February 2018

I know we’ve done it before, but a review of those pesky ones couldn’t hurt. Here’s a reminder of some of those words that are being used incorrectly so often that you might be taken in and start using the wrong ones yourself.

All right: Notice there is no other way to write that: Without two words, all right is all wrong.

Affect—a verb that means to change a response: The warning sign didn’t affect his driving.

Effect—a noun that means a result: The warning sign didn’t have any effect on his driving.

or a verb that means to cause: They hoped a sign would effect a change in him.

Anxious—to look forward to with fear: He’s anxious about having to speak to this crowd.

Eager—to look forward to with excitement or pleasure: She’s eager to be on stage again.

Comprise—the parts are contained in the whole: Veggies and tofu comprise the entire menu!

(Nothing is ever comprised of.)

Composed of—the parts make up the whole: An entire menu composed of veggies and tofu?

Everyday—ordinary or commonplace: Walking to work is an everyday thing for him.

Every day—daily: He walks to work every day—three miles!

Ex—immediate past position holder—She’s the ex-president of the PTA at the high school.

Former—earlier position holder—He’s a former PTA president of the high school.

Fewer—refers to a smaller number of countable things: There are fewer cookies in the jar.

Less—is used for a smaller portion of a single thing: There is less water in this glass.

Healthy—the state of something’s health: He was finally healthy enough to start playing again.

Healthful—meaning good for your health: She mistakenly thinks diet sodas are healthful.

Imply—to suggest or hint: He implied that someone in class was cheating.

Infer—to assume or form a conclusion: How could you infer that he was talking about you?

Its—a singular possessive pronoun that refers to a singular thing: That car lost its bumper!

It’s—a contraction of IT IS and nothing else. EVER: It’s time to learn this one.

This kind—singular pronoun with singular word: I love this kind of dark chocolate.

These kinds—plural pronoun with plural word: I love these kinds of chocolates.

Cherie Tucker, owner of GrammarWorks, has taught writing basics to professionals since 1987, presenting at the PNWA conference.  She currently teaches Practical Grammar for Editors at the University of Washington’s Editing Certification program and edits as well.  GrammarWorks@msn.com.

February 2018

Be that self which one truly is.

~ Soren Kierkegaard

Years ago, while in art school, I accidentally lost eleven pounds. It wasn’t the result of physical illness, more like mental unrest. I wanted to make art but also doubted I was skilled or capable enough. What I believed about myself and what I wanted were in conflict, so I was stressed. Then, one day, I made an interesting decision. Though I’d always been thin, I decided to put myself on a sort of diet to lose two pounds (it made sense at the time). I see now, I was looking for something I could take control of – to feel better about myself. Time passed and eventually murmurs of concern, occasional remarks, and an anorexia reference rolled in. These comments threw me into a spin. I didn’t actually know how much I weighed; the start of my “diet” was the last time I had weighed myself. Finally, I stepped on a scale and found I had lost not two but eleven pounds – down to what I weighed in high school when I’d felt so bad about being too skinny I’d tried to gain weight.

I’d been both awake and asleep to what I was doing during this time. In my peripheral consciousness I could feel desperation but didn’t know how to address it. Now it was my task to undo the misguided thoughts and artificial ways I’d developed for soothing myself. It wasn’t easy or fast. I struggled to let go of striving to restrict myself– at first approaching it mechanically. I attempted what everyone wanted me to do: “Just eat more”. But the mind that had strategized trying to regulate what I was eating and the emotions that had learned to calm when that control was taken weren’t so easily moved. I pined for the natural way I’d once eaten and had inadvertently traded away. Gradually, I found my way back.

Who I thought I was and who I deep down sensed I was were not aligned, and that left me feeling out of sorts and out of control. Losing and gaining can become the fixations of a mind ill at ease, of a person who has misidentified herself. Hinging one’s well-being on perceived gains and losses is a product of forgetting what we actually are. We are inherently creative. We are a source - of innovation, imagination, and action. When aligned with this truth, the concept of loss is no longer experienced as threatening or depowering. It doesn’t need to be soothed, blocked, or escaped.

There is no greater joy than that of feeling oneself a creator. The triumph of life is expressed by creation.

~ Henri Bergson

About a year and a half after my husband and I had our first child, we got pregnant again. From the start, the pregnancy felt different to me and by the end of my first trimester it ended in miscarriage. I did my best to accept the situation but was increasingly unhappy – not just about what I believed I had lost but about what I thought I might never get. In order to move forward I had to think differently. I strove to soften my mental stance and leaned into embracing the experience of already having a child I loved - complete and whole in itself. Then I put my attention on creating. At the time, the only workspace we had was a tiny storage area where our unit’s washing machine resided. There I managed to set up a table and took to drawing and building the components of a miniature room for an animation idea I had. The more I built, the more I imagined, the more filled I was with energy and joy for the process. I was no longer suffering loss; I was doing what, in truth, we’re all always doing – I was creating – only, deliberately.

It is important to know who I think I am because that definition and identity determine what I deem important, whether or not I believe I need protecting, and whether or not I’m truly free. I must make sure my definition includes powerful creator (understanding I don’t yet have to have used my full powers to be one). Creative energy is the true Self, the essence of who we are beyond personality or ego; it bounds forward eager to express and evolve, develop and sometimes even dismantle. It craves more and it generates more. It is with us all the time – inaccessible only when we’re convinced we are something less than what we are.

Jennifer Paros is a writer, illustrator, and author of Violet Bing and the Grand House (Viking, 2007). She lives in Seattle. Please visit her website at www.jenniferparos.com.

February 2018

Twenty years ago, I decided to join the big leagues; I was going to quit my day job and write a breakout suspense novel that would bend all the rules, shock and awe my readers, and just possibly earn me more than ten-cent Ramen noodles for dinner. In the good news department, I was already a published author. I’d written half a dozen romantic suspense novels for Silhouette, genre books that I loved to write, but being genre, had a limited income stream. As in, my day job still paid the bills. But now I wanted more. I wanted to write, write, write. Every day, all the time. Maybe even in a real office, instead of at the foot of my bed.

The bestseller lists were already filled with former genre authors who’d made the leap. Sandra Brown, Nora Roberts, Tami Hoag, Iris Johansen, Tess Gerritsen. All romance novelists now making huge waves in suspense. I figured I could do exactly the same. I’d give myself one year to write a breakout thriller, and just like that, become an overnight success.

Except what is breakout suspense? More sex, I figured. More violence. How hard could it be? So I sat down. I drafted like a madwoman and you know what? I produced one really long, murderous, lustful piece of garbage.

Writing is uncomfortable. There’s no magic box that sits on your desk and says, “This scene is perfect or this character is exactly right.” I thought that having already published would’ve helped me reach this next level in my writing career. I was wrong. Bigger, my editor kept urging me. Think bigger story, bigger conflict, bigger thrills and bigger chills.

Frankly, I stewed, fretted and ate a lot of brownies. Soon, I was bigger, but I’m pretty sure that’s not what my editor meant.

It occurred to me that I had to push myself out of my comfort zone and create a whole new kind of story. No more linear plot of good guys chasing bad guys. Instead, I crafted an elaborate game of cat and mouse where I couldn’t even see what would happen next. Which yes, led to a lot of scary writing days where I stared at the blank page and wondered what I’d done or where I was going next.

I also had to revisit my characters. No more just considering the hero and heroine. Now, I gave everyone, even the villain, a value system. My cops were smart, but my villain clever. My heroine was tough, but the villain devious. The hero evolved, matured, become the person I always knew he could be, which led to the larger conflict I’d been looking for. Did I always know what I was doing? No. Did I throw away a lot of pages? Absolutely. But that process is what made my characters so smart—because I got to learn from the stupid scenes.

Finally, I had to get over myself. No more playing it safe. If I was to create authentic, gritty, real-life suspense, I had to do more homework. So I picked up the phone and cold called professionals. Yep police officers, FBI agents, even maximum-security prison guards. All of them thought talking to a so-called suspense writer was a little strange, but I’m a member of the public and they do value public relations, so they did their best to answer my questions. And thanks to those very patient experts, I finally came up with the dramatic, terrifying end-of-book climax my editor had been looking for.

