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Intro to Fiction Writing

At UCLA when I wanted to switch from Theatre Arts to Creative Writing, I had to take an Intro to Creative Writing course. This was the mid to late 80’s and everybody was very Goth at the time and the cool, clever, real writers all wore black and slouched, or spoke in whispers of intellectual boredom. I was in a sorority and while I didn’t wear bubblegum pink, I certainly didn’t wear black and I did badly in the class. My professor liked nothing I wrote. I barely passed the class and remember his scathing criticism of my stories today ‘who writes such sentimental crap?’

Uh, Professor, let me raise my hand. I do.

Needless to say I did not become a Creative Writing major and moved from Theatre Arts to American Studies, a program combining the study of American literature and American history. It was a good fit for me and I graduated more or less happy.

Years later I earned my MA in Writing from University of San Francisco, only after being turned down by Fresno State’s graduate studies program in Creative Writing. Apparently I showed some talent but not enough to study at the school.

University of San Francisco was a good place to learn and it allowed me to teach during the day while study at night. I did that for two years and left school with more confidence, a 900 page medieval manuscript titled The Falconer’s Daughter, and hopes that one day I’d be a successful fiction writer.

It took more than a decade after earning that MA to get that first sale to Harlequin Presents. That’s a lot of years of writing and rejection.

Fortunately, there’s a lesson in all the writing and rejection. I did, eventually, succeed. People enjoy my books. My editors love my work. Succeeding as a writer isn’t always about natural talent. Sometimes it boils down to persistence.

I’ve just finished doing a month of speaking, and the bottom line for writers is this—if you want to make it, don’t quit. Because you can guarantee you won’t get published if you stop writing and/or fail to submit.

But doesn’t the rejection hurt, you ask? Oh, God, yes. Getting rejected manuscripts back was like being flailed with a barbed Smith-Corona typewriter. It hurts. Not just mentally, but spiritually, and physically. We writers spend inordinate amounts of time sitting still, getting our thoughts down. It’s brutal.

Which is why those that succeed in this business aren’t always the most gifted (although there are plenty brilliant), but rather, the most stubborn. The most determined. The most arrogant (They refuse to give up, and can not accept that they can not succeed at something they’ve determined to do.)

I succeeded simply because I couldn’t not succeed. I couldn’t accept that I wouldn’t someday, one day, get it together. I succeeded because those critical professors and literary snobs at our American universities were not going to define me, my talent, or my opportunities. I succeeded because I embraced being commercial, embraced the mainstream, embraced everything to do with writing satisfying fiction.

Life isn’t about living for others, or doing what they want you to do. Life is about doing what you want to do. Life is about defining it and making it yours. Making it fulfilling.

Don’t let criticism or rejection stop you. Not if you want to write.

Not if you want to live a rich interesting life.

Bogging in Blogland

Em, my web designer, warned me before I started my online diary/ JaneBlog last May that there would be problems with it. She knew I’d get busy, that I might come to resent the time required to update it; she feared I’d write too much that was too personal and not really useful in terms of my writing career. But over the past five, six months I’ve really enjoyed my online diary and I hear frequently from readers that they really like it.

I even hear more from my family because they now know where I am and what I’m doing and they don’t even have to talk to me. They just click on my website and get the latest update. It’s like a never ending Christmas newsletter—and just as personal.

Em was right, though, about the blog being potentially problematic. For example, it’s fun having people that like you, enjoy you, know all about your career and travels, your struggles and successes. But I’ve learned the hard way that not everyone reading the online diary is a friend. Of course not everyone needs to be a friend, but there are definitely people who don’t need to be reading the blog because it does him/her no good, and therefore me no good. There are instances where more info, particularly info of a private nature, is just dangerous. I’ve posted a few blogs where almost immediately I got a sick feeling in my gut, a sense of–not smart, not good decision making at all–but once posted on my site, should I remove? Should I edit? Censor? Delete?

