Called to Write: What It Is...What It Isn't, Part 2

Last time, as you recall, we talked about writing as a "calling."

As in, my realizing that (as Harry Caray used to say), "...it might be...it could be...it is!"

Yeah, I know. Stop laughing. I know that was his home-run call!

But in a very real way, discovering that you do have a "calling," and that it's something you love with every fiber of your being...is a home run of sorts. (A grand slam, by my way of thinking.)

The next question becomes, then...if you're called to be a writer, who's called you?

The answer to this is obvious, if you're a believer. If you're not, you've got a thicker wicket to navigate. 

Many arguments exist for it being a call from your Creator, but I'm not going into those here--because that's not the purpose of this post.

Although it does address a related issue, which is what I'll talk about next.

And that is...what you're called to write, and how.

And here's where even people willing to attribute their calling to Someone higher can and do get into another sticky wicket.

A generous number of people out there consider their calling--their writing--a ministry.

Some of them even claim that if you are called by God to write, then by definition, that's what your writing is, and you'd jolly well better treat it as such.

But I am definitely not one of these people.

I don't believe that's what a "calling" to write fiction is about at all.

In fact, I will go so far as to say that if you embrace this attitude toward fiction writing...

...you are in very real danger of becoming a hack.

Strong words. I know.

But hear me out.

First off, let's get a distinction clear here.

There is a very real need, and always a market, for good religious writing.

Authentic teaching.

Inspired insights.

Uplifting encouragement.

Exegesis, study, and enrichment.

But IMHO, none of that should be the purpose of your fiction.

And if you're writing fiction with that aim, as the memes are fond of saying, "Ur doin it rong."

I think we as believers do everyone--ourselves, our audiences, and even God--a disservice when we consider our fiction as a way to "minister" to readers.

To get the Gospel in front of them.

To present the plan of salvation.

In other words...to preach.

Because, as Harry Caray also used to say, "There's danger here, Cherie."

I read a review recently in which the reader said a book had "all the elements of good Christian fiction": Scripture was quoted frequently, the Gospel was presented, etc., etc...

...and my blood ran cold.

Because re-read that. And then tell me how that describes a great novel.

Not how it describes a glorified tract, or a "sermon in story form," or a morality play....

...but how it describes a great story.

I would submit that you can't.

And therein, ladies and gentlemen, lies a big problem.

Because inevitably, whether you intend it or not, this approach becomes heavy-handed.

It eclipses your storytelling.

And the ironic part of all this?

It doesn't work.

It preaches to the choir most of the time.

The rest of the time, you join the reject piles of the very people you're trying so hard to cleverly "reach."

Because they know something that maybe you're not ready to admit, and that many of your fellow Christian "fans" won't tell you: that there's nothing clever about it. 

It's manipulative, transparent, and...worst of all...it does fiction in general, and Christian/religious fiction in particular, a bad turn.

In the end, it's little more than script.  

A formula.
And guess what people who write to formulas--who write books in which the same "message" has to be conveyed, and certain boxes have to be checked, over and over--are generally called?

Yeah. 

Hacks.

So what should you write instead?

Stories.

Deep, emotional, romantic, adventurous, madcap, spine-tingling, entertaining stories.

Good stories.

Great stories.

Without evangelization, salvation, Four Spiritual Laws, conversion scenes, testimonies, Scripture quotations, "witnessing," or anything else shoehorned in  that wouldn't be a normal part of the story if it wasn't "inspirational" fiction.

"But," I can hear you protest, "God gave me this gift, and I have to glorify Him with it!"

Yes, you do.

But if you read Corinthians, you know not everybody's called to be a preacher, either.

And I would submit that, if you've been given a storytelling gift...you've been called to do something even better.

Richly, expressively told stories, in wholesome spirit, do give glory to God.  Just as they are. Without the need to mention God's name every other sentence...or, in fact, at all. If it wouldn't normally be part of the story.

If you really feel led to tell the story of salvation, spell things out, and try to "witness"...then write nonfiction. That's where that preaching belongs.

But I would humbly implore you that, if you're called to write fiction that Someone gives you...then, have the trust to simply write it to your very best ability, and put it in His hands to work with further.  Without feeling you have to "use" a book to "get a message out." Without worrying that you'd "better get salvation in here somewhere, or I'm not doing my job."

It's His job to "get salvation in there."

Write the best danged stories you can, and He'll do it.

 Just watch. 

Thoughts?

Janny

Called To Write: What It Is...What It Isn't, Part 1

Okay, this is a post that's been a while in the making.

And some of it is downright serious, even heavy, stuff to consider.

(Don't let that deter you. Keep reading. 😉)

Since I was 10 years old, I've been spinning stories.