It didn’t take me a year. More like three. But the end result was The Perfect Husband, my very first suspense novel which debuted just two slots shy of the New York Times list. I like to think it’s because the villain of the novel, Jim Beckett, is still feared by anyone who opens the pages. But maybe it’s because I finally faced down my own fears as a writer.

Success, I have learned, isn’t sitting at the computer and magically knowing what to do. Instead, it’s learning to be comfortable with your discomfort. It’s finding your way, word by word, through the dark maze of a half-baked book idea, which feels exciting and thrilling at the time, if only you knew how it would end.

I’ve now written twenty internationally bestselling suspense novels. I’m published in thirty languages. I’ve hit #1 on the New York Times list. I’ve won the International Thriller Writers award for Best Thriller of the Year (The Neighbor). I still never know what I’m writing. I still wake up each morning to the terror of the blank page. In the beginning, I thought it would pass; maybe for some authors it does. For me, the process has remained the same.

I started my latest thriller, Look For Me, with the kernel of an idea. An entire family is brutally murdered, their teenage daughter gone. Is she another victim? Or is she the killer? I cold-called professionals, learning about Amber Alerts, subway cameras, and yes, you would definitely track the family’s missing dogs. I developed some characters I liked, I fought with them till I liked them even better. I learned some sad truths from a CASA advocate about real life foster care, and I wove them into my plot to give it the heart it needed. I wrote brilliant scenes. I wrote awful scenes. I took two steps forward and sometimes twelve steps backwards again.

And once again, I produced a novel. Not easily. Certainly not comfortably. But hopefully successfully enough that Look For Me will make you stay up way too late flipping pages, and maybe even haunt you a little even after you’ve reached the end.

Twenty years later, I’ve learned to accept the challenge that is a writer’s life. Step outside your comfort zone, ride the ride, and relish the thrill of finally reaching The End.

For all the writers out there, here’s to you, your journey and your challenge. Welcome to the scary business of writing suspense.

January 2018

I taught a class at the University of Washington last quarter and had to learn a computer program called Canvas. I had to call the IT folks a couple of times to find out how to do something, and what I discovered is that the language they speak in IT is not quite conversational English.

My first question came when I wrote an announcement to my class, and then searched the screen for something (anything) that would say “Send.” I looked from top to bottom of the screen and from side to side. Nothing. So I called IT and told the fellow who answered what my problem was.

“Oh,” he said, “just click ‘Save.’”

Save? That to me said that that page would be there if I ever needed it again, but it didn’t seem to mean that anyone else would get it. But “Save” worked, and I nearly made it through to the end of the quarter without having to call them again. When I had to turn in my students’ grades to the UW, however, there wasn’t anything on the screen to tell me how to do that.

So I called IT and asked how I could post my grades. The first fellow told me I had to come in and take a class on Canvas. I told him I’d already done that, but he argued with me for a few minutes, told me to use Catalyst, and then transferred me. This one told me to transfer my grades to Catalyst, the program I had told him I wasn’t using, and then he transferred me yet again.

I explained to the new fellow that I couldn’t find how to post my grades to the UW on Canvas. We went round and round until I stopped him and said, “If I have a student named Jim Smith who has a 3.7 in my class, how do I let the university know that?”

“Oh,” he said, “you mean submit!”

Yes, yes I did.

Cherie Tucker, owner of GrammarWorks, has taught writing basics to professionals since 1987, presenting at the PNWA conference.  She currently teaches Practical Grammar for Editors at the University of Washington’s Editing Certification program and edits as well. GrammarWorks@msn.com.

January 2018

Saying “No” can take as much courage as saying “Yes.” We’ve all had the experience of squeaking a mousy “Okay, sure” for something we didn’t really want to do – drive twelve kids to the water park in the Mini Cooper, agree to Sunday dinner with new acquaintances when the conversation had already stalled at “Hello,” go with a friend to a football game when we’re allergic to fans in painted faces.

I always take heart from authors who’ve proclaimed an emphatic No to other pursuits or activities in favor of writing. Their difficulties and hardships, and the agonies of their decisions, shouldn’t be minimized. But they had the courage and recognized their power to say No. A few examples:

-- A new writing friend withdrew from teaching middle school to start writing and blogging.

-- A well-known, highly successful woman turned from hotshot attorney to spiritual and career coach and self-help writer.

-- A corporate drone left the cubicle and water cooler to peddle his comedy scripts.

-- A classmate in graduate school stopped after the master’s degree to write novels – and became world famous. (I dutifully trudged on to the doctorate.)

All these people, and many others, had to buck disapproval, friends’ incredulity, relinquishment of prestige and titles, disappearance of steady money (sometimes a lot), and exposure at holiday dinners to relatives’ downturned mouths, dire warnings, and protracted head-shaking. Not to mention the writers’ own fears.

But these writers persisted in saying No to other things and following the call of their writing.

You’ve probably heard the advice to do what you love, as these writers did. And you have also heard of the by-now classic book by Marsha Sinetar titled Do What You Love, The Money Will Follow. The money may or may not follow, but most days, if you do what you love, you’ll really want to get out of bed. You’ll look forward to today, and even when you’re tussling with writing block, you’ll know it’s a struggle you’ve chosen. Some days, for no apparent reason, your heart will leap like a fawn.

How Hard Is It? A Personal Case

How hard it is, really, to say No? Quite hard, as I learned recently. Friends invited my husband and me to dinner. Deep into a late draft of my spiritual self-help book, I was working steadily and well on the way to meeting the deadline without panic. The words and ideas flowed, and I was feeling that priceless blend of winter-air sharpness and creative boundarylessness.

I knew I should have declined.

But they were good friends, my husband enjoyed them, I’d had fun with them before, and I kept telling myself I needed a break.

I didn’t. Or, more accurately, the breaks I did take – a few yoga stretches, a walk around the terrace, a snack, a little cooking – were enough to make me want to go back without losing momentum.

As soon as the date was made – time, restaurant, dress – I regretted it. Maybe to some it wouldn’t have been a big deal. The usual retort is, “But it’s only . . .” an hour, a few hours, a day.

The Cost of Not Saying No

Not so. I recalled a passage from Elaine St. James’ Inner Simplicity about the “costs of not saying no.” She accepted a weekend dinner invitation when she wanted to paint and later realized the huge error: “it’s not just the four or five hours you spend at Jack’s that get lost by doing things you don’t want to do; it’s all the time leading up to it, and often the time and energy you spend recovering from it as well” (p. 124). Just thinking about what to bring, what to wear, getting ready beforehand, maybe what to eat if you’re on a special diet – all take energy from your creative work.

And then, as St. James points out, when you’re actually out, you eat too much, drink too much, sugar too much, caffeine too much. Once home again, you have trouble falling asleep with all the caloric stimulants and Jack’s rather annoying pontifications rattling around in your head. The next day, you sleep too late, wake up headachy, and can’t see straight enough to work. So, the cost of not saying No shoots from a few hours to a full two days and huge sacrifice of precious work momentum.

At that dinner with our friends, before, during, and after I experienced exactly what St. James described, with the only difference that, ungraciously, I was surly the whole time. I answered everyone in monosyllables, didn’t crack my sullen face at their witticisms, responded rudely to the server, and sent back my main dish when everyone else was happily attacking theirs. Once home, I suffered my husband’s reprimand and two-day frosty silence.

I Finally Said No

The next time we were invited out (not by these friends), and I was hot into a piece, I remembered this episode. So I explained to my husband how I felt. If they were really good friends, I reasoned, they would understand. At first, he objected to my lack of flexibility, and I wished I could feel differently. Then he grudgingly agreed. He went without me and had a great time.

As did I, at home alone with my computer, latest draft, notes scribbled that dawn, and classical music in the background (foreground when they played Telemann). Even when I stalled some, jumped up to scrub something, or stuck something in my mouth, the evening stretched out deliciously. Then I meandered back to the work and that matchless open-endedness.

