Writing from "TV," Part II. (Or, "No Tears in the Writer, No Tears in the Reader.")

Last time, we started mulling over what writing from Total Vulnerability looks like...

...sounds like...

...feels like. 

But we just touched the very surface of it--which, ironically enough, is NOT what writing from "TV" ends up being, if it's done right.  

Writing from TV, in the end, is about writing "soul deep."

The quote in the title above is one I've heard for years, one that's especially apropos--to my way of thinking, anyway--when we're talking writing love stories.

Now, this does not mean that you need to write tragedy. In fact, in the case of genre romance, you can't write a tragic ending and have it fulfill most romance readers' expectations. Which means that it won't fulfill a romance publisher's expectations, either.

Which means the only expectation it may fulfill is more rejection-letter fodder for your fireplace. Burn 'em if ya got 'em, I guess. 😔

But, to me, what writing from "TV" looks like  is that the "feels" are what counts.

So, there are times when I'm crying as I write.

No. Really. I am.

Or holding my  breath in suspense as I create a crisis...even though I know I'm making it all up, and they're going to be all right in the end. 

Sounds silly, doesn't it? 

But it's not. And I'm rediscovering this kind of writing, which I used to do before I knew all the "rules" and all the "stuff I couldn't do" and all the "stuff that wouldn't sell"...and I just told stories. And not only is it exhilarating, and risky, and scary, and sometimes rattling as all get-out...but, boy, is it fun.

The best comparison I can make to illustrate what this looks like is my late husband's favorite movie, Top Gun. Great stuff. No, it'll probably never win any sophistication, subtlety, or deftness awards. But it has absolutely one of the best uses of the "feels" I've ever encountered, in that last dogfight scene. 

I mean, when I watched it the first time, I was on the edge of my chair. As probably most people were. The aerial photography, for one thing, is breathtaking--but the action is even better. And the ever-present danger, coming at our heroes at high speeds and seemingly from everywhere--when we've already seen one of these guys die earlier in the movie--is a slice of writing from "TV" that is genius.  Because these guys are vulnerable in a way most of us have never, ever experienced...except vicariously. 

But we experience it in this movie. And how.

We're already emotionally involved not only because Maverick's on a mission to redeem the somewhat questionable history of his father, but we've already lost Goose...and then all hell breaks loose in the sky, and it's tough to imagine that these guys are gonna all come out of this thing alive.

Of course, through a great many heroic moves, some smart-aleck stuff from Maverick, and some flying and fighting skill second to none...everybody does survive, and rousingly so.

And, having seen this movie, I know there's an uproariously happy ending to it.

And yet...

Every time I watch that dogfight scene, I'm back on the edge of my seat.

And that, to me, is where the emotional genius comes in.

When the writers were putting that together, they must have been pacing around the room,  throwing out the words as fast as they could get them out. Feeling the adrenaline. Experiencing a very real, albeit fictitious, fear...even though, once again, they were making it all up, and the characters were all going to be all right in the end. 

That's what total vulnerability looks like--on the page, and on the screen.

And that's what my writing has, thanks be to God, come back to.

Writing over the top.

Writing a touch melodramatic.

Writing on the raw edge of a nerve.

Writing hokey, in-your-face emotion--both funny and tragic.

Writing that makes my stomach go to butterflies as I'm doing it.

Writing that makes me choke up when the hero goes down on one knee.

Writing that, in my latest romantic suspense books, brings me to the edge of my own chair.

Even though I know these people are going to come out of this all right.

And so, what is happening now in my writing is that I'm peeling layers until I get to that sweet emotional spot--the one that will take me, and hence my reader, back to that "dogfight" again, and again, and again...and make her feel the same things. 

Make her heart go to her throat wondering if these people are going to be together...or if their love won't, in the end, survive. 

Make her tear up when death is closing in on the hero, or heroine, or both of them--and help may not get there in time.

Make her let out a long breath of relief when rescue finally does  happen...

...whether it's actual physical life-saving intervention or emotional healing...

or a combination of both.

