Writing a novel can sometimes feel like trying to pull out one of your own teeth with your toes.

Writing a novel can also feel like an awkward dance through literary fun. I love to live in my imagination and tell myself stories. When I was a child this is what I spent most of my time doing, and I’ve simply brought my hobby into my cranky middle age.

It is strange. I am strange. I accept it.

But since I do prefer to keep my teeth,  I organize and set writing and editing goals so as to keep the suffering at a minimum. I also try to do things every day to relax the ole’ brain and keep it filled with color and lightning and nature.

Currently, I am on the third edit of my eight novel. It is giving me hot flashes.

On my first draft, as usual, I wrote 2,000 words a day, 10,000 a week. This is my favorite time, although I do moan and groan about it. The first draft takes about three – ish months to write.

Then I start the editing process. I make a goal each week to edit a certain amount of single spaced pages.   The first edit takes about two months to do. I edit about ten single spaced pages a day, sometimes uttering bad words. The book is total crap at this point, so it takes a long time and a lot of chocolate.

Same with the second edit. Total crap. More bad words. The third edit, I try to whip through fifteen single spaced pages a day, the fourth twenty pages, etc. Eight edits in all.

The last two edits, before the book goes to my editor and agent, take about a week or two each. It is not so crappy anymore. (Although I suppose some people would debate that with me.)

I try very hard to to keep my creativity alive and skipping.

That can be hard with life sometimes.  Life is not always pleasant, as you well know.  Problems arise. Heartaches occur. Relationships are up and down. Housework must be done. The evil morning glory in my yard must be hacked back and I must find clean socks.

So that I don’t box myself into my suburban life too hard, I take long drives in the country to clear my mind. I recently returned from writing at the beach. My husband and I spent a night in central Oregon to visit his uncle, a former WWII fighter pilot.  All these things helped. Coffee helps, too.

But sometimes, late at night, I have to get back to the basics and grab my journal. I have to focus on my difficult, secretive, multi – layered characters who do not come to me complete. Or even semi – complete. Often it feels like they are deliberately pushing back at me and I have to hack away at their shells with a machete.

Every single edit brings the characters out more. By the end of the book, I know them. But often not until the seventh edit are their personalities and lives and flaming faults and craziness totally clear to me.

Same with the plot. Plots can ebb and flow like whiskey and tidal waves.  Sometimes I find myself down a road I absolutely should not be on. I am lost and trying to slay dragons and odd men.

Sometimes I will delete thousands of words – my record is 25,000 words – in less than an hour. I kill off characters you never have to meet.

But when I’m struggling, I pull out the journal I’m currently scribbling in and cut out magazine photos to set my brain on fire again. I need to see the book and my characters in new ways.  These are some of those photos I glued in last night at two in the morning.

Ten pages to edit today… I need more coffee.

My journal

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1.    If you were going on a trip, would you take Regan, Brianna, Meggie, Lacey, or Tory with you? Why? Where would you go? What would you do? What advice would they give you about your life?

2.    Describe Meggie. What are her strengths and weaknesses? Was she fair to the police chief, Blake Crighton?? What did her clothes say about her? Would you want to be friends with her?

 3.    Aaron Torelli did not admit to Meggie that he had severe mental health issues before he married her. Should he have? What was Meggie’s obligation to him after she found out? What should she have done differently in her marriage? What would you have done? Would you have left sooner than she did? Would you have left at all?

4.    Was Meggie justified in leaving Aaron after he had an affair, despite his severe mental health issues? Was Meggie justified in having an affair with Henry while still married to Aaron?

5.    How did you like the structure of the book? Did the flashbacks to Meggie’s marriage enhance the story? What are the overarching themes? What did the tree house symbolize? What did Mount Hood and Lace, Satin, and Baubles symbolize?

6.    Is Lacey a good mother? Can you relate to her struggles as a working mother to three unique teenagers? Did you like Tory? Was her anger merited? Did Scotty deserve the wood carving in his front yard?