I typed, mumbled to myself, listened inside, laughed, cursed, reasoned, until – finally, finally – a passable first draft emerged!

When my husband came home, flush with satisfaction from his visit, I greeted him, flush with satisfaction from my session. The friends, he said, understood. No reprimands, no vindictive silences.

Saying No gives us power. We gain an unmatchable sense of satisfaction, certain of being on purpose, doing what we’re supposed to be doing. We’re declaring ourselves to the universe: “This is what I was meant for, and nothing else deserves my best attention.” Doesn’t mean we won’t write for bread, or cable, or take a day job, or fulfill other responsibilities, but our major allegiance and commitment is to our writing.

Beyond questioning, rationalizing, or excusing, we’ve been given the talent, desire, and drive to create with words. We do have the power and courage to say No to all that would threaten and erode and the power to shout an emphatic Yes to our writing.

Author, editor, writing coach, and spiritual counselor,·Noelle Sterne·publishes writing craft and spiritual articles and essays in print and online. With a Ph.D. from Columbia·University, Noelle assists doctoral candidates wrestling with their dissertations to completing their tomes (finally). Based on her practice, her new handbook addresses these students’ largely overlooked but equally important nonacademic difficulties in Challenges in Writing Your Dissertation: Coping with the Emotional, Interpersonal, and Spiritual Struggles (Rowman & Littlefield Education, mid-2015). Excerpts appear before publication in several magazines. In Noelle's first book Trust Your Life: Forgive Yourself and Go·after Your Dreams (Unity Books, 2011), she helps readers release regrets, relabel their past, and reach lifelong yearnings. Visit Noelle at www.trustyourlifenow.com.

January 2018

Go into yourself. Find out the reason that commands you to write; see whether it has spread its roots into the very depths of your heart.

~ Rainer Maria Rilke

I’ve been in a funk lately. I entered it unwittingly and have had trouble finding the exit, and when I do, difficulty remembering where it is. I don’t like to use the word depression, which makes me feel blanketed – as though it’s wall-to-wall sorrow. There are always corners and areas where all is clear.

The other day, I was rooting around my work area and opened a drawer mostly forgotten. Inside was a large envelope filled with letters from about three decades ago. They were from friends – some with whom I’m no longer in touch, some with whom I still have contact, some with whom I remain close. As I read, the letters helped me spot those clear areas in me. The letters, at least for that moment, helped me remember.

We often focus on remembering. We like to remember the good: special occasions, landmarks, graduations, birthdays, vacations; and we also choose to ruminate on what feels bad, what we consider failures, betrayals, scary things, and pain. We tag these groups with either like (good) or dislike (bad). But the kind of remembering prompted by the letters stood outside of those two categories. For the moment, I didn’t have my end of the story: the letters I had written. I had only the words of friends. And from the act of reading them, hearing from those striving to connect, came a sniff of clarity. It wasn’t what they said; it was that they wanted to say it. In reading the letters, I wasn’t really remembering the past or specifics. I was remembering the feeling of connection.

I have lived long enough now and been blue enough times to understand that I feel better when I mentally allow everything to just be, including me. And it is in this state, this dropping of my side of the story, that my sense of connection can be more easily restored. This takes deliberateness. It’s not something I’m likely to experience if I let my thinking drag me around a circuit of hot, reactive topics. When I was reading the letters, I wasn’t joining my own narrative; I was outside of my story, so the story couldn’t bring me down. I found relief in the open space in which I wasn’t the one doing the talking.

Let there be no purpose in friendship save the deepening of the spirit.

~Khalil Gibran

When my oldest son Max was little, he had an imaginary friend named Egg. Egg was calm and composed with a palpable goodwill. My husband and I knew this because from time to time our son called upon Egg to mediate difficult situations. Once we were in an argument with him, and Max suddenly stopped and asked whether we’d like to speak to Egg. We agreed. He then lightened his tone and spoke as her. She was delightful and remarkably level-headed. She negotiated the situation, everyone came to an agreement, and that was that. In the midst of tension, Max called upon an energy of friendship he had come to trust. And that energy worked wonders. He decided to let “someone else” do the talking and drop his end of a contentious narrative.

When I was nine, I found a small, black plastic folder (previously home to a scratch pad) in the wastepaper basket. I was so excited I spent the next half hour cutting paper, punching holes and hunting for a fastener to construct a new pad that would fit inside the folder. It felt as though I had found a gift – a wonderful opportunity. That was the start of a lifetime of keeping journals. From the get-go writing to myself seemed like talking to someone or something else as well; I was being fully heard and spoken to. Writing felt like the dynamics of true friendship.

In rooting around drawers and waste paper baskets, I found a gift. I received something available to all of us. We get to deliberately choose what part of a narrative we explore, what part we don’t, and we get to find and play the parts that lead us to those clear spaces and a feeling of connection. We get to write and receive letters from friends any time. Not only can a story, an essay, or a poem be a friend to one who finds herself in search of clear space, but so can the reason that calls her to write.

Jennifer Paros is a writer, illustrator, and author of Violet Bing and the Grand House (Viking, 2007). She lives in Seattle. Please visit her website at www.jenniferparos.com.

December 2017

The worst mistake you can make involving parentheses is to leave off the last one so that readers don't know when to stop whispering. Parentheses serve to interrupt the sentence or the paragraph to add something sotto voce to what you are writing, which can be as simple as one word to add clarification or a whole sentence. However, because you are interrupting with those parentheses, there are a few rules to consider.

First of all, do not put any other punctuation before the opening parenthesis. That little curve announces the interruption; you don't need to interrupt with a comma or a dash to tell the reader you are about to interrupt.

No: Did you tell him what time to be here, (2:30)?

Yes: Did you tell him what time to be here (2:30)?

Do not capitalize the first word in a parenthetical item unless it is a proper noun, even if the parenthetical item is a complete sentence.

No: I'll bet he is late again (He's never on time).

Yes: I'll bet he is late again (he's never on time).

And don't put a period before the end parenthesis (unless the word is an abbreviation).

No: Bill saw that new movie and raved (I missed it.).

Yes: Bill saw that new movie and raved (I missed it).

OK: They said it wouldn't open until much later (about 6:30 p.m.).

The end punctuation goes outside the final parenthesis (see the previous sentence-as well as this one). That goes for exclamation points and question marks as well, unless the parenthetical item is itself a question, for example, and the sentence ends with different punctuation.

We all wished we could get a ticket for that show (who wouldn't?).

If you want to shout instead of whisper, use a dash instead of parentheses, but dashes have rules too. (We'll get to those later.).

Cherie Tucker, owner of GrammarWorks, has taught writing basics to professionals since 1987, presenting at the PNWA conference.  She currently teaches Practical Grammar for Editors at the University of Washington’s Editing Certification program and edits as well.  GrammarWorks@msn.com.

December 2017

Our doubts are traitors and make us lose the good we oft might win by fearing to attempt.

~ Shakespeare 

My son and I have been watching Ken Burn’s documentary, The Civil War. In it we’ve learned of General George McClellan – a major general, and for less than a year and a half, general-in-chief of the Union Army. At first, McClellan was a great asset with fabulous skills at organizing and training troops; but when it came time to fight, it was a different story. He consistently overestimated the strength and numbers of the enemy troops and remained indecisive, often refusing to enter into battle. He was cautious, apparently, to a fault. As sideline observers, my son and I found ourselves yelling at McClellan (150 years too late) to do something - my son calling him an expletive filled array of names, me questioning why Lincoln didn’t just fire him. Eventually Lincoln did remove McClellan - bad and excellent leader that he was.

Like my son and me, Lincoln was aggravated with what seemed to be chronic indecisiveness. Of course, it’s easy for two documentary enthusiasts to balk at a general’s reticence; we don’t know what it is to lead thousands of soldiers. But perhaps we, like Lincoln, were so strongly aggrieved because we could see what McClellan could not – that he could win.