I have deleted parts of posts in the past. I’ve probably done this two times. Once in May and then again earlier this summer (I think it was summer) when I talked about Googling and Blogging. When friends who know me and care about me can’t figure out what I’m saying, I’ll make changes….clarify, tighten. But I won’t get rid of the entire post. It’s well….pointless. I’m here to communicate. These are my thoughts, my opinions, good or bad.

However, when people get on my site, study everything, read the blogs, and determine they know me based on my photos, on my blogs, on my books and excerpts…well, you’re getting a version of me, but you’re not really getting me and based on what you project on me, I’m neither as good as you think, nor as bad. I’m neither as smart nor foolish, charming or selfish. I’m just a person. Someone’s daughter, sister, someone’s friend, someone’s mother.

My books might contain bright bits of me, bursts of inspiration taken from a real event, or a passing conversation, but no book is stolen from life, snatched from reality and frozen into paperback fiction. It doesn’t work that way. Writing doesn’t work that way. I don’t work that way.

Booking It

I’m in Los Angeles to join a Pi Phi alumni group tonight. I’m a bit fuzzy on the details—i.e., is this a book club, or just an alumni group? And are we discussing The Frog Prince, or the writing life? Fortunately I’ve learned to wing it pretty well–those 6+ years of teaching have come in handy — and between speaking and writing and blogging, I’m comfortable talking about anything.

My sister is going with me tonight and I always feel better if there is at least one friendly face I know. A friend, my mom, my sister… someone that knew me before I became an author, someone that knows I get nervous but mask it behind the mega-watt smile and buzz of energy.

The speaking and workshop giving requires a different energy than writing and I never do the two activities very well at the same time. Before I wrote for two publishers, I tried to juggle the speaking engagements around the writing deadlines. That doesn’t work as well anymore as I always have a deadline now. So to help me get my focus, and meet some of those deadlines, I’m cutting back on travel and speaking for the next nine months. After LA, I head to Virginia for the weekend, and then it’s home through the Christmas holidays and into the new year.

People frequently ask how I’ve maintained my schedule — the traveling and writing and speaking, especially now that I’m a single mom — and the truth is, it’s nerves and coffee and adrenaline. It’s learning how to pack (I’d like to say light, but that’s not true. It’s just routine. I know what and how to pack and always have a small suitcase ready to go for weekend trips and conferences). It’s online banking. It’s online shopping. It’s emails and cell phone and an incredibly skilled web team behind me with Emily Cotler and crew at www.waxcreative.com.

The other thing I do — or have done — is just push, and not think. Push, and not dwell. Push, and not remember. But that in itself is exhausting. I finish work late the night before a trip, set my alarm for a five- or four-thirty a.m. wake up call, get to the airport in a sleep deprived blur, crash on the plane, deplane, caffeinate, function, crash at hotel or home, and so on. I check my cell phone for messages, check email for updates, check in with kids, and not think about what’s due, what’s next, what hurts, or otherwise I would be overwhelmed. I’m *not* a superwoman, and not remotely heroic. I just push hard. Sometimes too hard. Which is why I’m backing off and slowing down and staying home and getting ready to write more.

I miss words. I miss the stories. I miss the real part of writing. The getting it down on paper.

Blogging Q & A

Having a blog is changing things…changing me.  So many of you write to me after you read my blog and I’m amazed.   For years I’ve felt like  a scrapper, one of those street urchins that learns to talk tough and walk tall, calling myself a lone wolf kind of woman and now I realize I’m wrong about so many things.

For starters, I *am* a scrapper, but I’m far from alone. It’s taken me a divorce and twenty some months to discover that I might think I’m a lone wolf, but it turns out I’ve got a whole big wolf pack padding along right behind me. And much to my chagrin, I’ve realized the reason I can talk tough and walk tall is that there are a couple really big bad wolfs leading the pack that’s padding behind me. Alone? On my own? Hardly.