Not "lies," as in the tales kids tell to stay out of trouble (or try to get out of same), but actual stories. I clearly remember reading a lot at that age and being fascinated by the idea that you could just "make up stuff" and it'd actually entertain people. So I proceeded to do that with some of the younger kids on the block. Sometimes I'd retell stories I'd read; sometimes I'd make new stuff up. I even tried to write a "book" myself, complete with illustrations. (The less said about that, the better, but hey...I was 10!)

I point out the age at which this happened because I've heard, over and over again, how major "achievers" in the arts, or music, or literature, or anything creative, often have said that they first "caught the bug," as it were, at 10 years of age. The more stories I hear about this, the more convinced I am that that is a crucial watershed in our lives, whether we know it or not, and often, the choices we are intrigued by at that point in our developmental years become the things that "take hold" of us and don't let go. 

Music took hold of me even earlier in life, and it, too, hasn't let go. Just so we're clear on that. But one muse at a time is what we're dealing with here, and so...

...and so, I've been writing. And writing. And writing, since my teenage years.

I was the one the teacher always made read her stuff in front of the class.

I entered a national short story contest at 17.

I was the one my English instructor at Harper tried to persuade to change majors. (!)

I joined RWA, as a matter of fact, not so much because I was a romance writer--but because I read about the Golden Heart contest and decided I was going to win it. You had to be an RWA member to enter. So, I did. (And I did. Win, that is.)

I've come very, very close to selling novels more times than anyone should who hasn't gotten there more than twice (so far), and that with small presses.

I've worked as an editor, a proofreader, a ghostwriter, a writer's mentor, and a ton of other writing industry-related stuff in order to help keep body and soul together.

I love words. Anyone can tell you that.  Heck, I've been known to read dictionaries and say, out loud, to my kids, "Listen to this. This word origin. It is so cool!"

(Yeah. They get that look on their faces, too. LOL)

But it wasn't until I had worked an early version of my romantic suspense book CALLIE'S ANGEL to that magical point known as typing "The End" that I turned to my husband and said, out loud, "This is what I was born to do."

And, yeah, it sounded a tad pretentious at the time.

But it also struck a deep chord that resonated inside me.

And it was scary as heck to declare...even though I felt it, to my bones.

You see, I wasn't raised in the age of snowflakes and "participation medals."

I wasn't raised to consider anything I did particularly special--even when it was.

Which is why when someone gets all excited about a gift of mine, I'm happy--but at the same time, a little confused. And I mean that honestly.

Because part of me, a deep inner critic, is always saying, "So what? Lots of people can do that. And lots of people can do that a lot better than you do."

And trust me, that critic doesn't even take time off to sleep.

This isn't saying that I think what I do isn't worthwhile.

It's saying that, in the overwhelming majority of cases, I tend to think that any particular thing I may have done isn't important or  meaningful or significant enough to designate as "the thing I was born to accomplish."

But in that moment of exhilaration, my heart told the truth...and spoke it out loud.

And I've been coming to terms with that, as part of my sphere, ever since.

It hasn't been easy, or natural, or even believable, at times, to look at my life and consider that a) anything I do is very important in the end and b) the thing that I do that I love to do...may, actually, be "what I was born to do."

In other words, a calling.

But over the past several years, difficult as they've been, I've come to believe.

To acknowledge.

And to accept that, in truth...

...I am called to write stories. 

Sweet fiction in particular. Wholesome. Clean. And, in the end, uplifting.

Not because I set out to "edify" anyone...but because, at my core, this is where I live. I simply bring others into that world, too, when I can. 

This is an honor and a blessing that, now, I embrace...and don't take lightly.

I can accomplish lots of other kinds of writing, of course. And I do.

But these created-from-thin-air stories are what fire my blood.

They're what keep me burning figurative candles at both ends.

And they are--most importantly--a gift God gives me to share.

A gift to both myself and to others.

Engaging "yarns" to spin in my own particular style.

In a way only I can do.

Something pretty miraculous, when you think about it.

And that makes them, and my calling to pursue them, in a very real sense...important.

Not profound.

Not earth-moving.

Not "impactful" or "challenging" or "socially enlightening."

And it's okay that I'm not called to tell that kind of story.

This revelation has turned out to be the most spine-tingling part of this whole journey.

Because a "calling" is as much about what you are not meant to do...as what you are.

How do I discern the difference?

We'll talk about that in Part 2!

Thoughts?
Janny

Books! We Have Books! Part 2...

 

Just got this release from Rob Broder, one of my fellow AKA Literary "Wolf Pack"--and I HIGHLY recommend it. What a sweet book--check it out! 

Janny

Books! We Have Books!...

...no, no new ones from me yet...(cross your fingers, light candles, say prayers)...

BUT some from my fellow AKA Literary crowd, otherwise known as the Wolf Pack!

Check these authors and books out...