More often than not McClellan had the troops he needed yet believed he needed more. His use of imagination was distorting - duped by what he believed was true, hypnotized by what he feared might be. His imagination, which could have been his greatest strength, became his greatest impediment. For General McClellan his was a psyche-out that affected thousands of soldiers and civilians; for the rest of us, this kind of thing happens in smaller, less dramatic ways, in which the stakes aren’t as high, but important just the same.

When you doubt your power, you give power to your doubt.

~ Honore de Balzac

I was about ten when our gym teacher at school entreated my friends and me to participate in the upcoming gymnastics meet. I had never competed in anything, and was disinclined, in general, towards sports, but some how agreed. I chose what I thought would be the easiest, least terrifying option: the basic, beginner floor routine. It did not require much ability but did require remembering what to do and in what order, which I did, but then forgot once it was my turn to compete. I left the mat in tears. Though unhappy, the experience also seemed familiar. At the time it was fairly habitual for me to anticipate possible losses, discomfort, and only a modicum of achievement – not much winning. It never occurred to me that if used differently my imagination could help me.

Sixty Minutes did a piece on twelve-year-old piano and violin prodigy and composer, Alma Deutscher. Fluid with her creativity and imagination, she allows new melodies and ideas to flow to her and through her regularly every day. Part of how Alma creates is by relying on “lots of” composers she made up, composers with different names, backgrounds, and emotional styles; she then calls upon these composers to help her in her writing when she is stuck. She uses imagination to open multiple channels, providing resources to which she otherwise wouldn’t have access. Alma Deutscher knows she has enough – enough ideas and enough help. Creatively, she has little reticence or resistance and is fluid in her movement forward. Alma has embraced her imagination as a deliberate tool and a constant companion. This results in decisiveness and consistent creative action.

For McClellan, it was a misconstrued use of his imagination that worked against him. In his last battle, at Antietam, he outnumbered his enemy more than two to one but his mind was so dedicated to not losing, he forgot to imagine he might win. The general stymied his own willingness and resources. Believing ultimately that what he had was insufficient, it was logical for him to hold himself back from engagement and likely victories.

Our use of imagination can open us to endless resources and creativity; it can also straitjacket us. Visions lead and mislead, and perception always determines the actions we take. Alma Deutscher seems to be a gifted anomaly, but part of her genius is her intuitive understanding that the “troops” available to her are endless. She doesn’t question whether she has what she needs. She knows she can access resources available to us all. Whether a wartime general, a gymnastics novice, or a child prodigy, we each have the means and ability – beyond what we can see – to win.

Jennifer Paros is a writer, illustrator, and author of Violet Bing and the Grand House (Viking, 2007). She lives in Seattle. Please visit her website at www.jenniferparos.com.

December 2017

"Please don't worry about asking—you should. One should always do what they can for their career."

That's what Elizabeth Strout told me two years ago when I wondered—apologetically—whether she might blurb my then-new novel. Elizabeth had to decline that time, pleading work of her own. But she'd previously given a lovely blurb to an earlier story collection of mine.

Her words reassured me that I was not monstrous to have ambition: a fear that still lurks, I think, in the hearts of many writers. One should always do what they can for their career. That was the payload to hold close. Most writers sense it instinctively. The nature of the world at hand, pleasant or not, commands it.

The tricky part? Deciding how much self-promotion, and what kind, may be good—for the writer, and for her readers.

I've seen writers I truly, deeply admire announce their awards and accolades so constantly on Facebook that soon I find myself (with the best of will) sick of them—actually groaning aloud to be staring once more at their book's cover, an article about them, or photos of them jauntily sampling truffle fries and Malbec in sexy international cities they're being paid to tour.

I doubt I can again stand to see the words "honored and humbled." For heaven's sake (I scold the writers aloud, alarming anyone else in the room). Enough already. We get it.

I also sense that it's difficult to slam on the brakes in the midst of that overdrive to push, to do everything to help gain one's work visibility. Maybe the habit's a form of gluttony. Or paranoia about dead-endedness; about invisibility. We've been required by publishers, editors, and agents to take up the drum-beating task. Competition, they tell us, is hysterical. There's no longer a choice. Suck it up, and act. We're so constantly, fiercely primed to do whatever it takes to flog our work, I can itemize a sample list off the top of my head:

Establish a web presence. Write a blog. Create a Facebook page for the book. Create one for yourself as an author (not as a private citizen). Make a book trailer. Tweet your head off. Post every review: every award, translation, sale of rights. Design product tie-ins, contests, giveaways. Throw a book-themed party. Arrange interviews on television and radio. Skype. Give readings. Speak to classrooms, book clubs, libraries. Schedule a tour and hit the road with as many cases of the book as you can squeeze into your car's trunk. Sleep in the car if you must.

Relatedly: Finance it all yourself. Unless you've got hot buzz escorting you straight out of the gate, you'll probably have to.

Some writers can afford to hire publicists. None, among those I've asked, has yet confessed to me that they felt actively dissatisfied with their publicist. At the same time, I never sensed that whatever any publicist accomplished felt clearly measurable to these authors. So the question "is it worth it?" still floats - assuming one has money for it in the first place.

Some writers simply can't stomach self-promotion. They hang back, bitter or sad or fatalistic. Others see no reason not to fling themselves into the game like acrobats. I imagine there's little they would not do, including sing the national anthem at a ballgame.

It seems reasonable to assume that a working writer must strike a bargain with herself about what she is willing to do to help her work gain visibility; that these choices will likely be made on a case-by-case basis―but that also, she'll stay mindful of some bottom-line of oversaturation, of Enoughness: awareness of the moment when readers will turn away, numbed by the ubiquity which can morph into something close to satire―like a Woody Allen film where everybody at the dinner table has turned into a rabbi.

The supreme paradox? Most writers are not only not sparkling entertainers by nature, but rather their stark opposite: intense introverts who can't wait to run away, slip back into pajamas and thence, their Happy Place: surrounded by books and papers, in bed or at the beloved desk.

For each of my own eight books, I believe I did pretty much all I could within bounds of money, taste, and optimizing relationships. But at some self-evident moment, as the window of novelty starts to shrink, I've packed up my booth in the marketplace and (crazy-relieved) slunk back into quiet, private life—and with that, of course, new work. I do sense that most writers long for this moment—gaspingly glad when it arrives. Especially the pajamas.

Is it monstrous to have ambition? The question faces in two directions: for observers of the drum-beating author, I think, it's a philosophical debate about when exertions start to work against her. For the author herself, the practical translation is "how much of what kind, for how long?" The answers emerge—always—individually, fine-tuned by personal style, and by levels of what writers might call the Ordeal Threshold.

Surely the fundamental logic of shepherding completed writings from birth into the world is solid. Even some of the most famously miserable, messed-up artists on earth had naked ambition for their works. We write (or paint or sculpt or dance) to speak to somebody, even to just one other somebody. And in the chaotic noise of the present world, getting heard takes much more doing. Elizabeth Strout's words can remind us.

The lesson?

Get out there. Get the basic promotional work done. Fine-tune it to your taste.

And then have the wits, dignity, and faith to go away―until the next book.

November 2017

It’s such a common greeting, like “How are you?” that people don’t really think about it, nor do they really care about your answer. But you should.

The most common answer to that how-ya-doin’ question is, “Good, I’m doin’ good.” What most people don’t realize is that they have just said that they are performing charitable acts.

Doing is an activity, and the question “how ya doin’?” asks how that activity is being performed, which requires an adverb, a word that describes how things are done. They can be done well or brilliantly or even be just fine. But they aren’t done good.

You can be doing good if you are building houses for Habitat for Humanity, for example, or curing a disease. But the question wasn’t “how are you?” If it had been, you could say, “I’m good” or “I’m well.” One answer is about your state of being, and the other about your health. When the question is “how ya doin’?” or even “how is it going?” the questioner is inquiring about the manner in which the thing is being done. An easy response is to say it’s going great. You might just trick your brain into believing it, even when things aren’t going so great, and that would be good. 

Cherie Tucker, owner of GrammarWorks, has taught writing basics to professionals since 1987, presenting at the PNWA conference.  She currently teaches Practical Grammar for Editors at the University of Washington’s Editing Certification program and edits as well. GrammarWorks@msn.com.

