Happy Mother's Day

We wish our Mommy Pens a Special Mother's Day.

To Sophie, for being not only a mother to her kids, but a den mother to us.

To Lisa, whose material instinct extends beyond her children as she checks in to make sure our flights arrived and our drives were save.

To Adrienne, for being an example not only to her boys but to us in that the pursuit of a personal dream is something you don't give up, not in the face of a full time-time job or personal adversity or raising wonderful children and not even when all of these things converge at once.

Just like any children, we forget to tell you how much we appreciate you.

Happy Mother's Day to you, and to all our readers who are raising or have raised a family.

- The Pens

...my turn, and I got Martha!!

We're switching things up around here. For the next couple of weeks, instead of writing about a particular topic, we're writing about each other. We've fired up the ol' randomizer and received our assignments.



How many times have I found myself talking about Martha to someone who hasn't had the pleasure of meeting her yet - and trying to find the words to describe her, failing utterly, and ending up saying "Martha is unlike anyone else I know"....?

I mean, how often do you really get to say that? Without for a minute dismissing the snowflake-like uniqueness of every human being, many of us share some characteristics. Of LGC I might say she's loyal the way my son is loyal - completely unshakably. I might compare Lisa's kindness to my own grandmother, who just couldn't see ill in anyone.

But Martha? Every experience, every interaction, goes through the Martha-filter and comes out fascinating. (Don't worry, I'm getting to the compliment part - if you haven't figured it out yet, a week and a half into this grand experience, we're all pretty much crazy about each other.) A cheeseburger, it turns out, is not the admittedly delicious assemblage of bun and meat and cheese that I've loved all these years - it is in fact a QUEST deserving of serious attention and vigorous city-scouring. A social note is not a folded piece of paper but a precise marriage of paper stock and design. A book - a book! No book is just a book; Martha can analyze and interpret and read between lines and consider the reader and discuss its merits, all without ever losing the joy of just reading it in the first place.

I love what a bundle of contradictions she is. I once borrowed a shirt from Martha to have my photo taken in. She KNOWS her tailoring, and fine fibers, and the vagaries of design, and owns impossibly beautiful pieces by designers who, of course, she knows personally. And yet - when Martha gets her hair cut she apparently tells them to get it right the first time because she won't style, flatiron, or even blowdry it. She has more important things to do.

She's marvelously self-possessed and confident - and then you discover she has this crazy little fan-girl streak that renders her nearly incapacitated in the presence of someone she admires. (But we took care of that, Pens, didn't we?)

She sees through to the core of people with laser-like precision - and then she claims she can't write emotion. (Ha! HA! That's me, scoffing.)

Remember the word I used up there - "vigorous"? Not long ago Martha met me and my daughter for lunch, since we had an appointment in the city. Afterwards we offered to give her a lift, but Martha merely slung her backpack over her shoulder and said she lived too close to need a ride. People, she lived THREE MILES AWAY. Now I know that lots of people walk or run or stairclimb similar distances for exercise, but the thing is that Martha had probably begun the day by swimming across the bay or dueling with her sensei or spearfishing or poledancing (ok, i made one of those up).

You may doubt me, but I've never seen Martha turn down an opportunity for adventure. She has this whole host of friends she knew before she met us (she's very matter-of-fact about it; her social calendar is legendary, and we have to plan things months in advance if we want her there - and trust us, we *always* want her there) - and apparently they are all foodies and fashionistas and marathon runners, and they routinely dash off to all corners of the globe to have sumptuous experiences, and we might be tempted to be a little bit jealous except that when Martha is with you, you always feel like you have 100% of her attention. Make that 120%, because it's Martha.

She has this one darling expression - my favorite, I'll confess. It's her "wheels-turning" face. Ask her anything - really! the 80th digit of pi or whether you ought to break up with that guy you're seeing or if you should get the shoes in patent or suede - and she does this one-eye-narrowed, slightly-frowny-mouth thing...and sometimes she actually *says* "hmmm..." and well, I always feel like the balance of the universe hangs on the answer. And that it'll be unimpeachably accurate.

