The path is narrow, a thin line dividing uphill and downhill, traced in the rock over the contours of the mountain. Small flowers, delicate and blue and white and yellow, cower in the crevices, hoping to garner enough sunlight and water and somehow keep their fingerhold on the rock long enough to grow the few inches which is all they’ll get. I wonder if they draw inspiration from the occasional pine tree rooted deep in the seemingly impenetrable rock. Somehow things survive here.

“That’s the New Jersey state flower,” my husband says.

“The pretty yellow one?”

“No, the spiky one. The nettle, there.”

(Actually, given New Jersey, that makes a kind of sense.)

You can see further – both distance and vertical. The next ridge may be miles away. From a single spot, you can see both the summit you desire and the fall you fear.

The rocks are scored with sharp lines, straight faults in the rust-red rock of the walls. Iron is more often paired with the word grey to describe color, but here everything associated with iron is stained red, brick and carmine and carnelian.

A group behind us is scuffing their way up the trail at a much faster clip than we are moving. One of them, a young man with wild hair stuffed under a ballcap, is excitedly explaining… something. I wonder briefly whether he has some kind of behavioral disorder and then realize he could also be explaining the plot of a book. Maybe even one he’s working on currently. Ah, writers. The line between us sounding normal and us sounding like complete nutters is often defined only by the makeup of our audience.

This year, there is more water in the riverbeds, and the sounds of the rushing water, like traffic that never gets a red light, is audible long before the whitecaps and glassy green intervals between them before the water pushes against another obstruction in its way can be seen.

Then the storm comes.

Thunder hits the walls of the canyon, breaking into sharper sounds than you hear in the city, mirroring the rock edges of the cliffs, unfiltered by trees and buildings.

Lightning is brighter, white instead of yellow and orange.

Raindrops are bigger, hitting hard enough that you have to squint to see whether the water is liquid or frozen into soft hail.

I start to do the kind of jog that hopefully looks more like I’m worried about my camera than freaked out by the lightning. We started down at the first clap of thunder and now we’re only fifty yards from the car. Surely lightning won’t hit us in the next fifty yards.

You have a 1 in 3,000 chance of being struck by lightning in your lifetime, I remember reading somewhere. For comparison, I also read someplace that the chance of getting signed by a literary agent is 1 in 10,000. Possibly someone just made that statistic up.

I start trotting faster anyways.

We make it to the truck unstruck. I’m reminded how quickly the mountains can become dangerous, which is the risk you accept when you go to them.

I’m also reminded that the writing brain is always working, even when the legs are hiking.

It’s a particular challenge, writing science fiction.

If you’re writing fantasy, you can make the rules. It is what you say it is. Stick to your own rules, and you’re good.

If you’re writing something set in the “real world”, then usually you’re good to go. Maybe research. Maybe a little, maybe a lot, depending on which setting you picked.

Science fiction blends these two in a sometimes unclear way.

You get to make stuff up, but only up to a certain point. Where that point is depends on you. On the one hand, it is science fiction, which means some of it has to be, well, fiction. Not true or not yet true. If you knew how to really make some of the things you posit in the story work, you would probably abandon writing at least long enough to invent whatever-it-is, make your millions, and retire comfortably. On the other hand, it’s science, which means it has to be at least somewhat plausible and agree with a basic scientific literacy.

And even then, it depends on the writer, and at least somewhat on the reader. Is the science part of the fiction believable (or does it at least not fracture the first law of thermodynamics)? Sometimes, this is a bit like sales – “No, really! The first law of thermodynamics has exceptions! Let me show you. Come on, haven’t you always suspected it? Just privately, to yourself?” *wink* “Very smart of you. Let me tell you all about it!”

And then twenty or thirty years passes and the story proves much more fiction than science.

Or, as my husband put it while we were watching the final scene in Star Wars, “Laser cannons wouldn’t have recoil.”

I’ve never done this in a bookstore before.

I was looking for a specific book (okay, yes, that part has happened before. Several times.). Shelved nearby were other books, tempting books.

Tempting because I realized, “Hey, I know these authors”. Not in a we go out for pizza every Thursday kind of way. But in a I follow them on Twitter, I’ve checked out their blog, they seem like good people and good people probably have good stories kind of way. Please note that this isn’t a rule, more of a guideline.

When that happened with the first book, I snatched it off the shelf. I’d been wanting to read this author for a while, but was a bit chicken because he doesn’t write in a genre I enjoy. Or so I thought. Turns out I do like military science fiction, if this particular person writes it.

Then there was another book. Name recognition. I know of this person. She seems like a good person, an interesting person. Somebody with good stories. Let’s have her book, too!!

This is not the way books were purchased in the past. Usually it was cover attraction first, then page through checking out the story (which is why if an ebook sample contains only the book blurbs and a table of contents and doesn’t let me at least eyeball a few pages of story, I don’t buy the book. Probably I’m missing out. But them’s the rules), and then buy the book. Perhaps after that, looking online to see what the author’s story is, as much of it as they care to share, anyways. Cover, story, author. Not author, story, cover.