7.    Hayden Rockaford said, “I know I was supposed to be born a girl but something got messed up. I think that somehow, when my mom was pregnant with me, something went wrong. It’s not like I’m wrong, or I’m a mistake, and it’s not her fault, not my fault, but something didn’t connect in there right. For me, what happened is the right plumbing didn’t grow in. The plumbing was switched. That’s it. I’m in the wrong body.”

What did you think of this character and his struggles? How was it handled by the author?

8.    “Kalani Noe applied for a job at the factory as a seamstress.  Her husband did not want her to have a job. A job meant independence. A job meant money. Both threats to him. Her lip was split in half. One eye was swollen shut, and there was a bruise down her left cheek. During the interview, she kept dabbing at her ear, which her husband had partially bitten off.”

Why did the author put Kalani in the story? Contrast Kalani’s life with the O’Rourke     sisters’ lives. What does her future look like?

9.   Which scene did you enjoy the most? Which scenes made you laugh? Were there any scenes that made you cry or were especially touching? Were there any scenes that reminded you of your own life or struggles?

10.  Of all the bra videos that Meggie took, which voice was the most memorable, the most poignant to you, and why? Did the bra videos enrich the story?

11.  Regan O’Rourke said, “I am not defined by my body or what has happened to it. I am not defined by  beatings or an arching whip or a dangerous man, or by the wreckage of   prostitution. I am not  defined by my age.  I am not defined by what others think of me. I am defined by myself. I will define myself to me. I will live, I will laugh. I will love. I will not be silenced. I will not be invisible.   I will be me until the very end.   And I will look beautiful. . . . I dared to live the way I damn well wanted to live.”

Are you like Regan?

12.  Brianna O’Rourke says that women lose interest in sex because “oftentimes women are simply not attracted to their partners anymore. Their partners are boring in bed or self-centered, inane, ridiculous, abusive, or gross. It’s not what men want to hear. They want to blame their wives and girlfriends, but it’s the truth.

Sometimes women are flat-out exhausted. There can be medical issues, like thyroid       problems or depression. There can be hormone issues, too. Who likes blowing up in bed with night sweats? Working too hard will kill a sex drive, too, as can motherhood and its demands.”

Is she right? How does Brianna’s own admission to not liking sex impact her ability to be an effective sex therapist, or does it?

13.  Brianna was not honest with Lacey and Meggie about Sperm Donor Number One and Two. What does that say about Brianna? How will this impact their relationship in future? What should Lacey and Meggie do? Contact the fathers or leave things alone? What would you do? If the story continued, where do you think the author would take that plotline?

14.  Discuss Meggie’s character arc. What were the most significant events in the book that caused her to change by the end?

15.  If you were in the Fashion Story, what lingerie would you design for yourself? What would your videotape say about you?

16.  Grandma Regan and the O’Rourke sisters had many adventures with the Bust Out and Shake It Adventure Club list. What’s on your list?

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I am often asked by established and new authors about publicity.

As in, what should I do to publicize my book? Or, what do you do, Cathy?

To be quite honest, I’ve gone round and round with the social media/marketing/PR question endlessly. By the end of my own debate,  I want to poke my eyeballs out.

My publishing house does a lot for me in terms of advertising and marketing, which I am utterly grateful for, and it helps enormously, but what else do I do, personally?

Basically, I only do what I like to do because I don’t like doing what I don’t like to do. I am too old for that.

Here is what is worth your time, in my opinion, and what I like.

1) Create A Website. A website, professionally done, is a needed banana.  (I just made that phrase up for fun)  It’s where readers learn about you, your life, and your other books. They can write to you here, too.

2) Facebook. Of course. No brainer.  Easy and fun, readers can chat informally with you, and you can post funny/thoughtful/interesting things about your life and books. Do not over post. Do not make them sick of you.

3) Amazon and Goodreads. Set up author pages. Once it’s set up – it’s set up.  You add a photo of yourself looking as good as you can possibly look, some bio information that you’ve probably already written for your website, fill in a few questions, add photos here and there, link your blog in, make sure your book covers are up correctly and, voila, you’re done.

