On selling a house: An allegory

When you move into a new place, things are exciting. Your house is brand new to you, and you work hard to fill it up with all the things that are you -- every single thing seems very important. It fits. It shines.

But over time, the junk piles creep in. Dust gathers on the tops of shelves and in the corners of window frames. And you think, "I'll take care of that eventually--no rush right this minute. I have time."

Then, suddenly, you are done with the house, for whatever reason. Now you are ready to SELL THAT HOUSE.

BUT WAIT...

My loft, before our house was listed recently.
In the "it might get worse before it gets better" stage.

Suddenly you realize that all the things that seemed lovely and personal -- or maybe just temporarily taking up space -- have to go if they aren't making your product -- your house -- shine to its fullest potential. You want it to be inviting. You want people to walk through the front door and never want to leave. You want them to feel like it's THEIR house, their place to sit and be comfortable, to experience their ups and downs, celebrations and sad times, too. You want them to pull out their checkbooks, write a check for earnest money and make an offer.

If you have junk falling off the shelves, that is not likely to happen. If there is outdated paint or carpet, dust, or worse yet, mold in the shower, they will likely walk in, quickly glance around, and say, "Nope. This house is not for me." If you're lucky, they won't plug their noses and hide their eyes and run out, then proceed to tell everyone else how horrid your house was because you had the silly idea to put it on the market without cleaning up your mess and making it lovely and compelling and ... SELLABLE.

My loft, now, as we wait for the perfect buyer to come along!

So you do what it takes to make it right before you ever invite anyone to take a look. It might take a little longer than you anticipated to get to that point. Maybe a lot longer. (Wow, there was more junk in that closet than you ever imagined possible. And the dust was, in certain cases, DIRT.) Sometimes, it might even seem to get worse before it gets better.

But in the end, it's worth all the hard work and elbow grease, and maybe even a little financial investment. Because when you finally put it on offer, you can relax a bit, knowing you did the very best you could -- even if it's not perfect, because nothing really ever is -- and that if it moves slowly, it wasn't because of anything you neglected to do.

Then you cross your fingers and hope and pray it sells. You did your part.

Yep. That's what it's like to sell a house. And maybe some other things.

DIY Boot Camp

By Pamela

I missed out this summer--didn't apply for any writers' workshops or attend any conferences. Backed out of an online class on voice I initially signed up to take. I didn't add any new words to my novel at all. I kept up with freelance commitments and spent time with my kids, vacationed with my family. But today I feel a little slighted. As though every writer I know did something to further their craft. Everyone but me.

Instead of wallowing--OK, instead of continuing to wallow--I've decided to self-educate, self-motivate and self-initiate some changes to my writing.

I stared with buying Dani Shapiro's fabulous book Still Writing: The Perils and Pleasures of a Creative Life. If I were the type to underline in my books (and I just can't--I barely did in college and only because we had to), I would certainly underline, on page 17:

"Every book, story, and essay begins with a single word. Then a sentence. Then a paragraph. These words, sentences, paragraphs may well end up not being the actual beginning. You can't know that now. Straining to know the whole of the story before you set out is a bit like imagining great-grandchildren on the first date. But you can start with the smallest detail."

If you haven't bought Still Writing, I urge you to do so. You'll feel a kindred spirit with Ms. Shapiro as you realize even successful published authors still hear that niggling voice that threatens to derail a new story.

Also, this weekend, I printed out Chuck Palahniuk's "Nuts and Bolts: 'Thought' Verbs" article. He advises writers to eliminate 'thought' verbs from our writings: thinks, knows, understands, realizes, believes, wants, remembers, imagines, desires, etc. It's basically a way to 'show--don't tell' that helps you detect those verbs that prohibit you from really telling the story. He advises:

"Thinking is abstract. Knowing and believing are intangible. Your story will always be stronger if you just show the physical actions and details of your characters and allow your reader to do the thinking and knowing."

In my manuscript, I performed a search for the word "think" and fell over when the result was "too many to list." Granted, quite a few were rooted in dialog but still ... my work this week will be combing through my manuscript for these 'telling' verbs. Here's one I just reworked:

“Why?” I ask and she doesn’t answer me and I think about just getting out of the car and leaving her here by herself.

"Why?" I reach for the handle and lean my shoulder against the door, ready to get out of her car, leave her before she tells me what I don't want to hear. 

Maybe not a significant improvement but now we see my character making a move and not just thinking about it.

I also read through Mr. Palahniuk's "8 Words You Should Avoid When Writing" and found even more work that needs to be done on my manuscript. And Elmore Leonard's "10 Rules of Writing" is always good to review.

Going through my manuscript with these suggestions might feel daunting today, but I'm convinced that not only will my story be better as a result, but the new words I put on the page will be stronger, more vivid and inviting to read as I avoid weak verbs. Old habits might be hard to break but break they must. Otherwise my words will land flat. As Ms. Shapiro writes (on page 28), "Finding the language. It is what we can hope for."

Setting Free the Teenage Manuscript

By Susan       

My daughter, the morning of her 13th birthday

A few months ago my older daughter turned thirteen. “Turning” is the perfect word for her transformation from child to young lady. She seemed to spin and twirl into another creature, one suddenly several inches taller than I with Rapunzel-like blond hair who sings the Les Miserables soundtrack without ceasing, in near-perfect high soprano. She is my baby, my first born, a girl who is now nothing like what I could have ever envisioned because she is so much more than I could have ever foreseen.

I’d been married for four years when she was born, yet who could have prepared me? How could we have known? There is no knowing the love you will have for your child, this part of you who is nothing like you, who is full of self and will and startling intellect. I could not comprehend the love my mother had for me until I held my own daughter to my breast. I didn’t understand the heartbreak I caused my parents as a teenager until I see my own daughter sprouting wings before I am ready for her to fly.

I have a manuscript that is much like my daughter, in so many ways. She’s been with me for a long time, starting as a seed of an idea in 2006 who sat dormant for years, until I allowed her the soil and sunlight she needed to thrive around 2009.  In late 2011, I sent her out into the world so she could find and retrieve the agent of our dreams. She did not disappoint me. Yet now—after a tumultuous year of edits, she is turning, too, just the way my daughter spun into a room when she became a teenager. And like my daughter, I only love her more for the transformation. 

My three-generational saga has become the song of 1950—as I’ve cut two thirds of the story completely out. (Maybe, just maybe, I can write about those characters later. But for now, my 1950 crew had too much to say by themselves.) My 1950 gang never ceases to startle me with their will and collective intellect. I thought I knew them before, yet now, they are becoming so much more. I wonder if other writers love their characters the way I love mine, dreaming of them, protecting them, and then setting them free. 

Much like my daughter, my manuscript is about to sprout wings and fly away from me. Not today, but soon. And part of me is torn. I've even called myself stuck for the past week--unable to move forward in allowing her to be what she is becoming. Is she good enough? Can I finish her properly? And even worse, am I a good enough writer to do this story justice? The 1950 draft will be completed in a matter of weeks, and then, after a few rounds of clean up, it will be time for submission. From there? She will either sell, or she won’t—that’s not in my control. The only thing I control are the words I put to the page. My only hope is that, just like a mother, I’ve been able to properly parent this story out the door. And just like my daughter, perhaps one day I’ll be able to look on proudly as this manuscript becomes a book, and maneuvers herself through the world without me. 

Just like parenting, it’s a risk. You do your best. You show up every day. Writing is a priority, a joy, a pain, and a beautiful journey, isn’t it? And then we set the words free, for others to enjoy them too. Isn’t that what it’s all about?