I could go on forever, because she's *that* fascinating. I haven't even told you about martha and numbers (genius), martha and story (captivating), martha and generosity (you'd have to know her to believe me). But I could just keep writing and writing and never finish up. Let's leave it at this - I adore this woman, and I feel just a little sorry for everyone who's never met her.

Sophie

We're switching things up around here. For the next couple of weeks, instead of writing about a particular topic, we're writing about each other. We've fired up the ol' randomizer and received our assignments. So instead of tuning in today to read what Sophie has to say, you get to read what Adrienne has to say about Sophie.

My husband and I love to watch Ocean’s 11 together. Sometimes it seems like half of what we say to each other is recycled dialog from that movie. One day--I think we were on some long car ride--we played a game trying to figure out which character we were the most like. From the beginning we admitted we wanted to be Danny Ocean. Sure, we would have settled for Rusty, but dear god, we wanted to be Danny. 

Everybody wants to be Danny Ocean. He’s cool, gorgeous, fabulously connected, and manages to keep everything together even when it looks like it’s all falling apart. 

Everybody wants to be Danny

But we just weren’t. At best, I was Linus Caldwell, though I think that my husband was being generous with that one. I’m really more of a Livingston Dell. And, yes, if you don’t watch Ocean’s 11 on a weekly basis, I’ll wait here patiently while you Google who these people are.

But here’s the thing, Sophie is Danny Ocean. She’ll tell you that she’s not, but don’t you listen to her. She’s the real deal.

 Don’t believe me? By show of hands, if Sophie took you aside and asked you if you wanted in on this little heist she was planning, you’d at least think about it wouldn’t you. You, who have never stolen more than a couple of hair metal keychains from the Spencer’s Gifts when you were in Jr. High. 

Now replace heist with workshop at one of the dozens of conferences she jets off to every year. Or group blog. Or a volunteer position in any number local writing organizations.

Yeah, you can put your hand down now.

Twice as cool as Clooney.

But you didn’t come here for movie analogies, did you? You want the dirty dirt, right. Well, I can’t give that to you. What kind of friend do you think I am? But I might get away with sharing just a few choice Sophie secrets.

*Sophie is a freakin’ empath. I’m not kidding about this. The woman is scary good at reading the emotions of others. If you have met her for more than a few minutes, rest assured, Sophie Littlefield has got you pegged. Yeah, even you, Mr. Too Cool For The World. The second you opened your mouth, Sophie knew your every insecurity and deepest fear. One time over coffee, she read the whole story of my childhood by the way I ordered a bagel. Once again, not kidding.

*Sophie is far more complex than any character from her books, and, as we all know by the quarter of bazillion award nominations she’s received, that’s no easy task. It’s no secret that Sophie likes scotch, and yeah, she’s from Missouri. But she isn’t Stella. What she is a delightfully complex blend of midwestern hospitality and brutal honesty. She likes to stay in luxury hotels, but drink in dive bars. She’s half five star restaurants and half nut-rolled cheese log. She’s kind but not a pushover. She’s honest, but never cruel. It’s a lovely tightrope that she walks, and one that makes her attractive to all kinds of people. Any time you see Sophie, she’s surrounded by people. I’ve only been to one conference with her, but I’m willing to wager that the only time she was alone that whole week was when she went to the bathroom.

*Sophie loves to bring people together. Romance writers and mystery writers. Thrillers, fantasy, sci fi, literary, doesn’t matter. We’re all just writers in Sophie’s mind, and we should all be welcome at the same table. It was that attitude that first really drew me to Sophie.

And after a couple years of being able to call her my friend, I’ll freely admit it; if she asked me to help her rob a casino...check that, three casinos...I would totally do it.

And the WINNER of the Anthony for Best First Novel is....

SOPHIE LITTLEFIELD "A BAD DAY FOR SORRY" !!!!!





Sophie with her agent, Barbara Poelle



"I want my 15%."


CONGRATULATIONS FROM ALL OF THE PENS! WE ARE SO PROUD OF YOU!!!!

Don't Start Something You Can't Finish

by Sophie

WEAPONS

So Juliet and I were talking about weapons over the weekend in our downtime (we were in Phoenix for the first annual Poisoned Pen Mystery Readers Conference, which was a blast - more on that in a moment) and we were both whining that all the other Pens know SOOOOOO much more than we do on the subject. Well, I was whining, actually; Juliet received an entire arsenal as a gift when she was a toddler, but I'll let her talk about that.