4) Speak at Book Groups. I love them! I will go to book groups if they’re 15 minutes from my house in Portland, Oregon, because they’re fun and interesting and I love to chat with women. I also skype with book groups and speak with them on speaker phone.

5) Blogging. I try to blog about my books, writing, and what’s going on in my own little world.  Life and deadlines sometimes get in the way, but if you can blog once a week (which I don’t because I’m swamped and need to spend time daydreaming) you should.

I love Jane Porter’s blog – current, short entries, lots of photos, fun, personal. http://janeporter.com/janeblog/

You can also feature other authors, and they’ll post your interview on their blog. I post excerpts of my books sometimes, which is easy, to help promote them. (Like I did here, in running my own covers down the side of this web page!)

6)  Pinterest. I made up a board (Think of Pinterest as an online bulletin board) for each of my novels and will do so later for my short stories in the anthologies. Simple to set up, you don’t need to keep going back to it. You pin pretty pictures to your boards, add a tagline to advertise the characters in your book, the plot, etc. and you’re done. Readers get an idea of your book via pictures.

A question you might have is, So, Cathy, what about running from book store to book store and giving presentations about your book?

If you are already a popular, well known author, (John Grisham, Geraldine Brooks, Khaled Hosseini) this could be a very worthwhile venture, especially because the publishing house picks up the cost.

But I’ve known authors who spent endless hours, days, weeks, months promoting their books, driving from book store to book store like a reading robot. That is not for me.

For one, unless you’re a Big Gun in the writing world, that cost is on you – the hotels, the gas, and the food when you’re on the road. Plus, you set those things up, you talk to the manager, you find a date, you go and speak.

I have also heard, repeatedly, from other authors, even well known ones, and from managers of bookstores, that often no one shows up, or it’s only 5 – 10 people, and they sell a few books. This is not worth your time. It’s smashingly bad for the ego, too.

If you do take yourself on a bookstore tour, you have to ask yourself at the end of it, and be brutal, how many books did you sell on those jaunts? Was it truly worth your time and effort and stress? Was it worth the time away from writing and the distraction? Did you lose money on it? (Probably that’s a yes).

Zipping to one bookstore after another is not for me.

I go to Powell’s when I have a new novel out.  There’s about 60 – 80 people, and they sell a bunch of books. It’s pleasant, we laugh, I talk, I like it. I like Powell’s.  Do I think that if I went to other bookstores that I would have the same turn out? I don’t. I know a lot of the people who come to Powell’s, they’re friends and neighbors, regular readers.

I do talk at library events and have found that that’s worth it because I can meet readers, and I can sell a bunch of my books. Plus, I truly like speaking at library events.

You absolutely must balance social media/marketing/PR for your book with your writing and your life. That stuff can eat up your time like a hungry Godzilla with extremely dubious results.

But HERE’S THE TRUTH, as I see it, the utter and inglorious truth.

What do I think really sells books?

Writing an outstanding book.

I absolutely believe that word of mouth is the best advertising. It is far, far better than doing all of the things I just listed above and will give you much less of a headache.

For example, I was at a book group recently and the women there talked about how they told all their friends, sisters, and neighbors about my books. That, above all else, is the best marketing. Sisters will read what their sisters loved. Friends will read what their friends loved. Neighbors will read what their neighbor on the other side of the fence read. You know how it is, women talk about everything – men, sex, decorating, movies – and books they love.

If you write an intriguing/gripping/thought provoking book, it’ll sell. Will you be a millionaire? Maybe. Most probably not. But you could definitely make a living.

Do the six things I posted above, but concentrate almost all of your energies on writing well. Writing excellently (Is excellently a word?). Write the best damn book you can write. Write your ass off.

That, truly, is your best publicity.

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My grandma said that being around all the lingerie was what turned my mother on to romance and sex.

My mother said that was quite possible. The deciding factor, though, for a career outside the business, is that my mother and Grandma cannot work together.

My mother said she could not work with Grandma in the business because “I would kill her.”

My grandma said she could not work with my mother, “or I would have to visit the insane asylum on a weekly basis and take up serious drinking.”

They love each other; they cannot work together.