And make the happy ending something beyond merely "happy"...and the book into a keeper.

Will it be sophisticated, subtle, and deft?

Not on your life.

But is it authentic?

Yep.

And I know when I do it right...

...because before you feel it as a reader, I've felt it as a writer.

And if I haven't felt it deep enough, I sit back, take a breath...

...and go deeper.

And I don't stop until I figuratively "draw blood."

Or cry.

Or both.

What will happen with this latest writing, only time will tell.

But in the past four years, I have written five books--a pace at which I have never written in my life.

Which tells me that, both in terms of quality and in terms of productivity...

...I'm onto something.

So, if you're feeling dry...maybe the answer isn't to read another writing manual, or go to another writing conference or workshop, or find another critique group, or get an MFA in Creative Writing so you can "crack the code."

Maybe, the code is inside you...just buried deeper than cool, calm, sophisticated, and subtle can reach. 

At heart level.

At vein level.

At the level of total vulnerability.
Where you write the stuff you're afraid  people might laugh at...

...but you then come out with stuff that will make people not just read your story...but feel it  And feel. And feel some more.

And that kind of story...most people never get enough of.

Anytime you want to join me in doing our best to give them that kind of read...jump right in. 

The water's fine. Even when--or maybe I should say especially when--you let yourself go deep enough to drown in it.

It's writing you never thought you could do.  

And once you do it, you'll never stop.

Thoughts?

Janny

 

Writing From "TV," Part I. (And, No, It's Not What You Think.)

Over the past few years, I've had a couple of what can only be called major transformations.

In my life, certainly.

But also, in my writing.

And in the process, I'm "refinding" and nurturing  roots I'd forgotten I had. 

Romance, for one. Specifically, happy, heartwarming romance. The kind of life I never lived in my family of origin (!), but the kind I lived in my adult years, once the mad percussionist and I came through the fire and emerged, out the other side, stronger, sweeter, deeper, and...ironically...on the way to becoming more and more who we were when we first fell in love.

Which is the cruel part about his untimely death happening when it did: that particular sun was just beginning to peep back over the horizon, only to set...too soon.

But, for reasons known only to the Almighty--and only happening by His power, I believe--even after Patrick's death, I've continued down the "revert" path...

...to the point where, literally, I've become once more the writer I was when I first fell in love. With writing, that is.

And that's where the title of this post comes in.

Yes, there IS "writing from TV" that, in fact, refers to "writing from (or for) television."

But that is not the writing I'm talking about now.

In this case, "TV" doesn't stand for "television," but for something way scarier.

Total Vulnerability.

What does that "TV" look like?

Short and sweet, it's summed up in the old wisecrack, "Writing is easy. Just sit down at your desk and open a vein."

It's writing that peels away layers.

Exposes your heart.

And isn't safe.

Don't misunderstand me, though.

I'm not talking about writing about so-called "unsafe" topics.

Or taking "risks" that are nothing more than painting depravity on a page.

Or illuminating "issues," righting wrongs, or making your reader uncomfortable by probing at her hypocrisies and forcing her to face them...

...all thinly disguised as fiction.

If you've read the CWC at all, you know how much I despise that.

I'm talking about writing that's honest. And terrifying at times. 

Writing that reaches into your guts. (Not that tries to challenge a reader's.)

Writing that goes over the top. 

The kind of writing we all do when we're about sixteen.

Melodramatic.

Intense.

Exposed.

Not "mature."

Not "sophisticated."

Not "subtle" or "eloquent" or "deft."

For a time, there, I tried to be subtle, and eloquent, and deft...and I ended up with people asking me ,"Where's the feeling in this?"

I thought it was there.

And maybe it was.

But it was being camouflaged under layers of what I thought "mature" writing was supposed to look like. Cool. Distant. Challenging.

I wanted to write cerebral, sophisticated stories. 

Whodunnits that would literally leave a reader gasping in surprise, then chuckling in admiration.

Romances that would leave a reader smiling knowingly, and even a little envious of the really, really cool people I'd set out there for them to emulate.