So yes, I’m a scrapper–a runty, runny-nosed, bespectacled scrapper–with a lot of power right behind me, just in case I need help.

And I need the help.

We all do.

That’s what I’ve learned through my blog, too, and what I hear from those who’ve read my blog and written to me afterwards.

I think we all have people who would be there for us if we just let them. I think we have more love and support then we know, or wish to acknowledge.

In the last couple weeks I’ve had readers email me to let me know how much they love my books, and enjoy my blog. Others write to tell me how sorry they are that I’ve family who are sick, or share how glad they are that I’m putting my kids first, or pleased that I’m taking time to do things again that I once enjoyed. Others just want to know details about this guy I’m crazy about that lives 2,600 miles away.

To show that I actually do read my email, and do care about your thoughts and questions, I’ve decided to try to answer some of the recent questions in one blog blurt.

Question: When will your last book for Harlequin Presents be published?

Answer: I’m still a Harlequin Presents author and under contract to write lots more books. I plan on writing for Harlequin for years to come.

Q: Why didn’t Frog Prince have more of a romance in it?

A: It wasn’t supposed to be a romance. It’s a novel about a woman discovering who she is, and what she wants, and the relationship in this book is really of developing a relationship with herself.

Q. Will your next Warner book have romance in it?

A. Yes. 🙂 It definitely has a romance in it.

Q. Is it true your books are autobiographical?

A. Actually, no. I’ve never dated a sheikh, or a sultan, or slept with an Italian Prince or an Argentinean count. I haven’t even met a Greek tycoon but I do know that Paris Hilton has.

Q. But your chick-lit is autobiographical, right?

A. Parts of each book have lots of me in it, but the books are fiction and have characters and plots and conflict that have been created to drive the story to a satisfying conclusion. In real life, we might have a particular event happen, or feel an emotion, but we don’t always get the resolution we want or need. In fiction, I get to take messy events and intense emotional conflict and tie it up. I love that.

Q. So just how many Harlequins are you writing a year now that you also write for Warner?

A. Fewer than I used to. Somewhere between two and three. This year it might only be two.

Q. Is your long distance boyfriend related to your trips to Hawaii?

A. Ah, a personal question. If I were a press weary celeb, I’d say ‘no comment,’ but hey, I need all the press I can get. Yes, long distance boyfriend lives in Hawaii.

Q. I read on your website that the heroine in your next book, Flirting with Forty, dates a much younger man in Hawaii. Is your boyfriend younger than you?

A. No comment.

Q. You said in an earlier blog that you and your boys are learning to surf and then your next Warner book features a forty-year-old-heroine that dates a surf instructor.

A: I’m afraid I don’t see a question. Next question?

Q: Are you dating your surf instructor?

A: I think that just about wraps up our questions for today. Thank you everyone for your emails and feedback.

In the meantime, I’m in St. Louis today for a Waldenbooks regional bookseller meeting and will post in the next few days about the authors attending, and who invited me and what I’m doing here…

Yours always—

Jane

Fast Reads

I was asked by a book club in San Diego who’d chosen The Frog Prince as their book selection for October if I’d be willing to participate in their book discussion via a conference call. I agreed and last night at eight I was put on speakerphone and for twenty-five minutes I answered whatever questions I could. Because I’ve joined a number of book clubs and reader groups already for Frog Prince discussions, I’m pretty familiar with most the questions asked and points made, but last night a new question was asked of me.

Do I, as an author, mind when my book is called a fast read?

No, I answered, while silently I wondered, should I mind?

But later, after the call ended and I was putting my kids to bed, I returned to the question of ‘fast reads’, and maybe it’s my Harlequin training, or maybe its my affinity for popular fiction, but I like fast reads. Some of my favorite books on my shelves (The Rainbow by DH Lawrence, The Golden Bowl by Henry James, The Age of Innocence by Edith Wharton) are not fast reads, but they’re books I savor for the depth and complexity brought to the story through theme, characterization and rich layered prose.