November 2017

It’s 9 a.m. and I’m on the train, on my way to interview Susan. It will be our third interview of the four we’ve scheduled: four 90-minute sessions in which we talk about her life and experiences so I can write her autobiography. I’m used to working with people over a longer period of time (ten interviews is the norm) but Susan wants a short, succinct version of her life story. Her book will likely come in at around 15,000 words.

I use the time to look over my notes. I’m concerned that Susan hasn’t warmed to me, that something is a little off in our rapport. In some ways she’s very open: she tells me about painful moments from her past with ease; but she’s abrupt, swift, doesn’t stay there long. The problem is that I need her to stay in those moments a little longer. I need her to describe and then reflect so that I can write as if I am her – because that’s what she’s hired me to do.

Today we talk about Susan’s third and most successful marriage and she softens as she tells me about this happier, more relaxed part of her life. By the end of the interview we’ve reached the present day, and this is good because it means interview four can be all about reflection. Knowing this isn’t Susan’s strong suit I prepare her. I tell her that the writing I’ve done so far feels a little stilted, and I know from the way she’s looking at me that she’s thinking something like: Well, writing well is your responsibility – that’s what I’m paying you to do.

I falter a little. She’s right. In a way.

But I can’t write what isn’t there. I don’t want to put my spin on her words. I need to know how certain events have affected other parts of her life, where the connections are, where her hopes, fears, regrets and joys are. I tell her I’ll lead the way, I’ll prepare questions that will draw out the details, and these details will add colour and layers to her story.

We take out our diaries and schedule interview four, making it three weeks away. This gives me enough time to finish a draft of the book and Susan enough time to read it. I’ll also send her some reflective questions so she can prepare her answers, and though I don’t tell her this – I’ll have some questions ready that she won’t have seen. Spontaneity might help.

I leave and make my way home, ready to spend the afternoon with Edward – well, with Edward’s voice.

The process of writing Edward’s book is a little different because I’m just the hired writer on this one – there is a separate interviewer, editor and project manager (all roles I take on when I’m working for myself, as I am with Susan). In cases like this I never meet the person I’m writing as; I simply receive the audio file of each interview and write the book in stages. It’s ghostwriting in an extreme form: I am unknown even to the author. The only contact I have is through the interviewer, who takes the questions I’ve emailed (there are always lots of questions) and reads them out at the start of each interview. My name is rarely mentioned: “The ghostwriter would like to know how old you were when you fell out of the tree?”

Edward is 93 years young. He has lived a full and varied life, and is a wonderful storyteller. It’s so easy to capture his voice. What’s trickier is how he jumps along the timeline of his life, taking leaps from his twenties to his eighties and back again – and he’s certainly jumping today. But that’s the nature of how people tell their life stories, it’s never linear, and I’d never expect it to be. When he can, the interviewer does a great job of anchoring Edward. The golden question is always, “So, how old were you when this happened?” This enables me to know where in the book to place a particular story.

When Edward’s book is almost finished I’ll get to see the photographs that will accompany my words.·This is always an exciting moment in the ghostwriting process, particularly when I haven’t met the person I’m writing as. I’ve spent months building up a picture not just of them, but also of their partner, their children, their home, their holidays. I scan through the faces quickly – guessing who’s who, then I go through more slowly – match a photo to a person, a story or place in time: This must have been taken just after John was born. Is that the garden where Grace got married? Ah – so that’s the Christmas scarf!

Today’s interview with Edward is number nine out of ten so technically there’s only one more after this, but I have a feeling Edward has more material in him. I also have a feeling that he’s enjoying the process of writing his memoirs far too much – he often says the phrase on the recordings: “Oh yes, I told June about how I’m writing my memoirs…” I predict he’ll book a few more interviews.

Though I’ve never done it before, and though it is probably against protocol, there is a chance that when the book has been written I’ll ask the interviewer to pass a note from me on to Edward. I’ve heard so many stories of the people and connections he’s made through his life that I have a feeling he’ll appreciate it, and like me, he’ll get a kick out of our unusual connection.

It’s a curious thing – to listen to a person recount their life in great detail and never meet them or see them in the flesh. Inevitably I feel that I know them, and yet they know nothing about me: they could pass me in the street and have no idea I’ve spent dozens of hours listening and re-listening as they recount the terrible lows and wonderful highs of their life. I think about the reach of the books I write, how they will become family heirlooms and be held onto – perhaps – for hundreds of years. The books will certainly outlive their authors – both the credited ones, and the ghosts.

November 2017

Being at ease with not knowing is crucial for answers to come to you.

~Eckhart Tolle

Years ago I used to write down my dreams and think about their possible symbols and messages. Sometimes before sleep, I’d even ask a question and record my answer-dream in the morning. Occasionally I got what felt like a complete solution, but more often I was given insights that opened my eyes a little bit more – pieces of an answer. GPS navigation devices are similar; every direction needed is available, but because we won’t retain or even possibly understand all the steps at once, we are given only the next direction for which we are ready. The answer to getting where we want to go comes in pieces, next steps, small moves and turns – and all of that together gets us where we want to be.

When we teach a child to read we start with the alphabet and small words, not paragraphs, chapters, sentence structure, and grammar. The problem “I can’t read” isn’t solved with the title of a good book; the solution begins with learning the letter “A”. And when I write fiction, a scene sometimes comes, a piece of dialogue, or maybe a character’s quirk. Every time I look inward towards the story, I can feel the whole of it, but only see and hear parts. In writing, as in life, I can perceive and work with only so much at a time.

Though we often call solutions to problems answers, we don’t always think of problems as questions. But problems inspire questions that directly and often indirectly lead us to what we want. When I was in art school, my back started hurting so much I was seeing a chiropractor twice a week and couldn’t sit for more than ten minutes at a time. My back had become my problem. All I thought I was asking for was how to feel normal again when, in truth, my question was much bigger.

The pain just wouldn’t go away, no matter what I did, so after a while I lost interest in trying to find a physical cause and cure and started asking about possible emotional components. I read what I could find on stress and thought about my life and my mental orientation towards everything. I kept asking how I could take better care of myself. Then one day, somewhat desperately, I asked the chiropractor if there was anything else I could do; she suggested aerobics. I was already going for walks regularly (as instructed) but feared hurting myself with exercise. Then she gave me an answer I didn’t realize I was looking for; she told me not to be afraid of the pain.

You’ve always had the power, my dear, you just had to learn it for yourself.

~ Glinda, The Wizard of Oz

I started exercising, consciously, not cautiously, and gradually challenged my contracted thinking, and in doing so, my contracted body. I used physical movement to help me focus and learn that everything can be worked with, and that my energy is best spent enjoying what I can do rather than trying to protect myself from getting hurt (physically or emotionally). I’d believed I had to be afraid of pain; it had never occurred to me there was a choice. It was a big answer that came over time, in pieces, and one I’m not sure I would have received if not for the questions my back inspired.

I like the idea that my answers are already here – though I might not yet perceive them until a decisive focus on my part takes hold. In The Wizard of Oz Dorothy’s problem is she’s in Oz and wants to be home. Her question is, “How do I get home?” By the end of the story, Glinda the Good Witch reveals that Dorothy always had the power: she need only click the heels of her ruby slippers together and think, There’s no place like home. The shoes alone are not the answer. Dorothy’s focus is needed.

When asked why she didn’t tell her sooner, Glinda says Dorothy would never have believed her. Perhaps Dorothy’s question was bigger than just how to get back to Kansas. Maybe, like all of us, she wanted to know she already had everything she needed – the intelligence, courage, and heart to find her way back to love, back home, any time she chose. And perhaps, there is no great story, no meaningful adventure if an answer comes too soon. So, hold on.

Jennifer Paros is a writer, illustrator, and author of Violet Bing and the Grand House (Viking, 2007). She lives in Seattle. Please visit her website at www.jenniferparos.com.

October 2017

When words sound the same and are almost spelled the same, it is sometimes difficult to remember which one to use correctly. The difference between a while and awhile often causes writers to pause. The solution is to remember that the single word awhile is an adverb and is used to describe an action.