Rob Broder

Carolyn Howard-Johnson

Margaret Mizushima

Joan Donaldson

...because you KNOW your TBR pile needs to expand! 😉

Thanks,

Janny

The Genius of the "Hummable Tune," Part 2

You'll remember when we last left our heroine, she was rattling on about a tad bit (okay, a lot) of snobbism/elitism/pseudo-intellectualism that had crept in and run rampant about the music-school hallways...and how disheartening it was. 

I mean, here we were sitting on several hundred years' worth of great stuff, musical feasts galore that could have kept us happily exploring, plumbing depths and nuances for the rest of our lives...only to be told, by those who were oh-so-much-further-evolved in this thing, that that was "irrelevant."

Our duty, it seemed, was instead to make up our own "brave new world" of music that required extensive liner notes and analysis to explain.

That challenged audiences.

That often puzzled, perplexed, and irritated  the hearers, rather than uplifting their spirits, offering them escapes or dreams, or providing them something as "simple" as enjoyment.

Not surprisingly,  audiences didn't like it...

...prompting  many of these oh-so-enlightened folks to declare that they were hopelessly "hidebound"...perhaps, even brainwashed!

At the very least...unsophisticated.

And the way out of that unsophisticated ignorance was...you guessed it...not to be found in "Standard Repertoire."

It was to be found in the brave-new-world stuff, in "challenge" and "expansion of horizons" and "relevance."

(There's that word again...)

Fortunately, some of us ignored them.

And, instead,  chose the adventure inherent in peeling back the layers of what was already on hand...and allowing ourselves to experience every crazy bit of it.

Because the best-kept secret of music school isn't about  "brave new worlds." 

It's that classical music--even "Standard Repertoire"--is a treasure trove of crazy.

Real, beautiful, inspiring, honest-to-God insanity.

That's the "secret handshake" we should be spreading to the crowd.

That's the "secret language" that, if we bother to teach, people learn to "speak" and "understand" so well that they pack the halls.

Listen to Gustavo Dudamel conduct Saint-Saens' Bacchanale. It's madness.

Watch Leonard Bernstein conduct Brahms' First Symphony, in performance, without a score. It's nuts.

And if you happen to be in the car while the "Great Gate of Kiev" section (the conclusion) of Pictures at an Exhibition is playing on your car stereo...you may have to pull over. I ought to know. I almost had to, one day, driving back from lunch for afternoon classes.

I was darn near still bouncing off the walls of the music building when I came in from the parking lot. And, as I was describing the way that music made me feel...one of my favorite professors started laughing. 

Not at me, but at the sheer fun of my reaction. 

Then, said something along the lines of, "Don't ever lose that."

Think about that for a second.

The Mussorgsky (especially in the Ravel orchestration) is "Standard Repertoire." 

The stuff that was being called "hidebound" and "irrelevant."

And yet my music prof, possessing a doctorate from a major highbrow school, didn't scold me not to get so excited about the stuff...

...but to, if at all possible, keep that ridiculously nutty enthusiasm as long as I could.

Because he knew what the "brave new world" advocates hadn't caught on to yet:

That "relevance" isn't what art is about. Never has been. Never will be.

So, what does this have to do with writing stories, you ask?

A fellow writer shared a quote recently that, paraphrased, is along the lines of "writing that is effortless to read takes a great deal of effort to produce."

The parallel in music? That "hummable" doesn't equal "unsophisticated."

It equals accessible. 

It equals simple, in music wrought from care. And effort. And love.

And, yes...more than a little craziness.

Done well, it takes people to a place outside themselves. 

Expands their worlds. 

Refreshes them.

Just the way a beautiful story can.

The "hummable" theme in classical music goes hand-in-hand with the "keeper" on your bookshelf. Both may look deceptively simple, when viewed from the outside.

Only when one plumbs a little deeper...or creates the "simple" thing from scratch...does one appreciate just what goes into either one.

These "keepers" (or "chestnuts," as the popular pieces of classical music are often called) are probably the clearest evidence of true communication with our audiences that we have--and the best proof that we, as artists, have done our jobs well. 

In music...and in stories.

And so, the accessible--and enjoyable--are what I aim for every time I sit down at the keyboard, take out my box of words, and attempt to combine them in alchemy that will make music of its own.

Simple.

Hummable.

Genius.

Thoughts?

Janny

 

The Genius of the "Hummable Tune," Part 1

There is such a thing as knowing too much.  

Now, if you know the CWC at all, you know there are things she infinitely prefers people do know about, especially when it comes to the written word.

She prefers people know the correct word for what they're expressing.

She prefers people know how to spell.

She prefers people know the difference between verb tenses, and which one is right for the moment.

She prefers people never, ever, ever, ever-ever make a plural with an apostrophe.