Nick and Nora Charles, if you would.

(Look it up.)

Only problem?

I'm not that person. 

And I'm not that writer.

The writer I've become now, however? Her, I like. A lot.

And the plus of this "reversion" is...now, I'm writing like (almost) never before.

What does this writing look like? And how is it turning out?

We'll talk about that in Part II!

To Be Continued...

Janny

Make that 64,585...

 ...being slowed only by my having had carpal tunnel release surgery on my right hand on January 5. Yeah. Six days ago, and I can almost type normally again.

Which, I suppose, says a lot for clean living. (!)

Added to this, of course, then is the latest invitation my agent has received from an editor for projects to fit a very specific kind of story--one I happen to be very good at. 

But NOT the kind I'm working on now! 

(Ayee)

More to come. Probably much, much, MUCH more...soon as my hand can cope with it.

Pray!

Janny

59,380...and counting

Okay, not to brag or get ahead of myself or anything, because I KNOW I've written some rabbit trails I'll have to trim and/or excise when it comes to editing and polishing...

...but MY BROTHER'S KEEPER is up to almost 60K words, and will reach that this weekend. More than likely, I'll blow right through to the tune of 2,000-3,000 more words before the New Year.

No, this won't finish the book; my novels of late are in the 85K+ range, and this one will end up that long for sure. But considering this is the THIRD book I will be tackling during calendar year 2020, I'm still not going to complain.

And, yes, I'm starting to get that "butterfly" feeling in the pit of my stomach. The one that's a mixture of wondering-if-I-can-pull-it-off and watching-myself-do-so. There's a creative fire that flares even higher at times like this--when you get that heart-stopping thought that maybe, just maybe--as the hero in one of my sweet romances says, This is gonna happen. Thanks be to all that is holy, this is really gonna happen!

People who don't create "stuff" out of nothing probably don't relate to this.

But I know a whole lot of you who...most assuredly...DO.

And with that, I must be going...

Stay tuned!

Janny

The Last Musical Monday of 2020!

Yes, I know...some of you can't wait to end this year.

BUT  Christmas isn't over yet, as you all well know. The celebration here, liturgically speaking, ends only at the feast of the Baptism of Christ--and at the Vatican, the creche stays up until Candlemas, which is February 2.

Yeah. 

So, in the spirit of continuation of the Christmas celebration, I bring you this.

This came not upon a midnight clear, but snuck up on me on WFMT as I was working in my office...and it blew me plumb away. I may be late to the party on this one; apparently, it's been around for some time... but I really don't care. There's never an expiration date on Debussy and Gruber.  Nor should there be.

Enjoy!

Janny

'Tis the Last Musical Monday Before Christmas...

 ...and there is no more fitting song than this one to share.

I was a little girl when I first heard this song...and it captured me.

I was a college student when I was lucky enough to perform this in an ensemble...

...and when another "little drummer boy"--born, coincidentally enough, on Christmas Day--captured me as well.

Both have held my heart ever since.

The original. The definitive. And, by far, the best version of this song. 

Ever.

May you always "play your best for Him."

Merry Christmas!

Janny

 

A Double Dip for Musical Monday!

Further proof that good musicians "borrow" (steal!) from each other all the time... 😊

First, the original, from Prokofiev...

And then, what Greg Lake did with it. 

The first one's rather more cheerful than the second, IMHO. But that doesn't diminish the memories--and there are plenty of them--that I have with the second song. 

Hallelujah...Noel!

More musical thoughts to come,

Janny

Musical Monday on Wednesday! (LOL)

Never mind...it's worth it. Honest. 
When I was a baby music student, I fell in love with this second movement of the "Rhenish" Symphony...and in the process, with the entire piece as well.  Much of Schumann is equally beautiful, but this to me also has an extra degree of "sunshine" that you don't always hear in his work...for obvious reasons, if you know anything about the composer's life at all.  😔

BUT...if you've never heard this...take it in. Savor it. And then go listen to the rest of the symphony! 

