I’m a worrier. I’ve always been. When plans are being made, my mind immediately thinks, “‘what if” and each additional “what if” worry I come up with plays off the one before, becoming darker, more… worrisome.

A long time ago, I convinced myself that worrying beforehand helps prepare me for whatever might go wrong. Instead, it only makes me worry more. I have found, in all my years preparing for the worst, I have often failed to enjoy the best. That undercurrent of ‘what if’ is always there, pulling at me, reminding me that at any moment, the bottom can come out from under me. The interesting thing is that it never has. In all my years of worrying, my worries were all for naught.

Of course, bad things happen sometimes but those bad things are usually things I hadn’t planned for or even considered. The best-laid plans…

Worrying is like poison ivy. Pervasive. Toxic. Deceptively attractive.

Have you ever seen poison ivy in Autumn? If I didn’t know what it was, I’d say it’s quite attractive.

Worry, or planning ahead, is deceptively attractive as well because it creates in the worrier a false sense of preparedness.

Why do I compare worrying and poison ivy? Because last night I noticed a red blistery patch on my arm and went into panic mode. I just ‘knew’ I would wake this morning covered head to toe in an unbearably itchy rash. I ‘knew’ my cats had the poisoned oils on their fur because I’d cuddled them. I ‘knew’ my daughter would have it. My husband. I ‘knew’ I’d spend the next year washing every inch of my home – all the clothes, all the upholstered furniture, all the carpets, over and over – reinfecting myself as I handled items with this toxic oil that can, apparently, linger for five years if left untouched.

You know what really happened? Nothing.

Before bed, I used Benadryl ointment and I took one of my trusty antihistamine pills. This morning, I woke with a smaller, less red, less blistery patch on my arm. Yes. I have to wash clothes but it seems the poison ivy – if that’s even what I had/have – is much more contained than I had feared. At least for now.

I’ve used a lot of energy worrying about things that can go wrong. At this point in my life, I’d like to start concentrating what can go right. It’s really time to use positive ‘what if’ questions for myself and negative ‘what if’ questions for the torture of my characters.

Have you ever found yourself worried about something that never materialized or wasn’t as bad as you thought it would be?

btw – here’s a pretty good slide show of poison ivy so if you come upon it, you won’t have to worry that you won’t recognize it.

In case you’re still worried… here’s a good one page article about poison ivy:

Everything You Wanted to Know About Poison Ivy but Were Afraid To Ask

=====

Baby raccoons!

Just the other day, I told y’all about the raccoons in my neighbor’s attic crawl space. Well, we’ve been dealing with raccoons in our attics for a few years now. In late winter/early spring, female raccoons look for a safe place to den. “Safe”, meaning away from male raccoons who resent the babies because while mama nurses them, she won’t mate. So… quite simply, baby raccoons are not safe around a horny male and mama has to hide them.

That’s another reason I don’t like the idea of calling in animal control. The mom works so hard to keep her babies safe. That’s nature at it’s most basic and beautiful.

But, these raccoons are rather fertile and while I saw two adolescent raccoons last week, I have now seen Mom and three toddlers who are still so small, they’re unable to navigate their way home.

This morning, at 6, which is late for them to go home, I heard all this chattering from outside. What did I see? Mama raccoon on the roof across the alley, coaxing her little cubs up the drainpipe where they would then tightrope along the roof’s edge for a couple of yards, then wiggle down to the awning and into their dark and cozy den – which happens to be my neighbor’s attic crawl space.

The chattering was the mom telling them to hurry, I’m sure. It was also the babies grunts and whines as they tried and tried to do as mom said, only to fail and have her lead them down instead. Where they wound up is anyone’s guess. The babies are at that awkward stage – too big for her to carry home and too small to get home on their own.

I don’t want them in anyone’s attic and I’d rather they live away from our neighborhood but… I find myself now concerned about their safety and hoping they’ll soon get that upper body strength necessary to find their way back “home”.

For your viewing pleasure… this is what I watched from my window this morning:

It was just over a year ago when my 95 year old Sicilian grandmother passed away. I blogged all about her and her impact on my life here. But something I don’t recall mentioning was her cooking. And man, could that woman cook.

I guess I took it for granted that she would always be around to make her exotic, healthy, quick and complicated meals for us. I mean, for my entire life, she was there, living in the same house. The aroma of her food wafting through the rooms. Eventually, the ingredients and steps for some of her signature dishes were etched on my brain but they will never quite taste, smell or be like hers.

More than a few of those are still in my head, not on paper. It wasn’t until I read Christine Ashworth’s blog, Artichokes are Silly, that I realized I should write these recipes down so my daughter has them and can pass them down to her children, proudly saying they belonged to her great-grandmother.

To honor that decision, I’m posting one recipe here. I promised Christine I would share it but I have to caution you, there’s one ingredient that cannot be duplicated. One ingredient that adds depth to the flavor and memories to the experience. That ingredient is grandma’s love. Which I miss terribly but am so grateful to have had for as long as I did.