It’s like watching two bulls charging at each other at full speed in high heels and exquisite jewelry. Bulls can’t charge well in high heels, but you get the idea.

My mother went to college and took a class in psychology because a man she was interested in was taking it. She was hooked. Not on the boy, although she said there was a romance. She was hooked on psychology. She became a licensed therapist and started working with people, quickly finding the dynamics of marriage, a union she would have no part of. Fascinating. She combined her practice, which was soon incredibly successful, with a column on love and sex.

From there she started writing books, all of them honest, frank, and often funny, all of them best sellers. The goal: Better, hotter sex. Although she promotes wild and creative sex, she always, always harps that the best sex is had with a person you love and are committed to. She actively preaches that no teenager should be having sex.

She loves her job, but way beyond that she loves Lacey, Tory, and me. She loves her mother, too, although she refers to her as “The whiskey-drinking, cigar-smoking devil’s assistant.” My grandma refers to my mother as the “dildo-promoting, craft-obsessed sex queen.”

When my sisters and I were children, I don’t remember my mother having any boyfriends. When we were teenagers there were a few men, though they didn’t last long, and she never introduced us. There have been a few other men since, but not for a while. She is extremely private about that part of her life, and we know we don’t know the half of it.

Her legions of fans would be shocked to know how utterly domesticated my mother is. I believe this is in direct response to my grandma being a hard-core career woman, when most women did not have careers. My mother bakes, sews, embroiders, knits, quilts, and loves doing crafts.

In fact, her way of rebelling in high school was to have a knitting club, a quilting club, and a cooking club. The girls would meet at Grandma’s house once a week to chat, knit, quilt, and cook. Sometimes they even went to quilting and craft conventions.

As my mother tells it, this enflamed my grandma. She wanted her daughter out there protesting this or that, rebelling, finding herself, writing editorials in the paper, filleting the establishment, or, her most ardent hope, working with her at Lace, Satin, and Baubles to promote the company.

She wanted a hard-core businesswoman daughter who had loud opinions and a flaming mouth to share them. But no.

Knit, quilt, cook.

The funny thing is, my mother is still meeting with these women whenever she’s in town. The women have the following jobs: federal judge, owner of a cosmetics company, social worker, teacher, biologist, medical researcher, car wash owner, and then there’s Judy who owns a strip joint.

She loves being home in her Snow White cottage-style house, with her chintz, stripes, and flowers. You can almost see the dwarves, evil witch, and friendly animals around the corners. She loves cooking and listening to country music with the three of us, and Grandma, if she can “behave like a woman instead of a battle-ax-throwing, temperamental bra goddess.”

She has a practice in Portland and writes her columns and books from an upstairs office in her home, which is about ten minutes from mine, Grandma’s, Lacey’s, and currently Tory’s downtown condo.

Although she dresses drop-dead seductive, even inflammatory, when she’s on tour, at home she often wears pink crew necks and beige slacks. Another favorite? A white cable-knit sweater and blue slacks. She wears flats instead of four-inch heels. She pulls her hair back in a bun and wears her glasses and no makeup.

She meets her girlfriends, and they sew and craft and embroider all day long.

It’s blunt, kittenish sex therapist and Betty Crocker mixed.

Drives my grandma straight up the wall.

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Every book I write gets a journal. In fact, several of my books have had many journals. I write in the journals, scribble, sketch, star the good ideas, cross out the lousy ideas, and glue in magazine photos for inspiration.

Out in August, 2013

Before I write a book, I always have to figure out my gal’s occupation. That’s first. What does she do for a job? Does she like her job? Is it JUST a job, a stepping stone, or does she love it? Does she hate it? Why did she choose that occupation? I find people’s choice of jobs in real life fascinating, and it carries over to my book writing.

I then start to build my character.  What is she like? Does she have a talent? Does she know the talent yet? What are her flaws? Is she a loner? Social? Married? Divorced? Outspoken, shy, quiet, sarcastic, troubled, sane, quick to fight, quick to cry?

What is her personal history? Where did she grow up? How? Bad childhood or solid and fun?