You're welcome. 😄

Janny

Musical Monday, a Tad Bit Late!

But when it comes to music like this...who cares?

Ashkenazy is fast becoming my favorite Chopin interpreter, FWIW. But I'm also finding that when I hear Chopin's music lately...it makes me want to cry.

I think that began when I was playing the F minor Etude...and thought about that poor man, dying of consumption at only 39. And yeah, I know everybody died of consumption in those days, unless you had a constitution of steel and/or were extremely lucky...because there was no penicillin.

But still.

There are many musicians who died young, about whom the question can be asked, "What would they have achieved if they'd lived longer?"

Mozart.

Schubert.

And, of course, Chopin.

We can only hope they're in the heavenly realms writing all that stuff they never got to on earth...and we'll get to hear it.

Until then, enjoy this little piece of heaven here!

Thoughts?

Janny

For Those of You Tracking Musical Monday...

 I present this, from last week. 

At a particularly low emotional point I was in, a week ago Sunday evening, lo and behold, this music came over the radio...and I knew I needed to share it with you.

 I have a very vivid memory, indeed, of this piece...being conducted by the young man I was about to marry, at an outdoor concert at which several seniors were given the privilege of conducting the Bradley University Symphonic Band.  But the memory is indelible not only because Patrick did a fine job on it--but because this music would also be one of our wedding preludes...a little over a month later.

I wish I had a recording of that performance, given April 24, 1982. 

But Frederick Fennell's not a bad substitute. 😊

Enjoy!

Janny

41,049 words...and Counting

 ...it's times like these I wish there were such a thing as cloning.

Because that way, one of me could go to sleep and do respectable work tomorrow...and the other could stay up all night and write on THIS BOOK!!!!

No, I'm no excited about this at all.(!)

More to come...

Janny

A Different Kind of Musical Monday....

Not a lot of stuff gonna be written on the blog today, as I'm just back from a trip to Fort Wayne...to support a friend who's just lost her husband.

This song is one they played at his service. Maybe the finest thing Vince Gill ever did.

And, yes, you're allowed to cry.  This song made me cry BEFORE Patrick died; now that he's gone, and I listen to the words closely, it dawns on me all over again how very appropriate it is--for him, and for today.

Which is, of course...All Souls' Day.

Take a few moments and remember someone special...

Janny

31,432 words...and counting!

We pause here for a very brief update on MY BROTHER'S KEEPER, which is the book I'm presently writing...again...for something like the eighth time. Only this time, I'm trying to do it RIGHT. (LOL) And, since the gadget I was using to measure the word count graphically for some reason isn't working anymore...we have to do updates the old-fashioned way.  (!)

I've written at least one rabbit trail that I've corrected, taken out several scenes that deal with things I don't really want to reveal yet, and am moving this story along way too slowly, I suspect...so I'll have to do what I can to up the pace. But at only 31K words out of a proposed length around 85K, I suspect the progress I'm making is not going to be wasted, either. I'm spending a lot of time right now getting to know my hero and heroine better than I ever have before. Which means the story will eventually start to take on that "inevitable" feeling that good stories have: that (as my critique partner once said about FROM THE ASHES) "given these characters, what you've written is the only way the story could go."

That kind of wonderful "inevitability" takes time...and the occasional rabbit trail.

But when it happens...oh, my, the magic of it!

Meanwhile, we spend our time writing scenes...and then asking ourselves what comes next.

More to come (about 45K words' worth, to be exact),

Janny

Happy Musical Monday!

The first time I heard this version of this piece, I was behind the wheel of the car...and I was lucky I didn't have to pull over.  Because halfway through it, I was sobbing. (And cheering. And pounding the steering wheel in sheer exuberance.)

Yeah, it's fast.

Yeah, it gets faster.

And yeah, this is the way a bacchanale SHOULD sound.

The magnificent Berlin Philharmonic, at your service.

Enjoy!

Janny

Happy Musical Monday: the "desert island" song...

