I always learn a lot from Tawny. She's a gifted writer with a great imagination, but she's also well grounded in the realities of writing. Her topic today, is one that my writing group and I were discussing just recently.

• How do you write when your Muse takes a hike?

Tawny, of course, has deadlines to meet. That doesn't mean it's an easy skate just because you're an experienced writer/author, but does mean you have to meet your deadlines.

I'll let Tawny tell you how she manages it.


I’m a big believer in the power of writing on the Muse’s wave of inspiration. Those intense “WOW” moments, when the entire story just seems to coalesce into a solid, well-conflicted, strongly motivated plot are amazing! Or when the characters suddenly come together –their actions well-motivated, their inner and outer conflicts clear and empathetic. Or better yet, those moments when the Muse seems to be right there behind you, pushing and motivating and inspiring hours-long writing sessions that require absolutely no stress or forehead-to-desk moments.

• Seriously, I love those times.

And then there are the other 8500 hours a year. You know the ones. The staring at the screen wondering how many seconds have passed since you wrote that last word. Doodling little flowers on the yellow pad instead of making character notes. Making scary faces out of the sticky-notes on your plotting board instead of scene notes. (oh yeah, I’ve done that) And then there are the stressed-out, written the characters into a corner, wondering if adding murder to a rom-com would fix the mess moments.

Those moments bite. And, IMO, those are the moments that make us writers. Not happy writers, but writers all the same. Because they test us, they prove to us that yes we CAN write. I love those times even more than the good Muse times.

Seriously!!!

Okay, so maybe it’s a form of self-hypnosis to tell myself these are the moments that make me a writer, but hey, I have so many more of them than the Muse-driven moments, I’ve finally decided to make the best of them.

And you know what, it works. I wrote YOU HAVE TO KISS A LOT OF FROGS during a very non-Muse driven time period and honestly, in reflection, think its one of my best stories to date. I wrote it through stress, on a super tight deadline (6 weeks) and while dealing with a bunch of personal problems. And I told myself the entire time that it was going to rock – because I loved the concept. I adore fairy tales and was so excited to have a chance to put my own Blaze-twist on The Frog Prince, which was a story I’ve always loved. I told myself that writing half my familiar word count (30k instead of 60k) was going to make it easier (hahahahaha). And when I finished that story –and finished revising it – I realized that one of the greatest tools in those non-Muse driven times is the ability to lie to myself. Because it worked. Telling myself all those great things worked.

So here’s to those little lies we tell ourselves...

• Do you ever resort to twisting reality in order to get yourself to do things? Write, exercise, face the unfamiliar? Has it worked? Share with me and I’ll be happy to offer up a copy of any book in my backlist to one kind commenter today :-)

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Tawny Weber is usually found dreaming up stories in her California home, surrounded by dogs, cats and kids. When she’s not writing hot, spicy stories for Harlequin Blaze, she’s shopping for the perfect pair of boots or drooling over Johnny Depp pictures (when her husband isn’t looking, of course).

Come by and visit her on the web at www.tawnyweber.com
http://blazeauthors.com/blog/

EXCERPT: YOU HAVE TO KISS A LOT OF FROGS

“What?” Jordan asked, trying not to sound as defensive as she felt. As soon as Sebastian thought he had the upper hand, he’d go right back to nagging her to leave.

“There’s only room for one Golden Boy, and you’ve got that position nailed.”

“What a stupid title,” he muttered.

Jordan’s smile widened. Walking through the room, she made sure he had plenty of towels and blankets. Then she headed for the door.

“What’s the matter,” she teased. “You didn’t know that was your primary designation at Machismo? Closely followed by Stud King, of course.”

She expected him to laugh. Instead he looked as if she’d punched him in the belly and called him a pansy.

“What?” she asked, her hand on the doorknob. No wonder she always ended up with losers. She obviously didn’t know how to talk with men. “I’m not poking fun at your masculinity or anything.”

He got this weird look on his face. Almost like panic. Then it was replaced by a set, determined expression that sent a trickle of worry down her spine. Kind of like the kind she got when someone told her she couldn’t do something. A look that warned, ‘Oh, yeah? Watch me.’

Brow furrowed, he strode slowly toward her. Jordan didn’t know why, but she suddenly wanted to run. Stupid. She wasn’t afraid of Sebastian Lane. Except...maybe she was a little afraid of that look on his face. And the way her body reacted to it.

Her thighs quivered. Warmth trickled from her suddenly beaded and aching nipples to deep in her belly. She forced herself to keep breathing normally as he stopped just a few inches from her.