Weapons figure prominently on the cover of both of my books, which I find sort of amusing, especially since one of them is a gun, and what I knew about guns - until recently - you could fit on a matchbook cover.

I did what every good writer does and researched the heck out of the guns I put in my books - and then I backed it up by consulting experts.

But when Juliet and I were talking, it occurred to me that there is one weapon I know well:

Emotion.

How do we hurt each other most deeply? Consider this list of emotion words, and stack them up against any teetering tower of bullets, throwing stars, nunchucks, cat-o-nine-tails, nailguns and the like:

betray, spurn, vex, villify, condemn, castigate, shame, pillory, confound, defame...

I could do this all day, but regrettably I am on a churning-burning deadline so I must close prematurely. But as a consolation, here are a few photos from the weekend - -

The crew from the Poisoned Pen conference: Juliet; Phoenix SistersInCrime Roni and Shantelle; Barbara Peters, owner of the Poisoned Pen; and authors Lauren Willig and Dana Stabenow (yes, they are in p.j.s...long story)

Juliet and librarian extraordinaire Lesa Holstein of the Glendale Public Library, who graciously hosted a group of us for an event called "Women Who Kill"


Juliet, me, and Stefanie Pintoff, winner of this year's Edgar for Best First Mystery Novel
This is the villa we somehow got accidentally upgraded to, at the Arizona Biltmore. (A front desk clerk may have been involved.) SWANKY! And yes, those are my toes :)

You Can't Make Me

by Sophie

RULES


Oh, dear.

Rules are sort of a hot button issue for me. It's not that I don't believe in them. It's not that I don't understand that, in the absence of some sort of societal structure that includes limit-setting and behavioral expectations, the world would descend into chaos.

But rules make me chafe like a six-year-old boy wearing a tie to church. I hate being told what to do.

As you can imagine, this isn't the most effective way to go through life. Sometimes I think I'm only a few frustrations away from moving into a hut in the woods, where neighborhood associations can't tell me what color my mailbox has to be and bureaucrats can tell me what classes my kids have to take to get their high school degree and Real Simple magazine can't tell me I ought to be composting. Most of the time, though, I find it interesting to push back against expectations and see how many of the pressures and strictures I can resist - not to be a contrarian, but in the interest of honoring my true self.

This is a reversal from the first few decades of my life, when I went around trying to mold myself to fit the expectations, rather than the other way around. In fact, this reversal became the theme of my mystery series. The second book, A BAD DAY FOR PRETTY, came out last week, and once again it features the adventures of avenging middle-aged widow Stella Hardesty, who was herself a "behaver," a nice lady who stayed quietly out of the way serving her family and community and making sure everything looked pleasant to outside observers.

Stella was covering up a terrible secret - her husband's abuse - and when she had a life-changing mid-life crisis she did a dramatic 180, going from June Cleaver to won't-take-shit-from-anyone pretty much overnight.

My own transition was more subtle. I started rebelling in small ways against what was expected of me. Stating my opinion a bit more often (and for women my age, that may be the most subversive act of all, given how forcefully we were coached to defer and "make nice"), insisting on doing things my way, making unpopular choices and taking responsibility when they didn't work out the way I wanted.

I think the worst of that particular storm is over. With apologies to all the innocent bystanders, I think midlife change requires a bit of a meltdown (much like the transition from teen to young adult, a process I am participating in with a couple of frustrating people around here) - and I think I'm at the stage where, like the toddler, I'm a little tired of beating my fists on the floor and screaming, maybe ready to wipe the tears off my face and go out and play.

As for Stella, she's through the worst of her "reinvention" as well, but she's chosen to stay lean and mean and looking for trouble. Which is a good thing, because she's fictional and all...and badass makes a much better story.

