Why do all those eureka moments only come at three am in the morning?

I had written narratives of the characters, description of the location, background of their history- everything but a story.  For months this had gone on, while I fretted that nothing new was occurring to me, that it all seemed so dry and stale. Been there, done that.  Until one late night that turned into sleepless agony and it all became very clear.  I was not going to write a sequel to SOWN IN TEARS, not continue the saga of Leah, her children, her brothers, her former loves. I had not figured out a story-line because I had nothing left to say about them, at least for now. But miraculously  I had a totally new idea (still no definite story) and it was a bit more contemporary than early 1900's. It's still a little fuzzy in my head, but very promising.  No I'm not telling yet (what does it matter, I never believe that anyone is reading these blogs, if you are give me a sign) because talking about it helped to dry the old idea into dust.  This time I'm keeping it quiet, mums the word. If creative inspiration doesn't happen, it could be just a temporary writer's block, or it could mean that you should move on.  It's hard to do when you don't have anything to replace the idea with, but if the dry spell goes on too long, you begin to lose confidence and interest in writing.  It starts to be a chore, not a passion.  With any luck, you'll have your own eureka moment, even if it does come in the middle of the night. The fact that it occurs in the midst of insomnia doesn't make it any less valid.

REAL LIFE IS TOO MUCH WITH ME THESE DAYS

I'm finding it difficult to remove myself from daily events and isolate myself into writing.  It's been hard enough trying to define the story of the next book although I have the characters, the location and the time, it's just not coalescing.  And so I'm much more vulnerable to the effects of everyday horror.  Daily there's a mass shooting, the Republicans constantly roil the waters with repugnant challenges, climate change deniers continue to prevent our taking appropriate measures and the country rises up against a soldier and his family before we definitely know the facts.  My mood swings from anger to sadness to complete dismay at the state of our country's reaction to anything, anymore, anytime. And I don't even watch Fox News.

I'd like to take refuge in a world of my own making, where I get to control the issues, the conflicts, the desires of my characters, but I can't. I want to say something profound about the state of our world.  I watch episodes of "Cosmos," and I wonder how our universe has survived and will it continue with the human species alive and well.  I've always lamented that left to me we would still be in the cave because I wouldn't get the significance of watching a rock roll down the hill and turn it into the wheel or what do do with that hot stuff that started burning after a storm and could there be use for it, like cooking. Or rotten fruit, what to do with that? Somebody says drinking it will make you loopy. Patterns of stars up above would just be pretty to me, not informative as to how to move around the planet or what the seasons will be. Recognizing patterns in the midst of chaos is not my forte.

And how could TV bring back marathons of Law & Order, just when I thought I was weened away? It's like comfort food, I know it will all be solved or at least resolved in an hour and I won't have to worry about real life encroaching upon me until I switch it off.

"Pantsing"?? I don't like the term, but I seem to adhere to it

A recent article I read in Writers Unblocked talked about "pantsing" which they described as writing spontaneously and hoping that a story will emerge.  They made it sound crazy, as if this was the hope of some irrational writer.  I guess that's me.  I've never been one to outline a story or book.  I start with the characters, the location, the year and yes, I hope for the best.  With Sown in Tears, I  was inspired by a story my father told about my grandmother, although the book was not about her life, just the turbulent times she lived in Russia, 1905. The full story did emerge as I wrote and thought about the possible events in my protagonist's life.  If I were a mystery writer,things would be different, I'm sure.  Then you need to know how the story ends before you begin. But for me, as in real life, stories have a way of not adhering to an outline and you must be ready to change with the turn of events.  It does take longer and it's more frustrating, but it's my approach and so far, I'm stuck with it.  Pantsing, indeed. Flying Out of Brooklyn, my first book occurred the same way. I had two characters, the year 1943, Brooklyn and World War 2 plus the emotional state of my heroine, Judith. For the reader, it makes no difference how you approach it, it's the final story they care about, but for us writers it's a gamble I willing to take.

Happy New Year's Everybody!

Janet Fitch always said when I was in her workshop, that you must write an hour a day, no matter what.  If you didn't exercise the muscle it would atrophy.  2014 has tested that theory to the extreme for me.  It's been so hard to even sit at the computer and stare at the blank page, so I didn't bother sitting there.  I would use my phone to access emails and then I wouldn't feel guilty about doing nothing.  But that's no way to achieve anything.  Sometimes you just have to fake it until you make it.  That's my new mantra.  Start a sentence and you'll make a paragraph.  Keep going and soon there will be a page, maybe more.  I don't feel alive if I'm not writing, creating some new world, inhabited by flawed, challenged people. Stop looking for answers, just get to work.  It's successful in any situation, not just writing.  No more complaining, it's the beginning of my new year.  Forget January and February.  They were just test months.  The real year is just starting.  HAPPY NEW YEAR'S  EVERYBODY!

