Let Her Rip

A friend gives me her cast-offs. Last month, I scored a black leather jacket with unfortunate puffs over the shoulders. Think Linda Evans in Dynasty. The jacket is too nice to toss, but If I wear it, I’ll walk around yelling, “Blake, Blake! What’s wrong? Alexis, get away from him!” So, it’s been in purgatory for a few weeks now, draped over Old Dusty, my sewing machine.

Today, I pulled out the seam ripper. I know what you’re thinking.

When did this become a sewing blog?

Relax. I haven’t renamed Crisply SpokenThe Crafty Critter, but I did decide, sans sleeves, the jacket would make a fine vest.

I’ve been working on the same book for three and a half years. At eighteen months, the agent Donald Maass said something that exploded my brain.

You don’t write romance. You write satire. Here’s what you need to do.

I took the sleeves and body apart at the seams, pushed out the plot, added a few points of view, and connected the characters in ways I hadn’t imagined. For two years, I saved the good parts, splitting and splicing and refashioning them.

Now, I have a vest instead of a jacket.


Grief

The dog died. I didn’t write. She was a dog. Who cares? Right? I couldn’t justify my heartache. So, I cried. We buried her in the backyard. I held my family and wiped way little girl tears. Theirs and mine. We planted lilies, but I didn’t write.

Donald Maass answered the question in his seminar. “Is there any topic that’s off-limits in contemporary fiction?” He leveled his gaze at the class and lowered his pitch. “Don’t kill a dog.” The smirk and head shaking undermined the gravity of his answer. “Mutilation of any other life form is acceptable. Just don’t let the dog die.” I couldn’t write, and when I don’t write, bad things happen.

I got sick. At first with a rash that felt like leprosy. The doctor called it pityriasis rosea. She prescribed a blister pack of oral steroids. Three days later, no more leprosy, but the poison pills weakened my immune system. I caught the flu.

Back in her office, the quick test was negative. “I’m giving you antivirals anyway. Here swallow this. Your temp is 103.” I swallowed a horse pill of Tylenol. She sent me home with Tamiflu and called me on Memorial Day. “I’ve been worried about you.” What doctor calls you at home on Memorial Day? I still didn’t write.

The rash came back. Not as virulent, but just as ugly. School let out for summer. The girls had a swim meet. I missed it with dysentery. We got a puppy. She chewed her way into my heart. I didn’t write.

Bacon said it first, “You need to work.”

“I can’t.”

“You didn’t write. It made you sick.”

“No one wants to read about a dead dog. No one cares that I washed my cellphone with the laundry on the day she died, or that every time I reach into the freezer to fill a glass with ice, I expect her to beg for a cube, or that I found her, under Coco’s violin chair, as if she were waiting for her girl to play a lullaby. It’s a non-topic.”

“You aren’t going to get better until you work on the book.”

I have to start somewhere. If it bothers you that I grieve over a dog, fuck you. It’s the only way to soothe the itch.


Back to Work

I don’t make resolutions, but I do set goals. A year ago, I wrote these things on a 3×5 index card:

  • Tab SCHOOLED with Donald Maass workshop notes (Did it.)
  • Write O’Keeffe/Dickens paper. (I did the research.)
  • Rewrite SCHOOLED. (I finished lessons 1-14 and 34 of Writing the Breakout Novel Workbook.)
  • Create a comic throughline for three new books. (I did it for one new book.)
  • Choose one of the throughlines and create: a collage (Did it.), scene cards (Did it.), a rough draft in longhand (Did it!)

This year’s 3×5 looks like this:

For SCHOOLED:

  • Finish Lessons 15-33 of Writing the Breakout Novel Workbook.
  • Write a synopsis.
  • Clean, refine, and edit a final draft.
  • Query.

for LAND OF ENCHANTMENT:

  • Type it.
  • Write the second draft using the Breakout Novel Workbook, Lessons 1-34.
  • Write a synopsis.

Research FEARLESS and write a throughline.


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