The Lady in the Yellow Dress

by Sophie

UNDERPINNINGS


The first time I heard the word "underpinnings":

I was 32 years old. I stayed home taking care of a baby and a toddler, and when I had a chance to go out for a fancy dinner with my husband and some guys from his firm, I said yes in a heartbeat - a night away sounded great. At dinner, I was seated next to the young wife of one of the partners. On the surface she and I had a lot in common - we were about the same age, we both had small kids at home...but there were some differences, too. The family she had married into was the old kind of wealthy - the kind that doesn't announce itself pulling up to the valet or in the number of carats in a diamond ring...the kind whose silver service goes back more years than my ancestors have been in this country, and had their nails buffed but never polished.

There were flashier women at the party that night - prettier women with shorter hems and higher heels and the latest haircuts - but my dinner companion didn't seem to notice. She didn't say much, but when she did, everyone listened. She was wearing a very simple dress, a semi-fitted sheath in pale yellow linen, and it suited her the way her blunt bob and single silver bangle did. I told her I liked it. I did like it, but what I really liked - coveted, even - was her elegance.

"Aren't you sweet to say so," she replied. Then she added, with a conspiratorial smile: "But it was quite a challenge to find the proper underpinnings."

"Ummm," was my clever response.

That night when we got home, I looked the word up. I had turned it over in my mind for the rest of the evening, wondering what it meant. A hairpin of some sort? A shoe? I was closest when I imagined it might be a kind of slip (we used to wear them back then)...but here is what my dictionary said (I still have the same dictionary I received as a gift my freshman year in college, and I occasionally consult it rather than going online, just for nostalgia's sake):

"Undergarments or stays worn to support the shape of an outer garment, or to enhance one's figure."

(Today's dictionaries are less coy: "Underwear.")

Immediately my table-mate's comment made sense (if you've ever tried to find the right bra to wear under pale tissue linen you know what I mean), but it was the romance of the word that stayed with me. My adolescent underwear came from J.C. Penny; after college I shopped at Marshall Field's but I was still solidly in the Maidenform camp. I avoided the boutique brands - La Perla, Wacoal, Cosabella - because of a solidly midwestern, practical sensibility: who's going to see it, that lace won't hold up in the washer, for seventy bucks you could get six bras at WalMart...you get the idea.

I'm pleased to say that I have, in my four and a half decades, owned a lovely, expensive undergarment or two. If you measure value in the sheer delight of slipping on that cool silk, I got my money's worth and then some. But I'm not sure if I've ever felt what my dinner companion projected that night...a sort of serene certainty that the quality of being "just right" was worth every penny, that the search for the bra that wouldn't show through the sheer fabric or create unflattering lumps or bulges - that the time and money spent had been more than justified.

I doubt I'll ever choose to put that much energy into underwear - excuse me, underpinnings - but a toast to my long-ago companion nonetheless. Lady, wherever you are, you had style to spare.

Wistful (kinda) rhymes with Mistletoe

by Sophie





Holidays




If you ever doubted that holidays are all about traditions, go get yourself a couple of teenagers. Their awkward loping famished selves will confound you with their refusal to conform to any standard, expectation, or societal norm 360 days of the year, but just try changing one tiny little detail of your family holiday practices and prepare to be run over in a raging whirlwind of adolescent angst.

Put a plaid bow over the fireplace instead of the red velvet...try a new stuffing recipe for Thanksgiving...serve a frittata for Christmas breakfast instead of cinnamon rolls. Go ahead, try it - and then stick your fingers in your ears to protect them when your little sugars scream -

"BUT THAT'S NOT THE WAY WE ALWAYS DO IT!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!"

Well, I've learned that lesson. Yes ma'am, I dutifully drag all the boxes down from the attic and follow the holiday blueprint from years past, and it's all worth it too, for that sparkly little moment when the kids wander into the living room on Christmas morning and for a moment - if you squint - you can see them standing there in their footy pajamas, dragging their teddy bears along the floor.

Traditions glue one year to the next, and ease the passing of time and the relationship of all our past selves with the present and future ones. But inevitably there comes a day when it's time for change. Everything changes - we don't doubt it, but for some of us the transition is more demanding, more raw, more shattering than for others. I don't do change well...but even I can see, looking through the wrong end of the telescope, the one that makes close-up things look very far away, that change can be good.