I give her family and friends.  The family dynamic is endlessly interesting to me. Family relationships are a joy and, sometimes, a terror.  They’re tricky, they’re beautiful, they may be the deepest relationships you’ll ever have, they may be the most treacherous and land – mine filled.

I also ask, where does she live now? What does her home look like? What does she look like? Frumpy? Stylish? Thin or curvy?

With IF YOU COULD SEE WHAT I SEE I was thinking about a few interesting elements before and during the writing process:

The sister relationship.

See the lingerie in the left corner? It sparked a book.

An off the wall mother.  And sex. (I tied these two together.)

A grandma with a past. (Grandma’s were young, too.  They may have secrets.)

Ireland. (Where I would like to travel to.)

Strawberries. (Tasty. I’d like some shortcake.)

Lingerie. (Too bad I don’t fit in the stuff I have anymore.)

Blood. (Bad.)

A family business. (Now that’s a ticking bomb.)

Making a documentary film. (Can I travel?)

Teenagers. (I have three of them.)

I also was thinking a lot about marriage.  Having been married twenty years, I still don’t think I fully understand it.

Here’s what my main character, Meggie O’Rourke, says about marriage:

           “There are many questions I have about marriage. Not that I will get married again.

            When we take vows “until death do us part,” the implication is that the marriage will last until someone is residing in a coffin. But is the death of a marriage, through affairs, abuse, neglect, addictions, personality disorders, or continual misery and loneliness, also death?

            What if there were secrets you didn’t know before you married that you had a right to know? Isn’t your spouse breaking the vows before the vows are said? If so, does that mean we can walk out free and clear? When we make a commitment, is that forever, regardless of new circumstances?

            Is it immoral to leave a mean or neglectful spouse if he comes down with a disease because you can’t tolerate the thought of being both caretaker and punching bag?

            Is it immoral to leave a mentally ill spouse who won’t agree to treatment? Even if the person agrees to get treatment, is it okay to leave? What if by staying your health fails because you’re married to someone who will never be able to function as a spouse, who will always take and take and suck the life out of you? Is it fair to expect someone to give up their entire life to stay with a mentally ill spouse?

            But isn’t staying when things get tough part of marriage? The good and the bad? The lucky times and the bad surprises? Rich and poor? What about the love you had for that person on your wedding day, the commitment you made? Wouldn’t you want that person to care for you, to love you, if your life fell apart? How can you justify leaving a spouse who has an illness in his head that he did not bring on himself?

             What role do children play in a divorce? If there’s no abuse, and the spouse is a good-enough parent but a lousy mate, should we stay married, and suck it up, until the kids are grown? What do we owe our children? How much sacrifice is too much? Will a divorce simply cause a whole new set of problems, particularly for the children, and not solve anything?

            What do we deserve in life, in marriage? Is it spoiled and entitled to even talk about “deserving more?” Is a good-enough marriage good enough? Do we expect too much?

            I struggled with these questions years ago. The end result was staggeringly poor.

So. I threw all these thoughts together, plus a hundred more, daydreamed a ton, wrote a first draft, edited it eight times, sent it to my editor and agent, got their thoughts, edited it another four times during the edit/proofing/copyrighting part, had some very long and late nights, and it went out the door.

Hope you enjoy IF YOU COULD SEE WHAT I SEE.

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Woman Magazine
Interview of Brianna O’Rourke, by Gabrielle Madeiro