You know what I mean. It's the answer to the question, "If you were stranded on a desert island and you could only take one song with you...?"

This is mine. 

R.I.P., Dan.

We miss you.

Thoughts?

Janny

Happy Musical Monday!

For those of you who either don't hang out at Facebook to pick this up off my author page...or who can't get enough of Tchaikovsky, ever, anyway:

Serenade for Strings

Enjoy!

Janny

Sexism, Piano Players, and...Enough, Already

Question: when is "sexism" not really present in an observation?

Answer: when it's simply an honest opinion.  

A tangle of this nature happened to me on Instagram, when a video snippet was posted of a young female pianist supposedly playing on "Ocean" etude, next to the ocean...on a piano, outdoors, on the beach, as the waves swept over the sand. The young woman wore a gown that was pretty skimpy--think a deep neckline and very short skirt--bare feet, and long black hair that she felt compelled to swing around "expressively" while she pantomimed "playing" the music involved.

Now, so much was wrong with and/or irritating about this that it was hard to catalogue it all!

Most people took umbrage with having a piano outdoors next to the ocean, of course--since salt and water are both deadly to a piano, and don't have to take a great deal of time to be so, either.

Some people took umbrage with the young lady's skimpy clothing.

Some people took umbrage with the bombastic playing, such that it was--the snippet was only seconds long, and clearly had NOT been a result of actually recording said playing on the beach!

I put up a comment along the lines of "Bring the piano indoors, put more clothes on, and be aware that swinging your hair expressively is little or no indication as to how much talent you have."

Now, that's a snarky comment. I admit it. And it had been fueled by a sip or two of vino, which I was enjoying outdoors on my deck while scrolling through social media. 

But it wasn't the snarkiest, by any means. Trust me.

But, of course, I got called on the carpet for it.

Not for being mean about someone's playing....but because I'd dared to say, "put more clothes on."

And called on the carpet, not surprisingly, by a young woman.

Ranting at me--and anyone else who said that--for how sexist that remark was.

To which I answered, "It's not sexist...it's practical."

(And it was. Trying to actually play in the outfit this young woman wore would have been uncomfortable at the very least--since part of it was wet from ocean splashes--and could have been embarrassing, to boot.)

But, yanno, that wasn't the right answer.

Because then the comeback was about how the outfit was "more than most people would wear on the beach."

To which I just sat, for a moment, openmouthed.

Hello?

We weren't talking about someone spending a day at the beach.

We were talking about a woman supposedly playing a concert piece there.

For which she should have been dressed differently, and would have, had she actually been PLAYING there.

Which I tried to point out.

But, yanno, that wasn't the right answer, either.

In fact, my answer got called an uncomplimentary name, and I was promptly lectured about how we as women are supposed to support each other, not tear each other down. I wouldn't have told a MAN to go put more clothes on or not flip his hair around!

To which I said, "Um, yeah, actually, I would. Because empty showmanship is empty showmanship, no matter who does it."

And after that, I blocked the child from throwing any more tantrums my way.

Can I say right here and now, as a woman, how SICK I am of the whole notion that simply because a musician, writer, artist, performer, or such is a woman, I'm automatically supposed to never criticize her at all, in any way, for any thing? No matter how weak her performance might be, how it might inadvertently convey the wrong notion about women in the arts in general, or because it just plain does something I think is stupid?

In other words, I'm not supposed to judge a fellow female on the same level as I would a man?

For heaven's sake, WHY NOT?

Aren't we past the time of needing to be coddled snowflakes, ladies?

Aren't we able to stand on our own two feet and compete with the guys in the jungle?

Isn't that what "equality" is supposed to be all about?

So then WHY DO WE KEEP EXPECTING SPECIAL TREATMENT?

Especially FROM EACH OTHER?

I'm sorry to shout here...but I've had it with this nonsense.

Were women "oppressed" in days gone past? Of course, they were.

(Not nearly to the extent that most feminists believe, by the way. But, yeah...they were.)

Are women "oppressed" even today, in some cultures? Of course, they are. 