My books can’t compare with great literature. For one, I haven’t the deep characterization, and for another, my prose isn’t textured or layered. It’s right there for the taking. Am I a glib writer? I don’t think so. I write to the rhythm in my inner ear, but I certainly don’t labor over the sentences trying to craft them and shape them and make them something they are not.

I can not pretend to be anything other than what I am. And my books can’t hope to compete with weighty books or novels by authors like Michael Cunningham and Anita Shreve. I am light. I’m a fast read.

As an author, I’m okay with it. But from a reader’s perspective, is that bad?

I don’t know.

Is it?

Time Out

Don’t read this if you’re an aspiring writer or a die-hard reader that doesn’t want to see behind the magic curtain. It will discourage and disillusion you, and just possibly annoy you.

No. This blog isn’t for the dewy-eyed hopefuls, the ones still wearing rose colored glasses. It’s for the tired writers, the moms who work too hard and the people who do too much.

I had a book I’d hoped to have to my UK editor by the end of October and it’s not going to happen. It hasn’t even begun to happen. I’m still on chapter 1, page 7 or so. The book is great. It’s just not on paper, and frankly, its not getting there anytime soon because life keeps happening and a close family member is very ill and another is terminally ill and I’m dating someone I’m crazy about but he’s miles away (roughly 2,600) and this is all peripheral. There’s the everyday stuff at home, the kids and sports and homework and frankly, I’m calling into work sick.

For the entire month.

Maybe the entire Fall.

Maybe the entire year. (Okay, not the year.)

You see, I want to play. I want to be with my kids again and bake and make frosted Halloween cookies and go to a pumpkin patch and carve jack o’lanterns and decorate with orange and purple lights and plant bulbs and take out the summer zinnias and dahlias for cool weather pansies.

In short, I want a life.

And a life, I’ve realized is very important. A life isn’t just showing up, exhausted, numb and stoic or bleary-eyed, it’s happy. Despite the tough things the world throws at us.

So how does one get ‘happy’?

Take a time out. Stop for a day, a long weekend, a week. Do what your heart desires. Sleep, watch t.v., read, go for a walk at the Arboretum, take a drive to see Fall foliage, book a vacation. Do what you haven’t let yourself do. Have your favorite food. Indulge in hot cocoa with marshmallows or a big steak and baked potato with all the fixings. Make yourself a cocktail and put on fun music even if you’re alone. Dance. Take a bubble bath. Book a massage.

That’s the first step.

The second is, don’t take yourself so seriously. Don’t take your children so seriously. Don’t take your spouse/partner/lover/neighbor/mother so seriously. We’re all people. We’re all fallible. No one is more valuable or important than the next. Enjoy your mortality. Savor the small stuff.

I worried for years about writing fewer books. I worried about losing readers. I worried about alienating editors. I worried about getting lost, or left behind in the industry. And then I realized that was all ego. I was basing my idea of success on external factors, like what other people thought of me. I was driving myself to prove I was capable, and prolific, and essential and then one day I woke up and realized I’m not that essential in this industry. I’ve talent, and I work hard, but the only person I need to please is me. And the real Jane Porter is happiest with her kids and friends and decorating for holidays and making her own pasta sauce and wrapping gifts with flourishes and building puzzles at night on the living room carpet. That’s Jane. That’s the Jane that matters.

So if you’re tired, or pushed too much, or stretched too thin–ask yourself if all of the work and stress and exhaustion is worth it. Is there anything you can cut down? Cut out? Is it all absolutely necessary? If there’s even one thing you can edit or eliminate…do it.

Do it and chill. Kids aren’t the only ones that need a time out.

Writers & Writing

So many of my close friends are writers. Most are published, a few are waiting for the big call, but we all write. Some of us more than others.