Out in August, 2013

You have helped women all over the nation, even the world, get in touch with their sexuality. You write books, a popular column, and you’re a coveted guest on talk shows. Do you ever get tired of talking about sex?
Yes. Sometimes I never want to say “sex” or “sex toys” again in my life. But it’s not a twenty-four/seven occupation. I have a life. I have a mother, three daughters, and grandchildren. They are my priority. I also bake and I love to embroider. I sew and knit.
You knit?
Yes, I love knitting. Don’t you?
Uh, no. Do people come up to you in public and ask you about sex?
Yes, all the time. Happens in airports, restaurants, and cafés. For example, last night I was at a dinner and a man asked me what a clitoris was. He asked what he was supposed to do with it. I used two slices of lime, an olive, and half a cherry to explain it to him. I told him exactly what to do. He was so grateful he hugged me. I wrote instructions on the napkin. He took the napkin and ate the olive. I ate the cherry.
I also use bananas a lot—less intimidating. Apples come in handy, too, as do lemon quarters and chocolate fudge sickles.
Why do you think so many women reportedly lose interest in sex?
Many reasons. Oftentimes women are simply not attracted to their partners anymore. Their partners are boring in bed or self-centered, inane, ridiculous, abusive, or gross. It’s not what men want to hear. They want to blame their wives and girlfriends, but it’s the truth.
Sometimes women are flat-out exhausted. There can be medical issues, like thyroid problems or depression. There can be hormone issues, too. Who likes blowing up in bed with night sweats? Working too hard will kill a sex drive, too, as can motherhood and its demands.
There may be abuse in a woman’s background that needs to be addressed immediately.

Sometimes women don’t feel sexy anymore, too fat or frumpy, or they’re self-conscious performing. Let me tell you, ladies, dim the lights, light candles, put on a negligee, and your partner will be so glad he’s getting some, there should be no complaints. If there is, dump him and get a new partner.

You absolutely must get to the bottom of why you’re not interested in sex. There’s a reason, find it, attack it, get back in bed.
But does our society put too much emphasis on sex? Isn’t it okay to lose interest?
If you want to feel like you have a dried-up raisin living in the heart of your vagina, yes, it’s fine. If you want to lose that feeling of youth and vitality, sure, give it up. If you want to go to bed every night and simply sleep and give up your sexuality, go ahead. If you want to miss out on the rush of an orgasm, the intimacy with your lover, being in a close relationship, sure. Embrace the raisin.
You do sex counseling for couples. How does that work?
It words darn well, honey. First off, I listen to the husband and wife individually, then I work with them together. One of my clients, the wife, said that she doesn’t like sex because her husband treats her vagina like he’s holding a cattle prod and the cattle prod has to keep poking the vagina. It drove her bananas. He thought he was turning her on.

I was blunt and told him to knock it off. I had another husband complain because his wife made this singsong sound when they were having sex, like a tortured whale. I told her to make the sounds. It was awful. I told her to knock it off.

Those are easy fixes. Sex counseling can be painful because much of how a relationship is working or is completely dysfunctional comes out in a couple’s sex life. We get down to what’s going wrong between the two of them. Could be an affair, an addiction, the couple is not in love, or one person is gay or frigid or bored to death or a jerk.

Their sexual patterns could be at odds—one person wants it more than the other. It could be money issues, work issues, penis issues, vaginal dryness issues. We dig in and go.

Next I work with them about what they like during sex, and what they don’t. We talk boldly and honestly. When they leave, they’re usually pretty steamed up. My office overlooks the parking lot, and often they’re having sex in their car.
What should couples always do to have a happy sex life?
Have sex.
That simple?
Yes. Have it regularly. Have a Sex Night each week. Sex can be serious, passionate, fun, even funny. Try new things, new positions, new places. Try not to get arrested. That’s embarrassing.
Any other advice?
You must get to know your clitoris. You must figure out your orgasmic rhythm. You must figure out what you like and don’t like. You must ask your partner to do what you want to have done.
Also make a brutal assessment of yourself. Are you good in bed? Truly? Are you open to trying new things?

Adventurous? Exciting? Are you doing what you can to keep your partner in love with you? Are you a supportive, friendly, loving spouse or partner?
Anything else?
As my mother always says, “Live your life with love. When you die, that’s what you’re leaving behind.”

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Do not let your odd cat distract you from your writing. Like mine. She meows at me and expects me to meow back. So I do.

It would be nifty if I could live the life of my vision of a writer.

I imagine bang – up, mega successful writers in their organized offices overlooking a pristine lake where they scribble away all day, the words flowing, the blue herons landing smoothly.

Or they’re in their beach house. They watch the sun rise and set, smiling serenely, seagulls cawing, a cup of peppermint tea nearby as their story pours out of their brilliant brains.