He waited awhile for the bus, but it never came.

The two-word combination is required because the word while is a noun and requires the adjective a.

It took a while for the bus to come, but he was happy he waited.

The main clue comes from The Gregg Reference Manual, as usual. There are always two words, it tells us, if while follows a preposition.

Stir the batter for a while to distribute the walnuts.

That way there is always room for an adjective to be inserted.

Dinner will be ready in a little while, dear.

Think about that awhile. It will come to you after a while.

Cherie Tucker, owner of GrammarWorks, has taught writing basics to professionals since 1987, presenting at the PNWA conference.  She currently teaches Practical Grammar for Editors at the University of Washington’s Editing Certification program and edits as well. GrammarWorks@msn.com.

October 2017

Doubt is a pain too lonely to know that faith is his twin brother.

~Khalil Gibran

When I begin working on a new picture, I start out feeling free. I sketch and see what lights up for me, then strive to develop it. There’s some waiting, staring, and listening for whatever comes into play next. Gradually, I recognize daytime or night, inside or out, wind or stillness, water or land or both, where I am, where I want to be. As the image focuses itself, usually, almost always, at some point I start to doubt. Early in the process, while in the “dark”, I find it easier to keep the faith, but as I see more, I am inclined to question whether I’ll be able to reach a satisfying conclusion.

This is my least favorite part of how I make pictures and of how I sometimes do life. I don’t like the part where I no longer trust whatever wings I was resting on before, and instead climb off, question, and start worrying. It’s uncomfortable at best: the stretch of road where there seems to be no legible signs of reassurance that I am still on course to what I want.

Though faith is often used in religious contexts and in more secular terms like faith in humanity and faith in ourselves, I don’t think the atheist nor any cynically inclined realist is ever left behind when considering what faith actually is. Though we may be called upon to be consciously faithful during trying times, we all routinely display faith day to day. There is no way to go from here to there without faith; regardless of how many times we’ve done it before, we don’t know what will happen this time. If we step into the kitchen and there’s never been an intruder there previously, that’s still not proof it won’t happen. We trust things will play out as usual - a reasonable thing, but one done without definitive supporting evidence. Even with bouts of worry, we all display innumerable acts of faith in the course of a day. Without faith, humans would be cripplingly inhibited – but we aren’t. Whether consciously affirming it or not, we have faith.

Faith is a softening of the mind’s demand for concretes and assurances, an allowance of the fuzzy and the unformed. At its best, faith is a quiet, stable regard for and awareness of life experiences coming more into focus. Much the way we appreciate the growing of a seed, or the evolution of an invention, we don’t know exactly what will happen, but we value the unfolding and know there will be one. When we allow it, we are all inclined towards this natural trust in the process, and in us as a part of it.

Faith is a passionate intuition.

~ William Wordsworth

In Cook County Jail in Chicago, Sheriff Tom Dart is pragmatic in his approach to running the facility; he also holds faith in an expanded vision for the inmates’ lives outside of prison. The jail serves about 7,500 – approximately half of whom Dart believes shouldn’t be there and are there “for the wrong reason”. Along with a program for the mentally ill and changes in staff and process, Sheriff Dart has brought in photography, cooking, and chess classes. For his critics, it’s hard to see the purpose or punishment in this soft approach. But Dart strives to provide an introduction to aspects of life and themselves that are unknown to the inmates. Through the classes, they’re given a chance to become aware of more that’s possible, in and outside of themselves, upon which they might build. Without this intuitive awareness of potential, there is little inspiration for them to create a new blueprint for themselves and nothing in which to have faith.

Every story is at one time unknown to its author. Pieces of narrative come into our awareness at different times; the writer may know the feeling but not the specifics or have clarity about the journey, but not the ending. At some point, something remains shadowed. And because we often can’t see what’s next, learning to rest in the feeling of what’s available and possible can bring peace to the process and open our eyes to its inherently trustworthy properties. Part of what inspires faith is awareness that there is more for us. When encouraged, we can all at least start to sense what is possible – even when we can’t yet see it. And with that consciousness follows faith – faith in ourselves and in the potential of creating something new and something better.

Jennifer Paros is a writer, illustrator, and author of Violet Bing and the Grand House (Viking, 2007). She lives in Seattle. Please visit her website at www.jenniferparos.com.

October 2017

How many times have you picked up writing with complete dedication to becoming a full-time freelancer, only to forget about it as soon as “real life” sets in and distracts you?

Not to worry, we have all been there. Pursuing passions that reside outside of our normal responsibilities (such as paying bills, heading to a 9-5, and attending to children) are not so easy to keep on track. When life calls and you have a packed to-do list, dropping anything that doesn’t feel immediately necessary to the “do later” pile is easy.

As a freelancer fresh to the game of the writing business (who also worked a full-time job and had many life responsibilities) I can assure you that succeeding in a passion is doable – it just takes a little extra help.

Throughout my journey in writing independently, I have had a writing coach guiding me every step of the way, and she has been an asset that has kept me, my writing, and my lofty goals achievable and intact.

Here are some of the pros that I have experienced from having a writing coach:

1. Sifting through information overload

We can all learn tips and tricks for freelance writing online, but honestly, there is so much information out there that it often feels easier not to start, because it’s hard to know where to begin.

“One of the things I struggled with when I started freelancing is figuring out the details,” explains Diana Bocco, a full-time freelance writer, author, and writing coach. “I knew how to write, but I didn't know anything about finding markets, reaching out to experts for quotes, starting a portfolio or dealing with payments.”

2. There’s a lot more to freelance writing than just writing

Writing passionately since the age of six, I thought that I’d be set as a writer, but after a couple of years in the industry, I have learned that, like anything else, writing full-time is a business that requires a multitude of talents and focuses – and that’s where a coach comes in.

“A coach can help you figure out things you probably didn't even think about: how to choose a niche, how to get those first few clips, how to find clients, and with time, you can probably discover all these things on your own, but it takes exactly that: a lot of time,” notes Bocco.

With my writing coach’s help, I have learned how to bill clients, how to discuss money with clients, how to approach editors properly, and how to market myself in a way that is universally approachable.

3. Succeed at what you love and find the time to do so

When someone starts out on the path of writing as a career, it can be very overwhelming to know where to begin. There are a ton of publications out there: natural living, fitness, culture topics, men’s, women’s, and everything in between.

If you are someone with a wide ranging amount of interests, it’s not always so easy to narrow down topics that you can write passionately about, but finding the time can stop someone before he or she even begins.

“A writing coach can also help you figure out how to find time and motivation to write and how to pick an angle for your career so you can focus on what you're passionate about,” says Bocco.

4. Learn the ins and outs of the industry

The writing industry can be a very elusive and frustrating place for beginners, and even experienced writers. Why? Markets, publications, and editors are saturated with talented people who can write well.

As a beginner, you may receive a number of rejection emails, and that’s if you are lucky enough to even receive a response at all.

This isn’t meant to discourage someone, but this competition is precisely why a writing coach is key.

Many beginners don’t understand the industry. “They think all it takes is an interesting idea, but publishing is a business like any other: you have to understand what editors are looking for, you need to know how to pitch professionally, how to write what a particular market wants and needs,” explains Bocco.

The sooner a writer learns these lessons, the more success they will have in launching a booming career.

5. Command a higher pay rate

As a novice writer, some may find that many markets and clients aren’t always that keen to pay well – or even at all. Many opt to write for free or for very low amounts in order to build up a portfolio.

However, having a writing coach can help someone break out of the low/no pay situation a lot quicker than if a person were navigating the industry all by him or herself.

There is a logical sequence to breaking into markets that are willing to pay higher rates, explains Bocco. Because top websites prefer to work with established writers (in order to make their job simpler), having a writing coach might not make you a pro overnight, but it sure can help you look like one, so that better markets will give you a chance.

“A coach can help you avoid mistakes that make you look like an amateur, and can also guide you in building a portfolio so by the time you reach out to bigger markets, you have a body of work to speak for you,” says Bocco.