Enjoy this. It’s a lot of work but worth it.

Stuffed Artichokes

Ingredients:

three artichokes – trimmed and washed

1 1/2 cups unseasoned breadcrumbs

1/2 cup grated cheese (I use equal parts of parmesan and romano but you can use your favorite one)

3 garlic cloves diced, or 1 teaspoon garlic powder or 1/2 teaspoon pressed garlic in tube

1/2 – 1 teaspoon crushed dried parsely

1 tablespoon capers (some brine is fine)

black pepper to taste

4 cups vegetable or chicken broth

Secret ingredients:

1 – 1 1/2 teaspoons sundried tomatoe paste (Amore brand is the best, IMO)
and
1 1/2 teaspoons olive paste (if you can’t find this, it can be omitted. It just gives an extra flavor zip but won’t be missed if you haven’t had it before)

Directions:

Cut thick stems from bottom of artichokes until they can sit flat on platter.

Cut about 1-inch from top of artichokes and discard. Use scissors to snip and discard all sharp leaf tips.

Gently spread leaves open and rinse under running water until cleaned – just spread leaves as you rinse so tiny fruit flies and such are rinsed away. Disgusting, I know, but I once found a live caterpillar in an artichoke as I was cleaning it. Better then, than as I was stuffing or eating it. :-S Fill pot with water, invert artichokes and let soak to clean.

Drain artichokes.

In a large bowl, combine rest of ingredients except for the broth. Using about 1/4 teaspoon (more for larger leaves, less for smaller leaves) ‘stuff’ each leaf with crumb mixture. Breading should sit at the bottom of each leaf. Do not overstuff or it will become too dry.

Place artichokes in large dutch oven, pour in enough broth to rise about 2 inches from bottom of artichokes, reserve remaining broth to add as needed. Bring to a boil. Lower to a light simmer, cover and cook for 40 minutes or until leaves separate easily from globe. Be sure to check level of broth regularly. If too much evaporates, either add more broth or some water (water will obviously reduce flavor so make extra broth your first choice)

Using a large ladle, scoop each artichoke with broth into a bowl.

To eat – pull each leaf and eat only pulpy bottom part with breading. When you reach the sharper inner leaves (usually bowed toward the center like a bud), pull them off as one clump and discard. Remove choke with spoon and enjoy the ‘heart’ or very bottom of the artichoke, which is always our favorite. Another favorite part of this is the scrumptious taste of crisp Italian bread dipped in the broth. Delicious.

I hope these directions were clear. I do this by memory and so I know the ins and outs of it but have never detailed it for others who may not be as familiar. There is a way to remove the choke prior to stuffing these, but I don’t know it. If anyone else does, please share.

Nothing would make me happier than if some of you make these part of your holiday traditions. I know, my grandmother would be all smiles in heaven.

Enjoy!

Homeschooling in New York City may seem like a rarity but it has become quite the movement. Even I, a native New Yorker, originally thought of homeschooling as something done in more rural areas. Instead, many New York families have chosen to pull their children from public school and use the vast wonders of the city as their classroom. There are museums, science labs, historical sites, various cultures and cuisines. So much, that years worth of curriculum could be covered without traveling beyond a few subway stops.

“Great. But what about socialization?”

That question is the first in everyone’s mind when I mention homeschooling my teen. It’s a logical concern and, before we started the process, we wondered about it ourselves.

Recently, I was speaking with some new friends about homeschooling when the issue came up. I answered, saying how there truly isn’t much socialization in school during school time. The comment was met with amusement and I found myself confused. Then I realized that, of course, there is interaction in school, but is it really socialization?

Socialization according to Answers.com is “(psychology) The process whereby a child learns to get along with and to behave similarly to other people in the group, largely through imitation as well as group pressure.

Hmm. “Learning to get along… though imitation as well as group pressure.” Not sure I like that definition.

Let’s try another… from the FreeDictionary.com: (Psychology) Psychol the modification from infancy of an individual’s behaviour to conform with the demands of social life

“conform”. Well. I’m not sure how I feel about that either.

One more… from Meriam-Webster.com: the process by which a human being beginning at infancy acquires the habits, beliefs, and accumulated knowledge of society through education and training for adult status.

Ah. Now that works for me. “Acquiring… through accumulated knowledge of society through education and training.”

No “imitation”, no “group pressure” and no “conforming”.

For many homeschoolers the difference between the first two definitions of socialization and the final one is monumental and is, indeed, the difference between socialization through public school versus socialization through homeschooling.

Most often, children in school interact with children their own age. Occasionally, there is interaction between grades but it is usually limited. They pick up on each other’s habits – both good and bad – fashion trends and attitudes. Homeschooled children regularly interact with children of all ages as well as with adults. During spontaneous and/or organized activities, the older kids in the group will look out for the younger kids, engage them and play with them. Not all the time, of course. Just enough to give the young ones a sense of comfort and security and the older ones a sense of responsibility, belonging… and independence. The kids often hold conversations with adults as well – parents of other homeschoolers, or, as in the case of my daughter, customers in our family photography business.