Or they visit their family’s rustic cabin in the woods with comfy red plaid blankets, wandering deer, and a hunky man who moved in down the lane with whom they have a brief but mind blowing “writerly affair.”

Oh yes. I imagine the life of a writer to be filled with words, books, imagination, excellent views, romantic struggle, and flowing tequila.

The truth is, unfortunately, harsh.

I know a number of writers.

NONE have a clean office. In fact, many have their “office” on their dining room table. They push the kids’ homework out of the way, the dead and hardening oatmeal, the odd cat, and write.

A beautiful view helps, but don’t depend on it. Sometimes you have to write leaning against your kitchen counter while you’re making peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. It is what it is.

I only know one who owns a beach house. She goes there to regain her sanity. If a seagull bothered her too much she would probably shoot it.

I know of no one who has a cabin in the woods or had a “writerly affair,” with a hunky guy down the lane. Most of the writers I know are boring married ladies like myself. A few are in hot – flash hell like me. This is not conducive to a passionate affair. Also husbands do not generally approve of “writerly affairs.”

I don’t know any writers who slam down tequila. Why? Because we have to write the next day. Hangovers and writing only sounds romantic if you’re Hemingway. And his hangovers were no more romantic than anyone else’s, he simply had them out on a boat.

Plus, I rarely drink. I quit – almost completely – when I was twenty after a bad round of tequila myself. This makes me no fun in the drunken writers department.

Truth is, all the writers I know have some very, very heavy responsibilities. Children. Jobs. Spouses. Sick parents. Illness. Divorce. Bad dates. Addictions to chocolate and ice cream. Difficult mother in laws. Teenagers. You name it, they have it.

Get out into nature and go ride a horse.

But I believe it’s important, when you’re a writer, to take time out to BE a writer, at least once a week. You need to take that cool/introspective/dreamy image of being a writer and live it.

How do you do that?

Keep a small notebook with you to jot down what you’re thinking, story ideas, or even list the reasons why you hate your ex husband or your skinny, prissy neighbor down the street.  You can use your ridiculous and destructive hatred  for ideas later. If you feel like committing a crime, write that down, too. Who knows? You might become a crime writer. Do you like thinking about aliens, mummies, or gargoyles? Good. Write your plot down. Who knows where that could lead?

Make friends with writers in your town or over facebook or writer’s groups. Talk shop. Do not make friends with the negative or whiny wanna be writers. They’ll drag ya on down to the sludge. Go for the wild ones teetering on the edge. The thinkers and rebels. The ones who have opinions different than yours and a thought process that is jagged and funny.

If there’s a cool conference you want to attend, by all means, go. You can learn a ton and meet people.

Take a writing class at a university or a community college. I LOVED the classes I took. You’ll meet people you will never meet in your own circle, and this is always good. Same people, same ideas. Go forth and chat.

Drive somewhere totally new, find a coffee shop, slug down caffeine, and write.

Travel.  Photograph. Sketch. Go to plays and musicals and the symphony. Writers are artistic. Work on being artistic. You do not need dreadlocks to do this, but you could grow them if you want.

Travel. Even an hour out of your town will give you a new perspective. Or go to Rennes, France, pictured here. That was fun. They have great bread.

Say hello to nature. I run about four days a week in a forest. Helps my head. Go to a lake, the mountains or a beach. Go to a field.  But get thy ass out there.  It is hard to be creative when you’re inside all the time, surrounded by the same four suffocating walls smashing in on you.

Read like a fiend. Read in different genres and enjoy what you read, but study it, too. Only read the best authors you can find, and then figure out why you like them. If you read crap, your writing will be crap. Be CAREFUL.

Read brain – cell popping writing books, too. Jessica Morell. Annie Lamott. Natalie Goldberg. Julia Cameron. Read Writer’s Digest. I just started getting that magazine, and it’s full of amazing advice, even for someone like me who has been in the trenches of this business for years.

Walk. Walk without your ipod, or with it.  Write in your head. Think creative thoughts. Go away from your problems and think about your book only. Dedicate that time.