(Look to the Middle East, specifically Saudi Arabia and such countries, and the prohibitions women still accept will make your hair curl. Or can't I say that, because that's sexist, too?)

But the remedy for that isn't to put Pollyanna-smiles on and pretend everything we do is  just perfect because we're women, either. If I do something wrong, I do something wrong. Or incorrect. Or stupid.  And if a man would get called on it...then,  I'm going to expect to get called on it, too.

Or what are we saying about how "strong" we women really are?

I encountered this nonsense in RWA, years ago, and it made me grind my teeth even then.

But then, there was also the added layer of romances being "politically incorrect" at the time--in that they supposedly showed strong women, assertive women, women who enjoyed sex, whatever--and that was "threatening" to a male-dominated culture. So not only was the overt demand made that we support and cheer on ANYTHING these fellow writers did, because they were women...but because romance writing was "important" and "shaping the culture."

The bad part was? WE ALL KNEW BETTER.

We all knew that most of the "politically incorrect" blather was just that: blather.

We all knew there was a swackload of derivative, cookie-cutter, sex-is-the-plot-here books out there that had little to no cultural enrichment value whatsoever--being written by some of the biggest names in the business.

We all knew there was a lot of DRECK out there calling itself "romance."

We all knew that, by and large, a lot of the "ripping" that critics did of our books had little to do with "bodices" and a lot more to do with the fact that, sometimes, the books simply weren't very good. 

For most of us, it was okay that they weren't literature. They weren't "meaningful social commentary." They were beach books, or passing-around-your-friends books, or just a fun escape. The good ones were entertainment; the bad ones were sometimes really, REALLY embarrassing.

But we weren't allowed to SAY ANY OF THAT...or we weren't being "supportive."

We couldn't even say, "Well some of these aren't all that great," except OFF the record, where NO ONE would possibly overhear us and take offense...

...which was pretty much impossible to do, say, at a writers' conference...

...where, ironically enough, many of us were going to share honest feedback, war stories, and the state of how things actually were.

So, we were in the state of KNOWING better--and privately expressing such to each other--while being expected to publicly toe the party line.

And woe to you if you didn't.

Your entire writing career could hang in the balance, or so you were told.

It was hypocrisy then, and the downhill plunge of much of what calls itself romance fiction since then has been the clear, obvious, and logical result.

And we probably still aren't supposed to say it.

But the fact remains...that some of us are really, really good artists.

Some of us are average.

Some of us are awful.

And it's OK to say so.

To differentiate.

Yes, even if it's a woman who's putting dreck up online and expecting us to applaud it.

It's not "supportive" to lie and pretend that everything we all do is always and unabashedly WONDERFUL...

...simply because we don't have a Y chromosome.

THAT, ladies, is actual sexism in action.
Not the other way around.

And it's long past damn time we accepted the responsibility of being really...truly...EQUAL.

Bumps, bruises, criticism, scars, and all. Like the GUYS already have to. 

It'll only make us all better in the long run.

And isn't that what "support" is actually supposed to do?

Thoughts?

Janny

A Loving Message to the Master

N.B.:  I put this on my Facebook page, too...but just in case GG doesn't DO Facebook....here goes. :-)

A message for Glenn Gould, wherever you are in the hereafter:

Dear Mr. Gould...

...Sir...

...a consummate artist like yourself...

...is there a REASON you don't observe the very clearly written REPEAT sign in the first movement of the Pathetique Sonata?

...did you talk it over with Herr Beethoven beforehand?...

...or are you perhaps talking it over with him now...

...and giggling because stumbling piano players such as I can't figure out WHAT JUST HAPPENED?

Any illumination on this, kind sir, would be appreciated.

Yours,

Janny

Writing "Stupid"

What do you think of when you see the title above?

Do you think of being "freed" to write badly?

Do you think about writing "dreck" as a first draft and being fine with it?

Well, while all those things could be the meaning of the title...

...that's not what I mean with it this time around. 

What I'm referring to is the capacity to write people in your books who do stupid things.