Jordan swallowed, looking up to meet Sebastian’s gaze. A wicked glint sparked in his eyes, but beneath it she saw something else. Something edgy. Dangerous. Sexy as hell.

“Is that why you won’t leave, Princess?” he murmured, planting one hand on the wall next to her head and leaning closer, so the warmth of his body wrapped around her like a silken blanket. “You’re wanting to find out for yourself just how studly I am?”

“Yeah, right,” she dismissed, shooting for sardonic. Instead, she sounded breathless and needy. It was hard to care, though, with Sebastian’s mouth just inches from hers. She stared, noting the laugh lines fanning from those hypnotic eyes and the dark whiskers starting to shadow the sharp edge of his jaw.

“Do you listen to the gossip often? All those whispered reports about how I like it in bed? Whether I’m a traditional, missionary style kind of guy? Or if I play on the kinky side?”

“Who whispers,” she said, her eyes locked on his lips. Smooth, full and enticing, they were right there, tempting her to do something stupid.

“The talk about you is done in giggles and shouts. And traditional is the last word associated with your preferences.”

“And you’re wondering?”

“Only about your stamina.”

His grin was fast, appreciative and the final straw for Jordan. She couldn’t stop herself. She ran her tongue over her bottom lip. Just the tip of it.

That’s all it took. Sebastian’s eyes went from amused to molten. Then he lowered his head. Excitement did a happy sprint through Jordan’s tummy, her heart keeping pace. Desire, hot, wild and intense flamed through her.

Finally!

Like a whisper, his lips brushed hers. Just barely a taste, a hint of the decadent deliciousness yet to come. Her breath lodged tight in her chest. Her heart pounded so hard she was sure he could feel it against his mouth.

Then he pulled back. Eyes closed, he shook his head and turned away. Jordan almost screamed in protest. She wanted her kiss, dammit. It was all she could do not to grab him back as he strode toward the bed.

Biting the Nail: The Discipline of Writing

My guest is award winning author, Vincent Zandri. Zandri’s writing has been described as “poignant and shocking” with “depth and substance, wickedness and compassion.” He wrote the critically aclaimed As Catch Can. Vincent's new book, Moonlight Falls will be released later this year.

How does someone who works full time as a freelance writer and photo journalist, a father, and author, manage it all? And do it so well? I hear he has an alluring partner who helps...

“Where do you get your discipline?”

That’s the question I’m asked most frequently about my solitary writing life. Most people who work according the programmed schedule of job and career find it inconceivable that a person can actually roll out of bed, face a blank page, and begin to make words. Yet, as writers, that’s what we do. We create and in order to create we have to have discipline. Discipline to work alone, according to our own rules, according to our own high standards, according to our own priorities and curiosities.

Acquiring discipline isn’t so hard when you are passionate about your work—when you have a desire not only to write well, but to do it better than anyone has done it before. At the same time you have to develop a skin of armor in order to feed the obsession. The first most important lesson of the disciplined writing life is learning that you’re not always going to be successful. Most of the time you will fail and must face the resulting rejection head on. That’s the most difficult thing about discipline: carrying on with your work unabated, even in the face of rejection.

So where does my discipline come from?

As clichéd as it sounds, I can only tell you that it comes from deep inside. It’s not something I have to work up; so much as it’s something I have to feed on a daily basis. Discipline means waking up early every day, day in and day out, and writing. It’s writing everyday in isolation no matter what’s happening in my life. Be it sick kids, angry spouses, insolvent bank accounts, a broken toilet, a terrorist attack… I write no matter what. Hemingway called this sometimes impossible but necessary process, “biting the nail.” And anyone who has the discipline to write every day no matter what, understands what biting the nail is all about. Writing, like the discipline it requires, can be an awfully painful process.

Back in 1992, I wrote in my published essay, A Literary Life, “In the morning, weariness begins with darkness. It surrounds me inside my kitchen like a weighted shroud, cumbersome and black. It continues as my fingertips search and locate a light switch next to the telephone, above my son’s hi-chair. White light stings my eyes when I flip it up. There is a clock above the sink…I interpret a big hand and little hand that have not yet made 6:00AM.”

Those were the days when I wrote in the mornings, worked a fulltime job and received rejections everyday. But still, I crawled out of bed and wrote. I guess all these years later, I can truthfully say, discipline is what I had in the place of sleep, in the place of comfort, in the place of security and success. Discipline was and remains the bedfellow I seek when I am at my most lonely.