Are words as tasty as cookies?

I haven't posted since August and here it is December, with Chanukah just past and Christmas and New Year's on the way.  How could it be 2014 when I haven't gotten used to writing 2013 on checks or correspondence?  To be perfectly honest the last date I really paid attention to was the coming of the new millennium, year 2000.

But now with the holidays, a friend's party is coming up and each guest was request to make a little something homemade for each of the other guests.  Anyone who knows me even superficially knows I can cook but not bake and even my cooking is not the kind that gets gifted around town.  Some of the other participants are great chefs, bakers, artists, bon vivants, but hey, I thought, I'm a writer.  Why not give the gift of words?  What could be more personal or creative, albeit a little schmaltzy, but who cares?  It's the holidays when sentiment should reign supreme.  I never said I was Plato, Shakespeare or even Dear Abby, but I can and did put together 12 different thoughts, most of which occurred to me at three o'clock one morning.  Since these are meant for others, I won't reveal the contents.  But if you're thinking of what to do, with a personal touch, you, too, might want to send a few words to your friends and neighbors. (Just to make it more palatable I'm enclosing a little snack pack of homemade spiced nuts to go with the words.)

I'LL ALWAYS NEED MY LIBRARY

I've just signed up to participate in a book festival sponsored by the Friends of the Duarte Library to sell my novels, SOWN IN TEARS and FLYING OUT OF BROOKLYN (It's October 5, 10am-4pm, Duarte is just past Pasadena, if you're in California). I've done book reading/signings at libraries before for both books, but this time my participation entails a fee.  Which is fine by me.  Libraries have been a major influence since childhood. I can't imagine a life without them even though I'm often grateful to bookstores and Amazon when I purchase new books.

Some of my favorite childhood memories include wandering off to the local library with my cousin Judy, back in Philadelphia.  She was almost two years older, but we were very close growing up.  A movie or the library was our usual destination whenever I visited.  In those days two kids could go off for the whole day without an Amber Alert going off.  Sometimes we went to the Saturday matinee at the movies which began at 11am and at 8pm, we would see my uncle, Judy's father, striding down the aisle determined to find two wayward little girls.  We did the same thing on our trips to the local library. We never had much sense of time. First we had to kick through all the piles of leaves that had gathered outside. That was especially fun in autumn.  Then we'd enter, overwhelmed by all the books, imagine how long it would take us to read every one, mainly in the fiction section.  Of course we were still in elementary school, so we were restricted to children's books, but despite our ages, we were convinced that we'd soon be old enough to be issued an adult card.

It's a long time since, but I'm still trying to get through the shelves, although time and other projects have slowed my progress.  I don't have my childhood conspirator either, since Judy passed away, so my library trips have all been solo for a long time.  But I'm happy to contribute to any library I can, in her honor.

A Memoir Shouldn't Be Just Reportage On Your Life

This, of course, is just my opinion, and not having tried a memoir of my own, I know it's all much harder than it looks.  But having read, or tried to read a few recently, I do know what I'm hoping to find in someone else's memoir.

A good friend, Janice Van Horne's book, "A Complicated Marriage," relates her life and unique (by other people's ideas) marriage to art critic, Clement Greenberg.  You learn who she is, understand the people and some very well-known artists who come into her life.  A reflective look at a woman's search for her own life-path against a background of art and theater.  I'm reading Edna O'Brian's memoir, "Country Girl," which she describes with great lyricism and Irish wit. She is not only telling the facts but she takes you inside them,so you know her and the life around her better.

By contrast, I've recently tried to read Julia Child's "My Year in France," and Salmon Rushdi's "Joseph Anton."  Who am I to complain about Salmon Rushdie?  But I couldn't get past the first 50 pages, telling me the minute details of his schooling.  The reason I picked it up was to learn how he survived the devastating years of living under a fatwa, but I was supposed to care about his school lessons first.  As for Julia, I know what a wonderful life she had, but somehow the way it was described just drained the joy out of it for me. It became more of "and then I cooked...."

I just shared a book reading with two other local Los Angeles authors.  One, who was 89, wrote a memoir of a life lived in amazing places, but the minute details she felt she had to include (at least in her reading) left me exhausted and bored.

Anybody out there have any other thoughts?  After all, maybe I just expect too much of other people's lives.