Do you remember when you were a young adult, spending your first holiday away from home? Maybe you were with friends or a lover, in a strange town. Maybe you couldn't afford much. Maybe you were a little more homesick than you cared to admit, but I bet there was a moment when you realized hey - I can do this. Even without the gold star your dad always put on the top of the tree - the Willie Nelson Christmas cassette - the cookies your mom made with the rolling pin from Poland - - even without any of that, it was still Christmas, and it was still magic.


I remember standing a little forlornly in my first high-rise apartment watching my fiance rig up our tree and thinking of everything I missed, when he said "Well, we'll just start our own traditions." He came home the next day with a $14.99 ceramic nativity set from Ben Franklin and we set it up on the coffee table. I thought it was funny. It was badly painted and tacky and I figured I'd start collecting a real set - you know, the Wedgwood set you buy piece by piece over two decades - as soon as we had a little money.


But that never quite happened. We moved around, we grew up, we had kids. Every year I got that box out, with its cast-styrofoam bed that the pieces molded right into, and set up the nativity with a three-dollar bag of raffia "hay" from Michaels. Every year I put it away in January, shaking my head and thinking how I really had to find something nicer for next year.

But then suddenly twenty years went by, and that ugly set had pride of place every December. It was as much a part of the holiday as the stockings I sewed myself or the handprint plaster preschool ornaments. I am certain that my kids would be horrified if I ever suggested replacing the awkward misfired plaster wise men and camels and baby Jesus with stately bone china.

Until they find themselves out on their own one day. It won't be so many years now. The thought makes me terribly sad in a way; I can't imagine Christmas without them. But I'm excited for them too. They'll miss that ugly old nativity, but they have their own discoveries to make.

Pens in Action

Three little pens went off to Bouchercon, the largest mystery convention, in Indianapolis last weekend. Did they get into some hijinx? Hmm, perhaps.

It all started when they roomed together.

Juliet, Gigi, and Sophie

Later Sophie stole Brett Battles' brand new Barry award for Best Thriller Ever. (Juliet tried to stop her.)

Steve Hockensmith tried to get them in line by using his stern, no-nonsense look but Mary Saums encouraged the gals not to be intimidated.

Oh dear, there's Juliet again, this time hanging out in a bar with Jen Forbus and Brett again. Watch out for the deer heads and Christmas lights, Juliet!

Meanwhile Sophie tried out a new look. (Too bad she stole the glasses...new friend Libby nabbed them back.)

In the end, our heroines had a lovely time and missed the rest of the Pens muchly.

I Aim To Join the Women's Horror Club

by Sophie Littlefield

BLOOD

This time of year, I love to pick up an unapologetically creepy horror novel and shudder my way through it. I love horror, and consumed the usual amounts of Stephen King, particularly the short stories, when I was a kid. Since then, I haven't read as much horror, but that is changing. After consuming HEART-SHAPED BOX in a couple of breathless days, I moved on to Joe Hill's short story collection, and that re-ignited my old fondness for the genre.

It's been exciting to discover women who are writing what I have, probably ill-advisedly, dubbed "girl horror." (That is a terrible term for many reasons, not the least of which is we don't need to give men any more encouragement to disregard books written by women.) What I mean by that is a story that is character-driven first and foremost; in which the plot is inextricably linked to the characters (meaning it would not unspool the same way with a different cast - hey, that was pretty smart, wasn't it? I just came up with that but I think I'll start using it); in which sensory details run a broader spectrum than those associated with terror (this richness makes for a far more ambiguous and thus more interesting novel); and in which relationships change as a result of the psychological response to horror, not just to the events themselves.

The first such author I encountered was Alex Sokoloff. Avid blog readers already know Alex for her essays on writing and craft. The same year I met Alex, I also met Rhodi Hawk, whose horror novel will be out shortly; I am looking forward to it.
And the following year I met Laura Benedict, whose novels exemplify the creepy/character mix I really enjoy. Other women on my horror TBR pile include Sarah Langan and Sara Gran.

That's by no means meant to be a complete list, and I'd love to hear suggestions from you. One group of writers that deserves more attention is those who write in the short story form.
Cemetery Dance and The Shroud, among others, publish women authors who do a commendable job of stretching the limits of what we consider horror.
I have been writing horror short stories for several years, but only recently did I place one. It will appear in a print anthology edited by David Cranmer - I'll keep y'all posted.