Eventually the discipline would reap its rewards.

In the 12 years since I’ve earned my MFA from Vermont College, I’ve published three novels, with one on the way this winter. I’ve been translated into numerous languages. I’ve published almost two-dozen short stories, countless articles, essays and blogs. I’ve traveled “on assignment” to China, Turkey, Greece, Italy, France, Spain, Africa and more. Along the way I’ve met wonderful people, seen wonderful things, witnessed atrocities, unspeakable disease, hunger and corruption. I’ve written about much of it. Some of it, I’ve simply stored away in my brain for some future story or novel down the road.

For all its rewards, discipline demands stiff payment.

Because of my priorities, I’ve failed at two marriages and many more relationships. I’ve lost friends and lost the faith and trust of family members who have come to think of me as unreliable or flaky at best. Because after all, I tend to use a holiday like Christmas as a time to work, and when family events like birthdays come up, I might be traveling or locked up in my studio with my significant other…Well, you know her name. It starts with a D.

I have managed however, to find a way to balance time with my kids. Not that it’s always been easy. Children are a distraction, no bones about it. But they are also fuel for your discipline. I’m not entirely certain that I could have achieved any kind of success without them. Children open up emotional vaults that would otherwise remain sealed shut. You need to expose the contents of these vaults in your prose.

My writing simply wouldn’t be the same without kids. Now that they’re almost grown up, I still keep them as close as possible without smothering them. When it comes to my children, my philosophy has always been, hug them, tell them you love them, and make them laugh once a day. You’d be surprised how well this works. Also, don’t be afraid to tell them the truth. They know when you’re lying. If you can’t spend time with them because you have to feed the discipline, be honest about it. They will appreciate you for it and come to respect you.

Case and point: it’s a beautiful Saturday afternoon and I’m writing this article. My children are home, just outside the closed door of my studio, where I can hear them engaged in some sort of friendly argument. I’m not doing anything with them per se. But I’m here with them, for them.

This month alone I will write and published 36 short architecture and construction articles, three major blogs, present a revised version of The Concrete Pearl (my fifth novel) to my agent, write one or two features, engage in pre-publicity for Moonlight Falls, and maybe, if there’s time, pen a new piece for my personal blog. In between all this, I’ll juggle time with the kids, time for exercise, time to tip some beers with friends, time for a few road trips, time to be by myself and read. Have I mentioned the discipline required to read books?

One word of warning, the discipline, no matter how beautiful a bedfellow, does not always respond lovingly. Even after you’ve scored a major book contract or two. During my second marriage, I suffered through a writer’s block that lasted five long years, a period during which I published not a single word. The block just happened to coincide with my oldest son’s nervous breakdown and the onset of severe depression (see “Breakdown,” http://www.blnz.com/news/2008/11/12/Breakdown_8563.html). At that time, as I neared bankruptcy (after receiving a mid-six figure advance for As Catch Can), I never once stopped working, never once veered from the discipline of waking up every morning and trying to write. “Trying” being the key word here.

Looking back on those difficult years, I realize I wasn’t writing so much as I was just typing, but the process helped me cope with some very difficult and serious issues in my life. If nothing else, the discipline to write can be a mighty powerful therapy.

Eventually the damn breaks, as it did in my case, and I made a return to good writing and publishing. I’m not making millions by any means, but I make a decent living as a freelance journalist and novelist, and that’s all anyone can honestly ask for.

The late great Norman Mailer also understood about the financial ups and downs of being a fulltime writer. But more importantly, he understood about the discipline of biting the nail. He wrote 2,500 new words a day right up until the end when his kidneys failed him. It wasn’t the disciple or the talent or the mind that gave out, it was the 84-year-old body. I’m told he died with a smile on his face. Not the kind of smile that accompanies peace of mind, sedated painlessness, or “going to the bright light.” But the kind of smile that only a disciplined writer can wear; the sly grin that means you’re about to embark on a brand new adventure, and that you can’t wait to write about it.

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Vincent Zandri is the award winning author of the critically acclaimed As Catch Can, Godchild, and Permanence. His new novel, Moonlight Falls will be published this winter by RJ Buckley. A full-time freelance writer and photo journalist, he is also a Stringer for Russia Today TV. An avid traveler and sports enthusiast, Zandri plays drums for the New York based punk rock band, The Blisterz. For more information on Vincent Zandri and his publications, visit, www.vincentzandri.com, http://www.facebook.com/vincent.zandri?ref=profile and http://www.journalism.co.uk/12/articles/533696.php