Journal, baby, journal. First, verbally vomit on your journal. Write down what you’re thinking or worrying about. Then, write down your character’s name in the middle of your journal and jot down everything you know about her. Write down any problems you’re having in your book, then write down ALL ideas – no censoring – on how to fix them.  Let that pen flow over the pages.

Write all the time. It doesn’t have to be good. It doesn’t have to be publishable, if it’s crap you can burn it later in a bonfire and run around it naked. Just write.

Remember that you are a writer, no matter what rejections are hitting you in the face.  You need silence. You need time alone. You need to listen to your own thoughts.  Writers take time out of their chaotic/busy lives to BE. Just be.

Now go be.

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My family sells lingerie.

Negligees, bras, panties, thongs, bustiers, pajamas, nightgowns, and robes.

My grandma, who is in her eighties, started Lace, Satin, and Baubles when she was sixteen. She said she arrived from Ireland after sliding off the curve of a rainbow with a dancing leprechaun and flew to America on the back of an owl.

I thought that was a magical story when I was younger. When I was older I found out that she had crisscross scars from repeated whippings on her back, so the rainbow, dancing leprechaun, and flying owl part definitely dimmed.

Grandma refuses to talk about the whippings, her childhood, or her family in Ireland. “It’s over. No use whining over it. Who likes a whiner? Not me. Everyone has the crap knocked out of them in life, why blab about it? Blah blah blah. Get me a cigar, will you? No, not that one. Get one from Cuba. Red box.”

What I do know is that by the time Regan O’Rourke was sixteen she was out on her own. It was summer and she picked strawberries for money here in Oregon and unofficially started her company. The woman who owned the farm had an obsession with collecting fabrics but never sewed. In exchange for two nightgowns, she gave Grandma stacks of fabric, lace, satin, and huge jam bottles full of buttons. Grandma worked at night in her room in a weathered boarding house until the early hours and sold her nightgowns door to door so she would have money for rent and food.

Lace, Satin, and Baubles was born. Our symbol is the strawberry.

My grandma still works at the company. So do my sisters, Lacey and Tory. I am back at home in Portland after years away working as a documentary filmmaker and more than a year of wandering. You could ask me where I wandered. I would tell you, “I took a skip and a dance into hell.” It would be appropriate to say I spent the time metaphorically screaming.

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Written by Stevie Barrett.

I am going to plant a garden this summer.

With the exception of two pink cherry trees, one white cherry tree, and one pink tulip tree, all huge, I have a barren, dry backyard and I’m tired of looking at it. I almost see it as a metaphor for my whole life, and I think if I can fix this, I can fix my life. Simplistic, silly, I know, but I can’t get past it.

So I’m going to garden even if my hands shake as if there are live circuits inside of them and a floppy yellow hat dances ominously through my mind.

I’m going to build upraised beds, a whole bunch of them, and fill them with tomatoes, squash, zucchini, radishes, lettuce, carrots, peas, and beans. But not corn.

I’m not emotionally able to do corn yet – too many memories – but I am going to plant marigolds around the borders, pink and purple petunias, rose bushes and clematis and grapevines.

I’m going to stick two small crosses at the back fence, but not for who you think. I’m going to build a grape arbor with a deck beneath it, and then I’m going to add a table so I can paint there, as I used to, before my memories took that away.

I’m also going to build three trellises for climbing roses over a rock pathway, one arch for me, Grandma, and Grandpa, which will lead to another garden, with cracked china plates in a mosaic pattern in the middle of a concrete circle, for Sunshine.

This may sound way too ambitious.

It is. But I see this as my last chance to get control of my mind before it blows.

I can wield any type of saw out there, and I have to do this, even if it takes me years. That I can even think in terms of a future is a miracle.

Why?

Because two and a half years ago, when I was thirty two years old, I had a heart attack.

I used to be the size of a small, depressed cow.

The heart attack led to my stomach strangling operation, and I lost 170 pounds. Now I am less than half myself, in more ways than one.

My name is Stevie Barrett.

This is a story of why I was the way I was and how I am now me.

I am going to plant a garden.

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