(Did I mention "ever"?)

But, I'll say it again: there is such a thing as knowing too much.

Or...maybe...just thinking we do.

And we're missing a splendid opportunity for real genius when that happens.

Let me illustrate.

Long ago, in music school, I was surrounded by a whole bunch of people who were all convinced classical music needed to be "refreshed."

And so they did unspeakable things to pianos and called the music for "prepared" instruments.

They made noises on electronic devices and called the music "multitonal."

They composed "music" like John Cage's "4'33"."

They brought in spoken word, and gesture, and slide shows, to "liven things up."

Why?

Because, in their estimation, "Standard Repertoire" (or "Western Music," or any other term you want to use for it) was filled with "timeworn, hackneyed 'chestnuts' written by a bunch of dead white men" that needed to be "thrown out" because "it wasn't meaningful anymore."

They were especially disdainful of music that people loved because "they could walk out of a concert hall humming it to themselves."

Why?

I didn't know then. And I still don't know now.

Let's face it: classical music is not necessarily the first music of choice for a general population. Many reasons abound for this, but at least one of them has to be that because, unless they find a comfortable way to get a good dose of it, they don't feel like they can "walk out of a concert hall humming [it] to themselves."

And that's a shame. Because there's some great stuff out there...

...if someone cares enough to bring it to them.

We see this happen all the time. 

Most of us learned our first classical music not from a venerable record collection in our parents' homes, but from background music for Looney Tunes.

Not to mention the use of Strauss in 2001: A Space Odyssey, Ravel in 10, or Pachelbel in Ordinary People...among countless instances of the music in movies. 

What happened after that exposure? People went nuts for those pieces. 

So, can you imagine what would happen if they were exposed to even more of it?

Yeah. 

Only these people, with whom I was going to school, didn't see that possibility at all. 
To them, classical music audiences only loved Beethoven, and Bach, and Brahms, and Haydn, and Mozart, and Mendelssohn, and Wagner, and Schubert, and Stravinsky, and Chopin, and Gounod, and Franck, and Dvorak, and Tchaikovsky, and dozens more pieces of music by those and other "dead white men" because "they didn't know any better." And that it was the job of those in the art to "enlighten" the audience.

(If this sounds suspiciously like both snobbism and elitism...you're catching on.)

Because an attitude like this has to have as its foundation the assumption that what you are throwing out, you're already thoroughly familiar with, and have found useless and/or boring. In other words, the attitude toward traditional classical music at that point becomes, "Seen it all, heard it all, next."

Only, speaking quite bluntly? For most of these people, especially for the college-age folks I encountered, that would have been completely impossible.

Haydn wrote over 100 symphonies.

Mozart wrote over 40.

Dvorak wrote 9, Beethoven wrote 9. And so on. And so on.

That's not even touching opera--or talking about Puccini, or Verdi, or Bizet.

Or oratorios (Handel, anybody?). Or cantatas, of which Bach alone wrote over 200.

Or march or waltz music (Strauss, Sousa, and a host of others).

Nor is it venturing onto the shores of polyphony and/or counterpoint of the likes of Vivaldi, or Palestrina, or deLassus, or Mouret, or Lully, or...

That's a whole lot of "notes" that, in terms of the general population--and even music students themselves--is stuff they've never heard before.

Stuff that, once heard, can change their lives forever.

And leave them wanting even more.

(I know. I was a music student with precious little background, and I drank the stuff up like a college kid at a kegger party.)

But all that was what these people wanted to dismiss, en masse, as being "irrelevant."

Because...people could hum it walking out of a concert hall?

Because...it was unsophisticated? 

Because...it wasn't profound, or deep, or meaningful?

Since bloody hell when?

(I defy anyone reading this to immerse yourself in Brahms' Fourth Symphony and not find sophistication, profundity, depth, and meaning in it--while you're humming it to yourself!--but, I digress.)

I'm here to tell you, as I wanted to tell them, that they'd not only missed the point of the art in the first place...but they'd missed the bus, the train, the ship, the plane, and the Concorde in the process. 

Because "relevance" isn't what makes music, or any art, wonderful...or valuable...

Nor has it ever been.

My dream is to write stories "people [can] walk out of a concert hall humming to themselves."

Why I put it that way, we'll talk about in Part 2!

Thoughts?

Janny

Beware Musical Monday!

Yeah, of course, you have to know this is coming...

And yes. Everybody knows "Vehicle." That's why this page has something even better.  😊

You're welcome!

Janny

A Happy Musical Monday Bonus...

...from my favorite Chopin player, in honor of Chopin's 211th birthday. 

(Unfortunately, the poor man only lived to be 39. Frederic, not Vladimir.)

Sit back, think Monday thoughts, and this should fit perfectly.

Enjoy!

Janny

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