Having them make, in fact, decisions that you don't even agree with.

And letting them completely screw up...because they're human.

For those of you sitting there scratching your heads and wondering, "What's the big deal about that?" I can tell you that, for some of us, being courageous enough to write people who are irrational, who blunder because they're scared or timid or acting under a mistaken impression...and who make really bad decisions as a result...is hard.

The old "unreliable narrator," as my critique partner is fond of calling it, is tough to write. And I know that because I have frequently lacked the courage and/or ability to do it before.

One of the criticisms I've gotten, over the years, is that some of my characters were "too perfect." Not so much because they were too pretty, or too successful, or too untroubled--but because they were so ding-danged rational.

Not that they'd never get mad or upset or crazed; they would. 

But they'd get over it really fast...and usually by talking themselves out of it.

Using calm, reasoned, oh-so-adult maturity, and sensibility, and never flying off the handle to the point where they'd said something truly awful that they couldn't take back.

Well, there was a good reason for that.

It was because I didn't want people to dislike my characters.

And then, lo and behold, along comes Debbie Macomber....

...who has written characters who are, at times, so completely frustrating to me that I'm yelling at them as I'm reading the page. 

"No!" I'm saying, as the hero and heroine are fighting over something and sounding like children. "No! Come on, you two! Grow up! You know better!"

...or characters who want something so desperately that they go completely over the edge after it, alienating everyone around them, and messing up their relationships and lives.

To which I'm muttering, "Oh, come on, girl. Open your eyes. You're just being ridiculous."

...but the woman sells like gazillions. And is loved by gazillions.

Why?

Because she writes real people.

Real people who are snotty at times.

Who are immature. Who are vindictive. Who are stubborn. Who give up on something way too soon, or who push so hard for something that they trample on everyone in their lives. Who let themselves be led down primrose paths, or who "chicken out" before they even get to the path in the first place. Who can be myopic, and oversensitive, and miss the obvious when it's standing right in front of them, painted in 10-foot-high red letters.

In other words, they act like we all do at times.

And somehow, they end up in a happy-ever-after ending anyway.

Because they do figure out that they're wrong...before they can't redeem themselves, or the situation, or the relationship, or...

But writing people who do that takes a couple of things.

Talent, of course, first.

But even more, I think, than talent...it takes guts.

And patience. 

Because if you put your character in a mess of her own making, it's going to take time for her to clean up that mess, make amends, apologize, patch things back up, and get back to True North.

Time that you as an author have to give her.

Have to walk her through.

And, the whole time, have faith that your character will still be "likable" in the end, even if he or she's been a complete ass for several (or several dozen) pages.

Even if he or she's been...stupid.

In my latest book, I'm about to do that with my heroine.

I'm about to write her doing something I know is a bad idea.

She's even going to be told it's a bad idea.

But she's gonna do it anyway.

It scares me half out of my skin to be venturing into writing someone about to do this...

...because there's a very, very thin line between real...

...and TSTL.

And I don't want to cross it.

So, cover me, Goose. I'm goin' in.

Thoughts?

Janny

Art Imitating Life, Imitating Art, Imitating Life...

Every once in a while, you have one of those moments.

I used to call them, "Someone's following me around with a clipboard again." 

They happen when something around you, media-wise, world-wise, or other-wise (heh heh), reflects something you've thought, or done, so exactly that you wonder if someone's on your figurative heels,  taking notes.

I had one of those some time ago, in a way that will get your attention.

It happened when I heard of the death of Keith Emerson, of Emerson, Lake & Palmer.

For those of you who don't know who this guy was, trust me...he used to be the one lots of pianists wanted to be when we grew up. 😀 When it came to keyboards, the man could do anything...and frequently did. 

I never met the guy....but I felt a connection to him, nevertheless.

Because he was a direct inspiration for my first novel, FROM THE ASHES.

That book came about because I heard a story, decades ago, about how Emerson had lost a home he had--a castle, I want to say--to a fire, while he was out on tour. 

Now, can you imagine how desolate that must have felt?