Twenty years ago, the author’s name was just another line of type on the cover to me. It was the story I engaged with. I’m glad I’ve gotten with the times (after prodding from my agent, who was right), however belatedly.

I found two new books I’d never have found otherwise, from doing it backwards, in a bookstore.

I was in a sports bar the other day after attending the theater (yes, we are probably the only people who go from theater to sports bar). All the screens were on, blaring. Hockey. College baseball. Commentary. Advertisements for high speed internet. Trivia. Music playing as well, independent of the things on the screens surrounding us.

I munched on a hot wing with a generous dollop of ranch and wondered who the hell could get anything done in a world like this. Slick content, ready and available in seventeen flavors. Infinite choices. Sometimes I wonder if the purpose of time is to keep everything from happening at once, whether the purpose of high speed internet and cable is to defeat time and make everything happen at once.

Here’s how this can screw writing.

One, we click on a link or a button and content pops up immediately without any apparent effort on the part of the creator. Sure, we understand with our heads that someone (probably) worked on this. But we didn’t see it. A hundred, two hundred years ago, there was a better understanding of the work that went into a finished product. You could see someone spinning carded wool into yarn. Beeswax became candles once you melted it down and removed the dead bees who had made the wax, just for starters.

Point two. I think sometimes the subconscious belief is that the work that went into a story doesn’t exist. We click. It pops. Easy. The work process is veiled. It’s like a cat hiding – if it can’t see you, you aren’t there. If you don’t see the work, it isn’t there. Subconscious, you tricky beast.

Point three. Because we don’t see the work that others have put into their writing and the inference might be that it isn’t there (or at least, it isn’t obvious), we don’t really expect to work either. This can sidewinder into related problems, which include expecting your story to sort of write itself somehow – and then being hard on yourself when your story doesn’t write itself, or starting to do the work and being intimidated by it. Something along the lines of “If I have to work this hard at it, it must mean it’s no good and I am no good.”.

This is not true.

But it feels true sometimes – and judging from blogs and comments and tweets and conversation with Actual Authors, I don’t think I’m alone here.

Remember that making stories is work. It should be work. Fun work, satisfying work, frustrating work, absorbing work, but work. You start with raw materials – an image, a thought, a line or two – and you nurture that into something more and more until you have a story. A novel, a piece of flash fiction, a poem, whatever it is that you write.

And then you work. Give yourself permission to work. And remember that you have to be working to make mistakes.

How do you describe a complex character in just a few lines?

If you’ve never heard “Pancho and Lefty”, let me recommend you go listen to it, now. At least the first 90 seconds. My favorite is the Merle Haggard and Willie Nelson version, from the Pancho and Lefty album.

It takes 90 seconds for the song to paint not one, but two characters. So simple and brilliant.

After two minutes and thirty seconds, you have the conflict. One of them is struggling, and losing. One is fighting and winning until the other one betrays him.

At just under four minutes, the resolution. One’s dead, and one is consumed by regret.

Songs help me boil down characters and conflict by example. Storytelling songs are a kind of flash fiction, if you ask me. A song that intends to tell a story has only a few minutes to set up characters, conflict, and resolution.

There’s a lot to be gained by listening.

PS – Those who are interested could also try Donald and Lydia by John Prine.

“They’re just as scared of you as you are of them.”

I was about to teach my first class as a paid instructor. I’d taught before on a volunteer basis, but suddenly everything was different. People were ponying up money and I was supposed to deliver content. And answer any questions. And make it engaging. And manage the whole room of personalities to maintain a safe space. And not forget everything I knew about the topic for the day.

I was terrified.

Then my mentor dropped the above gem on me about a day before the first talk was scheduled. After a pause, he said, “You know, since you’re the instructor, they’re maybe even more scared of you than you are of them.”

Oh. OH. I hadn’t thought of that. I’d pictured a cruel and uncaring audience, one that would sit and judge and snark and belittle if I made any tiny misstep. Ancient Rome, meet education. To the arena! Fight!

My mentor reminded me that I was going to be talking to people. Real people. With fears and hangups and obstacles and joys and hopes and dreams of their own.

Sound familiar?

I bring this up because of the importance of empathy. (And because a recent light brush with hate for the gatekeepers of the profession bugged me. Crushing dreams is something I’ve been accused of on occasion for gatekeeping my daytime profession, and it bugs me when it happens. Overreact and personalize, much?) Because we’re all talking to people, with hopes and dreams and fears and hangups of their own.

There’s no demons.

There’s no monsters.

There’s people. And people are imperfect and passionate and unpredictable. Good people, and bad people. Generally more of the former than the latter.

It bears mentioning.

I’m working on a new manuscript.

It’s not the first time I’ve done this.