My friend Sinclair has been working like a madwoman to get her first book bought–she’s been in writing hell for years–getting requests for completes, madly finishing books, or revising on the request of an editor, only in the end to have the book be not quite right.

The not quite right can torture a writer.

Another great friend of mine, Lilian Darcy, in Australia just emailed me remarking that when the writing goes well, she feels fantastic, and when the writing isn’t going as well, her spirits just sink. She wanted to know if I felt the same.

The truth is, I’m a great writer when I’m writing hard and fast and furious. I’m a terrible writer when anticipating writing hard and fast and furious. I avoid writing like the plague. And inevitably, after I turn a book in and I’m feeling a little burned out, I don’t write again for a few weeks to a month and when its time for me to finally write again, I feel like a woman who has to go on a diet. I dread writing because I dread having to slow down, sit down, focus, concentrate, think hard, think long. It’s….work. And like going on a diet, or returning to the gym after weeks (or months) away, its uncomfortable. It’s scary. It’s…deprivation.

I like being a wild child. I like being rebellious. I like refusing responsibility and marching around in my cowboy boots, stomping my feet, playing music too loud and putting my fingers in my ears and going nah-nah-nah-nah whenever maturity talks to me. Unfortunately, maturity is what pays the bills and discipline keeps a roof over my head and responsibility means I (eventually) tell the wild child to sit down, be quiet, and behave.

And write.

But writing means facing fear and writing means confronting risk and possibly failure and that’s all so…heavy. Potentially depressing. Potentially enlightening and insightful and oh–why go there? Why learn about the self? Why learn about one’s flaws and shortcomings and unflattering qualities? Because that’s when we become honest. And real. Writing reveals truth. Writing reveals the self. Writing, like other art forms, is about spirit, and soul.

I’m still in writing avoidance mode lately–not good–and Lilian, yes, I do feel crummy on the inside when the writing doesn’t go well, or when I’m not sucking it up and making myself sit down and get the words on paper. But the challenge of finding the discipline, and then the difficulty in finding the right words and true story, is sometimes overwhelming.

That’s when I garden. Bake. Scrapbook. And I’ve been doing some serious scrapbooking lately. But soon I’ll write.

Why?

Because it’s what I do. And it’s who I am.

And oh yes, it’s how I keep a roof over my kids head.

No More Suspense

I forget that people actually read my online diary and remember what I’ve written. I certainly forget what I write. Fast. There’s no way I could survive if I kept track of all the fictional dramas I create–the sex, the lies, the heartbreak and scandal. And then with the diary….well, I often reveal waaaaay more than I should and I definitely don’t want to remember that.

However, I’ve been nudged by some readers this week, asking me for an update on Flirting with Forty, next summer’s book from Warner. Apparently I told you all how I’ve waiting for my revision letter and the longer I wait, the more anxious I become, certain that what I’ve written is bad. Well, I’ve heard from my editor now. Those of you who have been holding your breath (um, I’m sure you took some little breaths) can exhale. When I was in New York for the Warner party and meetings with my editor, agent and publicist I got the revision letter and discussed the changes in person. The changes were minor. She really liked the book.

I finished the revisions yesterday afternoon, the manuscript has once more been emailed out, and I’m back working on other projects, including getting a proposal to Warner for my third book. The Harlequins, though, are not pouring out of me fast and furious. I have the ideas…I have the entire story plotted out and character traits and everything. I just am not getting the words out, the words down, the words collected. It’s as if there’s a dam upstairs in my head, holding everything back. Of course, sooner or later the dam will break (it has to. I’ve a deadline. Even if I don’t want a deadline) and I’ll get in a groove and the story will happen.

Or so I keep soothing myself.

