Almost five years ago, when editor Nancy Mercado took on Birthmarked, she delivered the written offer to my agent in a box with an orange. Since an orange in the novel symbolized hope in dark places, her gesture resonated with me. I knew she would be the perfect editor to help me make the most of Gaia’s story, and it has been a delight to work with her through three and a half novels.
I’m going to miss her. Nan called a month… Continue reading
I went back to my very first draft of Birthmarked this morning to see how it opened, and I was surprised by how decisive and certain it sounded, especially since I know I was making it up at the time. The draft was in single-space, which also surprised me because I write in double-space now, and this drew my eye to the size of the paragraphs, which were short, and the white space that flowed around them. The prose already had a distinctive cadence… Continue reading
At the top of my to-do list, an ever-evolving string of reminders and chores, is the directive “Write and write and write.” It’s always the first item, at the top of the morning, a small, nudging cheerleader telling me three years into doing this full-time that yes, writing is really what I’m supposed to be doing every day. Not in a half-baked, lazy way, either. Lots of it. No matter what.
I’ll tell you what’s daunting: sitting back from… Continue reading
Today I wrote the first draft of an awful scene. It’s scary and sad and troubling to me, and I hadn’t seen it coming, either. It evolved naturally in a new chain of events I was trying in Project Next, and then, bam, I had to be responsible to my characters and expand a full-blown, agonizing scene.
It’s hard to write about emotion and have it work on the page. It’s tempting to throw in tears, beating hearts, gulps, and sighs, but although those feel important and… Continue reading
When I was last in Minnesota, my brother invited me to help with hauling wood logs to cut and split for the fireplace. I was game. Four of us set out together on the job, and at one point, while my older brother manned the chain saw and my younger brother levered out nails with my husband, it fell to me to take a turn splitting logs.
I was not a natural with an axe. Secretly, I was concerned about chopping my foot off, but I was… Continue reading
For the past three weeks, I lived on Long Island at Cold Spring Harbor Laboratory, where my husband was running a course. It was a writing retreat of sorts for me, with none of the usual interruptions of life at home, and long, solitary hours with my computer.
Food was available three times a day in the dining hall, so I had no groceries or dishes to consider. No cleaning was needed. No chores piled up. I felt very spoiled.