Save For Later - the Second-Biggest Lie

By Sophie


The biggest lie told by many grown-up ladies is not, in fact, "oh my gracious, that's the most astonishing man-tool I've ever encountered." That's just a little warm-up lie we use for practice before we get around to the hard work of bearing children. At that point we have to roll out the serious artillery, because - as every mother knows - lying to your kids is an art that takes practice and dedication and finesse.

Here's the thing. Kids want things. They want stuff from the moment they get out of bed in the morning ("where are my ankle-zipper jeans - doesn't anyone ever do laundry around here?") until they lay their precious heads on the pillow at night ("I'm already mostly asleep - can't you bring me a glass of water so I don't have to wake back up?")

Most times, a heartfelt "hell no" will do the trick. But sometimes their pleas merit a bit more robust response, like when they actually have a point, when what they are asking for is within the realm of reasonable.

Often, however, it just ain't convenenient.

Which necessitates The Mother's Lie: I'll talk to your father about that.

...And get back to you, is the implication there. As though when Bob walks in the door at the end of the day I'll be like, "Honey, Junior wants me to join the Academic Boosters like all the moms who care about their children's educations. What do you think, yea or nay?" - or "We're out of milk and toilet paper - do you suppose one of us should run to the store?"


....when I know darn well that I won't do anything of the sort. Yup, I'll talk to your father about that is the circular file of parental responses.


Which reminds me of the 2nd-most-oft-uttered lie around here, which is called into service any time I have to cut big chunks of text:


I'll use this section later.


Now I have to pause here to say that I feel kind of bad for Juliet, because what follows is cribbed directly from discussions we've been having on the road (we're in between cities on our book tour - Sunday was Phoenix, Thursday is L.A. etc.) Once I'm done here she won't have a darn thing to say, because we're in complete agreement on the subject.


(Though that's the perk to being the Monday girl: everything's fresh snow. I get to make tracks in any direction I want and there's nothing any of the other Pens can do about it. Which makes me feel gleeful...kinda makes me want to yell "Die Hard, Die Hard, Die Hard!" facing due West toward the outer limits of the city where a certain Pen can only jump up and down in impotent fury...ah, love that!)


What were we talking about...oh, yeah. So writers write merrily along, building and shaping the story as they go, and eventually the day comes when they put that last period in place and go on a celebratory bender only to come back in the cold dawn and realize that it's revision time. Which means fixing what's broke and, when things are too broke to fix - or, more often, too irrelevant to fix - yanking sections out.


And that hurts. It hurts and burns and makes us feel all empty inside, because, see, it's always the sections you loved the best that have to go. Even if it was boring prose before, the minute you have to yank it out, it all turns brilliant. It's like when the quiet boy in your math class falls hard for you in seventh grade and you spurn him for several months until the day he realizes he actually loves some other girl and suddenly he's the cutest boy in the school and you will die without him. Yes, it's just like that.


Sometimes, cutting out that section makes the words and sentences left behind seem lifeless and dull, and you begin to panic because you've just removed the only bits that ever elevated your story in the first place. But wait, it's okay, because you've got this Word file you've started. If you're me, it's called Save For Later or some equally helpful thing. Just knowing it's there, tucked side by side with the manuscript on your hard drive, lets you resume breathing and revise another day.


But do you ever come back to the file?


No. Never. NE-VER. Not in a million years. Not if you were told to increase your word count from 80,000 to 800,000,000 - even then, you would never return to that sad little file. I don't really know why it is - and maybe the other Pens can figure it out - but those words are tainted now, and their file home is really a quarantine, or more accurately a tomb. Like the haunted house of childhood nightmares, words go marching in, but they never come out again.


I just re-read and realized that today's post might be one of the most extravagantly, irresponsibly directionless things I've written in ages. I apologize...see, my book just came out and its launch turned out to be a little more demanding than I expected. I'm playing the Newbie Card and hoping for forgiveness...

Channeling Cass, Who Eats to Live

By Sophie

I'm a terrible terrible junk food addict, as the Pens know (especially those who roomed with me in D.C. and got dragged along for McDonalds runs). My taste in, well, taste is lowbrow and well-larded with lard.

