Peas in a pod

By Julie

Last night, four of our six went on a progressive outing. I say progressive, because it didn't turn out exactly like we imagined.

A week or so ago, Elizabeth put out a call for anyone available and interested to go hear an author read at an indie book store. Several of us had enjoyed the author's previous novels, so we made a date.

Then, near the end of the week, Elizabeth read in the paper that Tatiana de Rosnay was making a guest appearance at a special screening of the movie based on her book, Sarah's Key. The very same night! As you can imagine, we all jumped over to the new boat pretty fast. Pamela and Kim were disappointed they couldn't attend because of plans already made, but life is more than authors, right?

After a little confusion due to a scheduling and venue change (and we did accuse Elizabeth of dreaming it when none of us could find a single hint of this event anywhere on the internet), we firmed up our plans.

So last night, the four of us (Elizabeth, Joan, Susan, and I) trekked from our various jobs and residences through the jungle that is Dallas traffic to the Studio Movie Grill on Royal Lane. Elizabeth arrived more than two hours early, hoping to ensure places in line for all four of us.

The traffic didn't cooperate and Joan and I both arrived only an hour or so before show time. There were tons of people already there. A couple in front of us had even brought lawn chairs and laptops to wait in relative comfort in the (thankfully indoor) line. Around seven, managers began to count off people in line, and it looked as though we had a chance of getting in as the counting kept going well past us. But VIP guests kept showing up and narrowing the field. Finally, the manager announced that those behind the four of us in line wouldn't be getting in.

Up to that point, people were fairly civil, but then it became a little dicey. A couple of ladies behind us complained loudly and not nicely that a few of our group had arrived after them and it wasn't fair.

I wasn't prepared for a free movie ticket smack down. I turned to the manager and said, "She's right. We have other things we can do, so go ahead and let them enjoy the movie." We stepped out of line quickly. (I think I was a lot nicer than she was, and was a little annoyed she didn't say thank you in return, but people are who they are. I feel good about how we handled it, and that's what really matters.)

We stood in the hot sun outside the entrance trying to make a new plan. At first, we thought we'd continue on to the author reading, but when we discovered it was 18 more miles up Central Expressway, it became an obvious no go. There was no guarantee we'd make it through the traffic in the thirty minutes before it started or that there would be seats when we got there.
So, we went for the easy and convenient plan—Thai food at a restaurant right around the corner. Aisan Mint! Good stuff!

We sat there for nearly three hours. We talked about life.

Yes, husbands and children! Our manuscripts. Food. Querying agents. Dogs. Story problems. Travel. In-laws. Ancestor and character names. Teenagers. Novels.

It's possible we touched on more topics in three hours than we'd addressed with loved ones and nearby friends in three weeks. I know I did. When we get together, there's just an instant click.

At many points, we laughed, realizing we'd gone from one topic to another to another without ever finishing the first and we had to back up for a minute.

The point is that it didn't really matter what we did last night. It didn't really matter—though we were disappointed we didn’t get to see the movie and even sadder we didn’t get to see Tatiana de Rosnay or the other author in person. Our heroes, our mentors. It didn't matter that we had to deal with the inconveniences of traffic or people being bad sports.

What mattered is that we got to see our friends with skin on instead of the usual email exchanges and occasional Facebook or text interactions. We got to see facial reactions and body language. We got to watch what dishes we each ordered—it says something! We got to snicker together about others around us that entertained or amused us. We got to laugh at each other.

We got to exchange hugs before we went our separate ways again.

We were with our tribe. Women who read. Women who write.

Photo credit: MrWoodnz's Flickr photostream, by Creative Commons Licence

Impact and Inspiration

It's surely no secret to anyone who reads this blog that we're a bunch of bookworms, the six of us. I'd hate to have to be the arbiter of who has the biggest Dr. Suess hat, but I'd certainly nominate myself as a finalist. Then again, we'd have six finalists, so there you go.

For the past month or so, it's felt like I've done even more reading than usual. (Even as I feel like there is never enough time. Never enough!) Maybe that's because nearly everything I've read lately has hit a nerve, either because it was so honest as to be shattering, or because I've read and admired and thought, Yes. That is it. That is what I want to do. There. It's inspiring, and daunting, and inspiring all over again.

In fact, it's why I write at all, to try to engender the same kind of reaction from readers that I've gotten from some of these books. That's something I think we all crave, to impact the world in some way. For writers, it's through words. For some, that means to make people laugh. For others, writing is the vehicle to help people escape reality and visit a different place magicked up by their pen. Some write to shed a glow of beauty, even fleeting, on readers' lives. Plenty write to expand knowledge by sharing their own.

For me, it's all about the emotion, though I hope other elements come through as well. The words I love most when they land on my page are the ones that make my own skin rise to bumps, the ones that fill my eyes with tears for the characters who have become real to me. And my fervent hope and the reason to continue is so those same words will give rise to other people's goosebumps, thrust hard knots in their throats, force them to rub at their now-blurred eyes to enable them to read to the end.

Here's what I've been reading, and how these books have affected me.

The Knitting Circle by Ann Hood and Day After Night by Anita Diamant. Reading these was an exercise in encouragement. One of my manuscripts has a similar style of storytelling, a group of women helping each other through trials with a core character serving as the glue. These are the kinds of stories I've always loved to read, and they reinforced my belief that there is indeed an audience for my own novel.

The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-Time by Mark Haddon and When We Were Romans by Matthew Kneale. All about the voice and crafting and so well done. Both writers draw a unique main character whose lack of understanding creates both sympathy and empathy--which was surely the point.

Vinegar Hill by A. Manette Ansay and Between Here and April by Deborah Copaken Kogan. Harrowing reads both, about women in difficult marriages and worse situations. One set in the early '70s and the other tilting back to that decade, both served as reminders that life as we know it now isn't the way it's always been. Useful for anyone with an ear toward the past, as mine leans. Coupled with beautiful writing and perfectly imperfect characters, these are the kinds of books that stick with me for years, ideas and images popping up randomly like a lost friend calling unexpectedly--with terrible news.

Sleepwalking in Daylight by Elizabeth Flock and Sarah's Key by Tatiana de Rosnay. Both of these were told in alternating viewpoints, and both dealt so bluntly with difficult subjects and themes that I wondered where the heck the authors got the courage to be so honest. Between the crafting of the plots and the sheer gutsiness of storytelling, I saw the kind of writing to which I aspire, galvanizing experiences both. Though not comfortable. Not comfortable at all.

Having It and Eating It by Sabine Durrant. This one blew me away with the plotting, so much so that I outlined it after I read it to better understand exactly how Durrant strung me along in the best way, turning the story realistically just when I thought I'd figured things out, and keeping me just ahead of the main character but never so much that I found her stupid. And then, bam! A satisfying and logical ending I didn't see coming. This is a book I suspect I'll turn to again when I get lost in my own plotting, sort of like the fictitious Edgar Wallace Plot Wheel, but in a good way.

And 78 Reasons Why Your Book May Never Be Published and 14 Reasons Why It Just Might by Pat Walsh. Need I say more?