Overall, a good writing coach not only gently nudges you forward, but keeps you inspired and actively engaged in the art of writing.

According to Bocco, it's always rewarding for a coach to see people who have innate talent become successful and start earning money. For many writers, it's just a questions of getting the right guidance to help them get going,” explains Bocco.

And from my own experience, I can surely say how intimidated and timid I was as a beginner freelancer. My head was full of all sorts of ideas of “How writing as a career isn’t possible.” But with time, my coach truly helped me through the process of unthawing my fears and replacing them with achievements and progress.

My writing coach not only gently nudges me forward, but she keeps me inspired and actively engaged in the art of writing. Because I have invested in a coach, I take my writing more seriously, and I have seen steady and impressive progress since I began working on my freelance goals about two years ago.

Because I have someone “checking in” on a regular basis, I have steadily moved forward from a personal blog to selling articles for publications I have never dreamed of working with.

September 2017

Say these aloud and read the sentences that follow aloud as well. If necessary record yourself, so you can play it back until it sticks.

SWIM I swim every day.

SWAM I swam yesterday.

(HAVE) SWUM I have swum regularly all summer.

DRINK Everyone should drink eight glasses of water a day.

DRANK I drank nine glasses yesterday.

(HAVE) DRUNK I have drunk so much water I feel like a sponge.

BONUS: For ten extra points say the following very fast ten times:

I shouldn’t ’a’ drunk so much last night.

You can break bad habits with practice. Start now.

Cherie Tucker, owner of GrammarWorks, has taught writing basics to professionals since 1987, presenting at the PNWA conference.  She currently teaches Practical Grammar for Editors at the University of Washington’s Editing Certification program and edits as well. GrammarWorks@msn.com.

September 2017

“I think everybody should get rich and famous and do everything they ever dreamed of so they can see that it's not the answer.”

~ Jim Carrey

When I was nine I wanted to be pretty. But, in truth, that was code – I actually wanted to feel secure. The previous year I’d had a kind of breakdown involving intense fear of my new school. After some hiding and running, I changed schools again. I got what I thought I wanted: a place in which I felt cared about. But though the new environment inspired me to feel safer, I still didn’t feel strong in myself. I was inadequate in my own eyes, which I then, unwittingly, turned into not pretty. So, at nine, I wanted to be pretty – but not really.

In Pixar’s online course in storytelling, emphasis is placed on the arc of characters starting out wanting one thing and eventually getting what they need instead. When we consider need in this context, as something required more to thrive than survive, it becomes very similar to “actually wants.” Sully, from Monsters Inc. is given as an example. He wants a promotion and recognition within the organization, but then he meets Boo, a human child. Because their relationship is against the rules, it threatens his career. Gradually, Sully finds what he needs and chooses it over the pursuit of his original goal. Sully starts out wanting a promotion and status but what he really wants is love and appreciation (given and received), which he finds in a richer way in his relationship with Boo.

A young prince wants to be king. Decoded, this statement might mean the prince wants to feel powerful and respected. Perhaps he has linked king and feeling powerful together and equated the two. Time passes and the young fellow gets to be king, but he is a miserable king. His decisions are disrespected and he doesn’t feel powerful. There is revolt in the air. He obtained the form of what he wanted, but not the actual experience. The king could have both but he would have to bring it himself, not just look to conditions to provide it.

This coded language is worth learning because pursuing things, jobs, or relationships as the end goal can be rough if underneath we yearn for something else. When my youngest son tells me he wants a future living an isolated, quiet life, in which it is just him and some cats, it seems to me he doesn’t actually want permanent seclusion. He wants to be able to enjoy being with others, but if he believes he can’t, exile and solitude sound like a solution. Through the thought of isolation, he gains momentary relief, but the pursuit of it would actually put him in conflict with himself.

Dedicate yourself to the good you deserve and desire for yourself. Give yourself peace of mind. You deserve to be happy. You deserve delight.

~Hannah Arendt

In an episode of the BBC show, Call the Midwife, a woman, expecting to have just one baby, gives birth to twins. One of the babies dies, however, and she and her husband are left grieving. They’d anticipated only one new life but now want both the children and so mourn the loss. But included in and beyond their original desire for a child is the desire to love and nurture – and the opportunity still remains before them, lying in their arms, alive and ready. They have what they want whether or not they can receive it.

We are given the chance to embrace what is alive for us and release what is not. Sometimes, what is void of life is just a symbol for what we want, and what is alive is the truth of our desire. If we misunderstand our longings, we can hold ourselves in a state of grief – fixating on what has no life to give, while that which offers new life, connection, and what we really seek, remains unrecognized.

Our desires encourage us to focus, harness our energies and drive, our gifts and talents, and carry them forward. They’re the potential means for our expression and appreciation – not just things to get. What we really want (or need) to thrive is never outside us; we always bring it. We are the providers of our own joy – or not. Beauty, wealth, fame, success are good, but incapable of making us feel good in and of themselves. It is good to know what we want, and better to crack the code on what that means to us.

Jennifer Paros is a writer, illustrator, and author of Violet Bing and the Grand House (Viking, 2007). She lives in Seattle. Please visit her website at www.jenniferparos.com.

September 2017

I once asked a hugely-admired, much-awarded, serious literary writer, who's been a kind and generous friend to me, how she was feeling following an extensive book tour.

"Fragile," she answered.

Her response puzzled me, and I confess thinking it, at the time, somewhat self-indulgent. After all, most writers would kill to have the "problem" of book tour fatigue. We throw our souls into getting work accepted for publication, and then (if luck's still with us) getting it recognized – every phase of which requires Herculean stores of drive, energy, and stamina. Book tours, and their fallout, should surely be the spoils of war.

But after a recent visit to a reading group – a seemingly innocent, pleasant, straightforward task, not to say privilege – I understood my friend's bewildered exhaustion.

Until now, I'd always assumed that talking to reading groups pretty much guaranteed a love-fest.

You didn't worry about it beforehand. You felt pre-vetted. A bunch of individuals had read your book and then invited you to visit to discuss it, which to my mind means they've liked it enough to want to learn more, and to talk about their responses to it.

Maybe most of the time, that's indeed what happens. An author sits down among a group of friendly faces and, prompted by their good questions, pours out her heart about the making of the story, her writing path, a few funny or sad or frustrating anecdotes connected with its publication.

This time, I visited a group of intelligent, affluent women in a beautiful, woodsy setting. They'd certainly read the book, and a few of them cornered me at once to sign their copies. But while a couple of the group's members immediately brought up how much they'd enjoyed my novel, others sat with arms folded, eyeing me narrowly – as though I were trying to sell them bogus medicine or time-shares in a non-existent condo.

One member of this group noted that she did not believe my characters' ages. Another declared that the two protagonists depicted in my novel, who are often irritated with each other and have one horrendous fight, did not really love one another.

Oh. Really?

"How did you come to write in so many sentence fragments?" asked another woman, in a tone striving for scientific curiosity, which of course only underscored her sharp dislike of sentence fragments. Carefully, I explained that I was closely tracking the interior thoughts of my characters, and that to my knowledge people didn't tend to think in meticulously structured, grammatically complete sentences – rather, their thoughts came in clumps of words with abrupt starts and stops; often certain phrases referred to personal history, and therefore functioned symbolically.

My explanation was met with polite silence.

As to the characters not loving each other? Instinct made me open my hands: "That's up to you," I said as cheerfully as I could. Those characters belong to you now, I reminded them – echoing Elizabeth Strout's response, when listeners asked her who may have been the model for Strout's fabulous protagonist, Olive Kitteridge. Because if I dared contradict their convictions about who loved who or who was behaving badly or not acting their ages, these earnest readers would simply turn on me and tell me I was dead wrong.

They laughed when I suggested that, recognizing the built-in absurdity of the predicament. But though on its surface we had all "played nicely," by the end of the night I was feeling – frankly – somewhat brutalized. I couldn't wait to drive home, get a couple of stiff drinks down, and talk it over with my husband.