I'm not into the sugar so much, but sprinkle salt on just about anything and deep-fry it and we're good. Potato chips are my core food, in particular those sturdy kettle-style salt-and-pepper deals. But I also adore hush puppies, clam fritters, onion rings, catfish, anything at all from the Frito-Lay folks....

(It turns out that both LGC's people - the English - and my people - the Poles - make a version of stale bread fried in bacon fat. Global delicious!)

This has worked out okay for me, surprisingly. I force myself to eat a decent diet, packing away the required fruits and veggies and so forth before prowling the larder late at night for sodium-rich foodstuffs composed of polyunsaturated fats. I don't even have to compete with the kids, because in a freakish departure from the family genes, they don't like junk food. (A shameful memory of mine is yelling at my then-eight-year-old, "You better eat that whole damn cupcake or no apple for you!")

However, change has come to Sophietown.

Starting last week, my diet underwent a dramatic overhaul. I'm eating for sustenance. Food as fuel - consumed indifferently, on the run, chosen for dietary efficacy and without a thought to palate appeal. Cereal and yogurt and fruit for breakfast, a simple sandwich or salad for lunch and dinner.

This isn't a diet and I don't care if I lose weight. Any improvement in my cholesterol or blood pressure or BMI will be unintended.

Because it's all about becoming Cass.

Cass Dollar is the heroine of my next book. I'm not sayin' much about her, because that will jinx the project, but Cass is a haunted young woman who views her body variously as a vehicle and an encumbrance and a ticking bomb. Cass is hardly a sensualist - her world is a lean and daunting place, and she neither seeks nor indulges pleasure of any kind, and certainly not when it comes to food.

I've never tried "method" writing before - the idea of being the character, at least during writing hours. But this project seems right for it. I feel a real affinity for poor Cass (don't worry, she has a redemptive arc and by the end of the book she'll probably be downing jelly donuts and champagne and dancing through sprinklers or something) and I want to understand who she is as clearly as I can, at least in the early days of the draft.

(Note that I just gave myself an out there. "Early days of the draft," I said, which is code for "if I really need a Dorito then all bets are off.")

Love the Brown Blobs

by Sophie


It astonishes me that there are people in this world who believe they are not creative.

“I can’t draw,” they insist. Not so. Anyone can pick up a pencil and make marks on paper. What they mean is “I can’t draw well,” where “well” represents what they think drawings ought to look like based on drawings other people make and assumptions about what drawings ought to represent.

If you believe that drawings ought to be photorealistic, then you might be out of luck unless you’re willing to devote a lot of time to developing that skill. If you have a vision in your head of what you want your drawing to look like, but you can’t match it with your efforts, you’ll end up frustrated.

But if your expectation is only that you’ll create an image that reflects what is going on in your head in some way, odds are you’ll be able to achieve it. I used to help with art in elementary school, and as my children got older I saw firsthand how the joyful renderings of kindergarden turned into the fraught and competitive and frustrating efforts of fourth grade, when kids were comparing their work to each other’s and finding it lacking.

In kindergarden, you can give kids a watercolor palette, let them mix all the colors until they have an unappealing brown, and watch them apply it until they’ve got a solid mass of paint on curling paper and you’ll still have a satisfied child who self-identifies as an artist. If you accept brown blobs without judgment – if you celebrate the brown blobs – then a child is free to keep making art with the confidence that there is value in the process, not just the outcome.

There are lessons here for the writer. A fear of the blank page is not native to us. We build it up over time as we develop judgment and expectations of our own work. Much of this is necessary – without discernment we can’t hone and improve our craft. But allowing judgment to interfere with the act of creating – not editing, not cutting, not revising, but sheer thought-to-keyboard creating – is a very good way to convince ourselves that we lack the magic. And without the magic we deprive ourselves of the joy.



Exercises like free-writing and morning pages are good ways to coax the mind out of its lair, but wouldn’t it be better if we never went into the lair in the first place? We have to train ourselves to keep judgment out of that early process. Much as telling a child to color in the lines or keep the red paint away from the green paint will introduce uncertainty and self-censoring into his work, demanding polished prose of ourselves in a first draft will kill our ability to take our story in fresh and imaginative directions.

Every artist starts by making brown blobs. Love the blobs and there is no limit to what you can create.