But it is the first time I’ve really concentrated on it. The rule used to be that I had to put down some words every night. I wrote flash fiction (and that was good for developing setup, conflict, resolution skills), or maybe I messed around with another project. As long as words got made, the goal was met.

Now I’ve set myself to making words in response to a request from my agent. Every day. Make the words. Make them. I’d done it before for other kinds of projects. I could do it now.

Vague sense of dissatisfaction, though. I made a draft. I linked events. Things happened. Some of it was easy, some of it was hard. Writing’s hard. Everybody says so. Hard work. I’m not afraid of that.

I also meant to get the playlist put together for the story. Busy times. No playlist. Disjointed thoughts of “Oh! I should put that song on the playlist!” as I encountered new music and old. But no playlist materialized.

And I didn’t feel the story. Patience, grasshopper, I told myself. Let it come to you. It will.

Then I made the playlist. Then I understood something about “my process”.

I need to line out the events. They make logical sense. They have suspense and tension and flow from character choices. I think so, anyways. Hopefully someone agrees with me.They are the skeleton, the outline, the bones of the story.

But I need the playlist too – which makes sense since I spend so much time with music. That’s where the heart of the story comes from. That’s where I get not the sequence of events but the impact.

Now I know. And now I can quit worrying about not feeling the story, and with any luck, this is a process that can be (and will be) repeated in future.

Patience, grasshopper.

So there’s a thing that’s been bugging me.

Prior to making it a professional endeavor, I was pretty selective about what I read in regards to writing. I devoured posts on how-to, mostly – how to write a query, how to write a synopsis, how to find a good agent. I would also read Chuck Wendig’s terribleminds blog.

Now I’m working on saying hi to the community, and there are some awesome people there. I’m glad my agent gave me social media homework and made me get in the pool. Great folks, interesting ideas. Lots to see and hear. Good stuff. Mostly. Thank you for being awesome, people. You know who you are.

But also some bewildering stuff. Some incomprehensible stuff. Some stuff I Just Don’t Get.

Let’s talk about the Infallibility Theorem. Why do I keep getting this vibe that a writer must make every choice correctly the very first time? Where else in life is that an absolute? I’m not saying it doesn’t help. I’m not saying that I don’t see that too many poor choices can lead to disaster and the end of a career – but isn’t that true of a lot of careers?

Mileage varies. There’s always someone ready to tell you what to do. My responsibility is to check my compass and decide whether to stay or change course. I’m working on remembering that even though I’m the new kid here, that’s just here – whatever life experience I’ve managed to garner is still valid and the compass is just as reliable as it ever was. I am not really adrift, even if this is a strange new sea.

So if you find yourself confronting the Infallibility Sea Monster, or its smaller cousin, the Perfection Kraken, my advice is close your eyes and repeat these wise words from Winston Churchill, “Success is not final, failure is not fatal: it is the courage to continue that counts.”

I am notoriously bad at holidays. I generally know they’re coming (because I go to the grocery store and that makes the major ones hard to miss) but as far as actually doing anything about them – nope.

“Did you make me socks?” my husband asked when I called him Friday to announce yet another start to The Commute Home 500.

Socks. No. What? “What socks?”

“There’s red socks in the hallway near my shoes. I thought maybe you left them as a gift.”

Now is the embarrassing time to admit those are my socks, my ultra thick red wool hunting socks. Those are not his socks.

“Those are my socks. Sorry.” Though I am inwardly flattered that between a full time job and drafting a new manuscript he thinks I could a) have had time to knit socks b) have had time to knit socks while keeping it a secret from him. When would I have knit socks? I need both hands for the commute home most days.

But I console myself after we hang up. This time, I got his Valentine’s Day present. I got it on my lunch hour, yes, but I am bringing it home with me and it is ready to go on the evening of. Points for me.

We got takeout from the good Italian place for dinner. It doesn’t take long to notice that the dressing containers that usually come with the antipasti are missing. Husband is crestfallen. Antipasti without dressing is no antipasti at all. Dinner is ruined.

Except that one of the presents I happened to have bought him is a fancy jar of spice mix that when blended with olive oil and wine vinegar, actually makes a very nice Italian style dressing. Dinner is saved.

For once, I am a good Valentine. But this one is going to be hard to top. Next year is doomed.

We sat down to watch the Broncos tonight.

Belief gave way to hope.

Hope gave way to stoicism.

On the Broncos’ last possession of the game, I looked at my husband and asked, in total frustration, “Why doesn’t Manning just take a knee?”

He eyed me and shot back, “When you were getting all those rejections on your manuscript last spring, why didn’t you just take a knee?”

Well.

I’m not Peyton Manning in any field or shape or form. No way.

But it’s persistence that gets you to the big dance. It’s hope that gets you back on the field calling plays even when there’s no reason to think you’re going to win. It’s professionalism that keeps you in the game.

Salud, Mr. Manning. You showed us something tonight. And though the Broncos didn’t win, they’re a team I can stand behind.