To come "home" from the road...to discover you don't actually have a "home" anymore?

As I thought about it, my writer's "what-if" brain took over. And I thought, "What if the same thing happened to your musical life? What if, in effect, your musical career went up in flames in some way, and you had no "home" anymore? What would that do to you?"

Enter James Michael Goodwin, who in the first scene of FROM THE ASHES, has just finished his debut with the Boston Symphony, in which he's played his first Piano Concerto...but which also, no one else realizes, is his farewell to the stage. Because his hands have begun to succumb to arthritis and other debilitating conditions....and he's already losing his ability to play. When he also hits a composing "dry spell," he looks at his life and comes to believe his best days are already behind him. Thus, at the age of 31, he returns from his orchestral triumph, sits down, and puts a gun to his head.

In the book, of course, he's saved from death. (Or it'd be a very short book, indeed.) 

But fast-forward to 2016...and the real-life guy who inspired that scenario. 

As it turns out, that guy's hands are beginning to "go" on him, through a degenerative nerve disease. That guy actually is depressed and worried about upcoming performances...because he knows there's a day coming when he won't be able to play anymore like he used to--or maybe at all.

And thus, Keith Emerson, in the throes of that despair... sits down and puts a gun to his head.

Unfortunately, he's not in a novel. And he's not spared from death.

The "echo" quality of that sent a ripple through my mind, and my heart, that still hasn't ebbed.

Especially in the irony of how the man died...and why...

...when I had written, in effect, that very thing into a book inspired by him.

Sometimes, what we think is just "making stuff up"...has an uncanny way of ending up being a truth. An insight. A perception.

I just wish in this case it hadn't also been what almost feels like...prophetic.

RIP, Keith.

It was an honor. And...an inspiration.

And I won't ever take "inspiration" lightly... again.

Thoughts?
Janny

Happy Musical Monday, Beethoven Edition :-)

Your treat for Musical Monday: one master, played by another.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pXRpSu5oRjM

Leonard Bernstein is reputed to have said about Glenn Gould, "The kid is crazy, but he can play." And "the kid" was, in fact, a little "cray-cray."  But, yeah, he sure COULD play. 

Far as I'm concerned, this is THE definitive recording of this piece. Period.

And if I'm ever stranded on a desert island, I hope I have it along. 

Enjoy!

Janny

Happy Musical Monday!

 

There's very little better than this to start a week...

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=C3nxOF8wnMk

Thoughts?

Janny

If This Doesn't Do Something Wonderful To You, Check Yourself For A Pulse.

 Ashkenazy plays Chopin...

I put this on Facebook, but it's worth repeating here.

The wonder of this is it's 48 YEARS OLD. And I'm just seeing it now. 

All I've got to say is...wow.

Thoughts?

Janny

What's On YOUR Bucket List?

OK, I'll admit it...this came about because some texting I was doing with my BFF/"sister" yesterday. But it's not been far from my thoughts for a while.  Because when you lose someone far too early in his life, as I lost Patrick, you inevitably think of all the things you'll never get to do together...and all the things he'll never do here on earth, from his own "bucket list." 

Which makes one want to sit back, breathe, and consider.

So...what's on YOUR bucket list?

Have you done some of the things that were already on it?
If so, how did they feel?
And what's left?

I often say I can "die happy" because I saw Samuel Ramey sing Figaro at Lyric Opera. Had I had a formal "bucket list," that would certainly have been on it. And seventeen rows back, main floor, is an experience of this man and his singing that I will never forget. 

But there are other things I've always "kidded around" that were on the list, too. Except that I'm kinda not kidding about them.

Vienna is there. Learning to tap dance is there. Taking cello lessons is there. And more might be coming...who knows? 

So...share. What's on YOUR list? What have you already done? Is there anything on the list that you think you really, really want to do, but in your heart of hearts don't really believe is possible? Or, conversely speaking...is there anything on the list that, right now, you're making concrete plans to ACCOMPLISH?

Let 'er rip in the comments below!
Janny