He's a retired college teacher, who's spoken before roomfuls of adoring, confused, skeptical, scornful, or bored individuals for so many years I won't embarrass him by naming the number.

He reminded me that people bring unknowable baggage to their reading, and then to the event itself; that you simply can't second-guess what backstories may shape their responses – why this or that person seems to be listening to you with suspicion or even obvious distaste. For authors, no score sheet's handed back to you (thank God; I don't think I'd want to see one). No follow-up surveys appear, as if you were an online purchase.

Except – alas! You most probably are an online purchase. For better or worse, a book is now absolutely perceived as a product – never mind what it cost to create or promote – and the reader regards herself as a consumer with consumer rights, expecting a warrantied level of satisfaction. If that feels missing to her, the lack will likely be announced: by word of mouth, or a bad review (often online) – or as a sour face and accusatory questioning during book group visits or bookstore readings.

I am still trying to understand my feelings about this, because I'm supposed to be a pro. I've been writing for almost thirty years. I've appeared before plenty of classes, bookstore audiences, and book groups. Yet this last event, for all its surface courtesy and terrific food and pretty surroundings, reminds me that I'm still as vulnerable as a newcomer – prey to feeling depleted, defensive, and depressed by periodic glimpses of what I can only call hostility.

Granted, a writer tends to wear her guts on the outside of her skin, hopelessly sensitive to subtlest nuances of atmosphere and behavior. Yet, again, after six books of literary fiction and two books of essays, I'm supposed to be seasoned. You puts your work out there and you takes your lumps. You shut up. You carry on.

But the overall effect of that recent evening confounded me. Many of those women just didn't get it. Didn't get the novel's voice, its vision, its passion, its quest. They wanted instead to quarrel with particulars, to demand justification for them. They seemed to willfully ignore or never at all to grasp the "force through the green fuse," to swipe from Dylan Thomas.

Some authors will dismiss such experience: "Too bad; not my circus; whatever." Others might consider that the fault for the above stalemate may be their own: that their art has, in fact, failed. But that won't make sense mathematically, if most readers have actively loved the same work.

Also, humility's important – but self-castigation doesn't help make more art.

So I wonder how to retool expectations.

It's one thing to consider the notion of hostile readers in the abstract: some band of bland-faced citizens moving vaguely around out there, grumbling. You can read the terrible reviews they write on Amazon: often clumsy, crude, even misspelled.

It's another to be eating their pasta salad, petting their cat, and staring into their frowning faces, as they ask you to explain why you did something they don't like.

I made this book, but its life is now its own. You can like it or not, but with all respect, I am not at this point obliged to defend or justify it, should probably serve as an author's standard-issue, no-comment comment. I've always suspected that the moment an author tries to defend or justify her work she is tacitly validating her accuser's objection, like trying to form a response to Have you stopped beating your wife yet?

But the author-as-mortal-human faces, in reality, a new hurdle to drag herself over: loneliness. That is, a new kind of loneliness. Because loneliness is something at which we're already pretty well-practiced.

You want people to read, and to love reading. You bang your drum furiously to bring attention to your hard-wrought book. But when attention comes, it invariably contains naysayers (who find the damnedest things not to like).

The only feasible conclusion?

Simply, that it be's this way.

There will always be people who'll love your work, which of course will always give joy. But alongside them will crop up, just as surely, a stubborn margin of thumbs-downers with highly specific complaints. Given this inevitability (over which she has no control), the writer has no choice but to allow for it, but also to learn to somehow place herself at a safe, psychic distance from it, certainly never to feel obliged to "solve" it – humans are too various – and above all, never to let it puncture or stall or tarnish or contaminate her ownership of, and faith in, her work: past, present, future.

Fragile? Yes. Bruised? Maybe a little. But only – necessarily – for a short while.

Then, back to it.

August 2017

It’s summer, and it’s hot; learning this won’t tax you excessively. There is a difference between comprise and compose in both speaking and writing that many people are unaware of.

Comprise is a verb. The parts comprise the whole. In that sense, the “whole” is made up of, or contains, all of the parts.

Compose can also be verb, for example, if you are a musician and wish to write your own symphony. Your symphony will be made up of the parts you put together. It can be composed of several different rhythms and keys.

The key to remembering the difference in usage is to know that nothing is ever comprised of anything.

Lettuce and tomatoes only comprised the salad.

The salad was composed of lettuce and tomatoes only.

Cherie Tucker, owner of GrammarWorks, has taught writing basics to professionals since 1987, presenting at the PNWA conference.  She currently teaches Practical Grammar for Editors at the University of Washington’s Editing Certification program and edits as well. GrammarWorks@msn.com.

August 2017

A little word association: I say Jurassic Park, you say…? Dinosaurs? Spielberg? Sequels? Most likely, not Ivar Ekeland or James Gleick. But author Michael Crichton credits them in his acknowledgements for the book, and Jeff Goldblum consulted both in preparation for his role as resident chaotician in the film. Ekeland's Mathematics and the Unexpected and Gleick's Chaos: A New Kind of Science profoundly influenced Crichton’s formative notions for the iconic tale. But a story about fractals, or even Dragon Curves — the iterations/progressions of chaos theory — would not likely have achieved a sliver of the success that the novels ultimately did. Crichton needed to find his “It,” that special something, the heartbeat of his story. The dinos, yes, but even more than that, compelling and relatable characters around whom they would thunder up from extinction.

The idea, of course, also harkens back to Mary Shelley’s classic, cautionary tale, and much like good Dr. Frankenstein, any perseverant scribe must assemble not merely the parts and pieces of his or her creation, but conjure that magical spark which will compel it to life. The It. The heartbeat. “There is something in us,” mused Flannery O’Connor, “as storytellers and as listeners to stories, that demands the redemptive act…” And so it is that even if redemption is not your story’s theme, O’Connor is at least correct that things need to matter: the characters, the conflict, the salvation, or even the failure. If they don’t, if in the end it’s just bells and whistles and frills, even mind-blowing T-rex-sized frills, the story will fall flat, with a monstrous thud.

SW2C

There’s a pseudo-scientific term, SW2C. It represents So What & Who Cares? If it applies to your story, no measure of literary legerdemain will save the day.

Martina Boone describes hearing agent-extraordinaire Donald Maas’s sage advice on some additional key questions each author should ask herself: If you could preserve but one scene in your work-in-progress, which would you retain, and why? Why does it speak to you? Why is it essential? What takeaway do you want for your reader? Answer those questions, and there’s a fair chance you’ve found that heartbeat, that magic, that redemptive act of which O’Connor spoke. Bottle it. You’ll be glad you did.

To find and palpably convey the heartbeat of your story is to find the engine that will drive it forward. It is your Muse incarnate, that certain something which will compel you to the page and breathe life into your creation. One evening after taking my son to one of the Harry Potter films, and beholding the sense of wonder of so many youngsters (and adults), I promised my boy to write a story based on him, one filled with magic and adventure. Soon thereafter, an idea fell to me about immortality and secret worlds and bitter rivalries that persevered from one century to the next.

I wrote it in fits and stops for more than a year, until one day it hit me that, despite having an imaginative concept, and some pretty fair writing, my story lacked that certain something, that certain oomph. Not long after, I was watching my son and very young daughter playing in a park, when a very large bee circled precariously close to my little girl. My son spotted it before I did, and rushed forward and scooped his little sister up in his arms and ushered her from harm’s way. A small thing, perhaps, but bee allergies run in our family. He was a bit scared, and yet did not hesitate to place his sister’s welfare before his own. And with that, I had it. The moment epitomized the sacred, protective bond between them, an unspoken covenant which in that very moment crystallized as the heartbeat of my story.

For all the things magical, for all the worlds and lifetimes and mysteries, the story was hollow until that point. No matter how mysterious and dark the worlds I was creating, they alone were insufficient to make folks care. But here was my chance to translate to the page a bit of that which I cared about more than anything, and in so doing, find the touchstone for my tale.

“Authors,” Richard P. Denney reminds us, “do not choose a story to write, the story chooses us.” Like the wand to the wizard, the story to the scribe. Magic.