Gremlins of the Heart

Is it mean to call my children gremlins? I don’t think so. After all, they are my children and they’re spoiled rotten. And I love them. I really do. But I’m not big on the days they’re home sick with me. My youngest son is actually fine when he’s home alone with me. He pretty much stays in his room and builds with Legos or Bionicles for hours. It’s my older son, my 5th grader, who is social. He’s tender hearted and loving and chatty. Which means even if I’m trying desperately hard to get revisions done on a book and have gently encouraged him to lie quietly in his bed and feel better fast, he still talks to me. ‘Mom, did you know Vince Carter…’

‘Mom, in last night’s game, three Packers were injured…’

‘Mom, eleven former Mariners are playing in the play-offs with other teams…’

I try really hard to do the professional Mom, ‘Mmmm, mmmhmph, hmmmmm, yes.’ But Jake’s too astute for that. He wants real conversation back. And I can’t write great tight meaningful prose when I’m trying to figure out which sports team/player/stat we’re discussing now. Versus the one discussed two minutes ago. Versus twenty minutes ago. Versus an hour.

I love my boys. I do, I do. But school’s vital. They have to go. Never mind their college education and future. They have to go so I can get some work done.

The problem is, the minute I say that, the minute I’m halfway honest, the guilts come and bite me in the backside so hard. And then the guilts move up to my heart and grab and stay. I know from losing my dad when I was fifteen that nothing lasts forever. I know from being a teacher that kids grow up and go away, marching into adulthood on their own two legs. I know I’ve great wonderful boys that love me to pieces. So how I can want them to go to school? How come I need them to be quiet? Why am I always so #%&$! conflicted?!?!

But it’s quiet now in Jake’s room. He’s being industrious–he’s cleaning his room (which means dirty clothes get stuffed into his dresser and clean clothes are heaped behind his shoes in his closet) and then he’s going to read in bed. I can hear him walking down the hall to hang up a towel and my heart does its little squeeze. He’s only ten and he’s nearly as tall as me. He wears a size six shoe and will be big like his dad someday. To hell with my revisions and getting work done. I think Jake needs Mom. I think Jake needs a hug.

I think I need a hug more.

Do Real Women Make Quiche?

I get amazing emails about The Frog Prince. Nearly five months after it came out, I’m still getting several emails a week from readers who just loved the book, and loved how normal and accessible Holly was as a character. Some of the readers say they feel exactly like Holly and that Holly could have been them at one point in life. Others say that they loved reading about a woman who isn’t into clothes and fashion and is struggling to define herself. And others, usually fellow authors, write to say they admire me for writing about someone who is so unheroic.

I really appeciate the emails and feedback from readers and writers. I just wish I was as clever and insightful as some of you think I am. The truth is, I wrote Holly–and my next character, Jackie from Flirting with Forty–the way I know women…which is flawed. I honestly don’t know anyone, man or woman, who is heroic. We’re just people after all and that’s what I find so interesting. How do regular old people get through life? How do people like you and me survive the ups and downs, endure hearthbreak, accept loss, face change? How do we risk and love and lose and risk some more? I think some of us have had more heartbreak than others. I think some of us had a bumpier path earlier in life than others. And I think some of us just think a lot more than others. And thinking, especially over thinking, isn’t always good. Too much thinking, too much introspection, undermines the call to action. And action, not thought, is what actually makes people feel loved and cherished. Showing someone how we feel is what makes that person feel good. It’s not just thinking a loving thought, its acting it.

I’m beginning to mull over ideas for my next book for Warner and it’s going to be a book about women….mothers–and their school age kids and today’s PTA and the pressure women are under to be perfect in everything they do. But maybe I’m wrong. Maybe women today don’t feel that kind of pressure, maybe they’re not overly invested in their children and their childrens’ schools. Maybe I’m just being neurotic again and projecting my own fears and insecurities onto other women. Maybe most women feel wonderful and relaxed and happy and satisifed.

Maybe.

And maybe not.

So tell me what you feel. Tell me if life’s giving you what you need or if you’re making life what you want or if you feel like our new hamster, Mango, on her wheel, just going around and around and around…