The socialization aspect of a homeschooler in this new millennium is a wondrous thing. Here in the city, there are thousands of homeschoolers and many belong to local homeschool groups. Curriculum is recommended and shared. Activities are organized and varied. Interaction with others is part of life and learning.

Of course, homeschooling is not for everyone. Some children might find it restrictive and suffocating, while others might find it exhilarating and liberating.

For my family, the words “exhilarating” and “liberating” hardly begin to describe the wonder that the process of homeschooling has brought to our lives.

I’m curious. What are some of your first thoughts when you hear a family is homeshooling? Or… if you’re a homeschooler, what are some of the reactions/responses you’ve received from people when you discuss homeschooling?

City living presents few opportunities for gardening or lounging in hammocks on balmy summer evenings. I often wish I had a yard with a swing-set and a gazebo. Willows to lie under. Vegetables to pick. Quiet space. Private space.

Space.

My yard is attached – on three sides – to other yards. One at each flank and one behind. And each of those yards is attached to three more the same way. Links in a chain forcing neighbors to be neighborly – and here neighborly means respecting the precious and limited space between us for the buffer it is.

I don’t always see my yard as small. I often peer down at it from my bedroom window and smile. It’s home. It’s cozy in its suburban way.

You make due with what you have. I have this:

When I could have this:

There are few secrets in my neighborhood and others similar to it. A quiet evening in this borough of New York includes the clamor of family conversations, radios with the volume at medium, piano practice, neighbor’s sneezes and more, flowing out open windows, mingling as they waft along on a breeze through the alley made up by our yards.

The rail is only feet away. It rumbles by on schedule, shaking the foundations. Planes crisscross overhead. Their roar is like a pause button for conversations. You get used to the noise. Sometimes only aware of its existence when another place offers silence. And then the silence is almost unnerving.

But here, as evenings progress to night, mockingbirds taunt us. Tease us. Keep us awake but smiling as they sing one song after another. Some seeming well off key. Others cheerful and carefree.

Listen here… this is precisely what can be heard through my open windows late at night and early in the morning:

I can complain about city life and the lack of elbowroom. Or I can embrace it for what it is. Take pleasure in the nearness of people, the tenacity of nature, and relish every moment for what it is rather than what it could be.

What’s in your space that you once wished were different but now appreciate as uniquely yours?

You  heard me sleepy heads, it’s Monday again. Time to shake up the muse. So without further ado…

Using these five words:

break

wide

memory

edge

filter

Tell us a story in five paragraphs or less.

It’s been four years since we first heard eerie scratching and crunching above our heads at dusk and dawn only to learn a family of raccoons had taken up residence in our attic crawlspace.  Since that time, we and the raccoons have taken turns sealing and ripping up the grated vents which allowed the raccoons entry in the first place.

I’ll let you guess who did the sealing and who did the ripping up.

Here’s my first take on the experience – Shhh-What’s that noise?

Many of us in our little row of attached homes have bolted the grates in place in such a way that the raccoons no longer fight to get in. Others have been less fortunate. Take this poor guy at the end of the row near the rail tracks…

How about a closer look…

Cute. Kinda. As long as it’s in ‘someone else’s’ attic.

Yeah. There they are. Two here in the photo and one already on the ground after having slid, headfirst, down the drain pipe. They’re not the most graceful creatures, you know. The chubby one who landed first, landed with a thud after he let go of the drain pipe about two yards above the ground. Not sure what possessed him to do that.

One thing is for certain about these guys – they’re resilient. They come back year after year. Every late winter/early spring, the mamas are looking for a place to den. They fooled us a few years ago when we thought we’d outsmarted them. Here are my two updates on the subject -Update 1 and Update 2.

But the raccoons weren’t outsmarted. Certainly not by us mere humans. They just didn’t need the safety of our attics anymore that year.

So, last evening, I sat on my porch for about twenty minutes watching these guys scratch and stretch and chatter on about… I don’t know… maybe how to get down from the awning without leaving lumps on their noggins.

They’re really cute from afar. But they’re wild animals and that means we all have to remain diligent with our kids and our pets. I know first hand how vicious these raccoons can be since they attacked a stray kitten in my yard this time last year. I don’t want to call in professionals who will be forced to destroy these guys. They’re only doing what they’re supposed to do – sleeping during the day and foraging for food at night.

Yes, they’re a nuisance. Yes, they’re scary. And yes – the worst – they could be sick and most certainly have fleas.

Call me a bleeding heart. I just can’t see putting down animals simply because they disrupt our quiet summer nights by strolling through our yards in search of food. I do think the owners of the house where the raccoons are squatting should seal up the vents in a more raccoon-proof manner but the rest, I think, should be up to Mother Nature.

What say you? How would you handle a family of raccoons in your neck of the woods… or in your cement block of city, as the case may be…

For this Memorial Day, I planned to profile one of the uncountable heroes this great country has had. I hoped for some unknown who had achieved something personal, something wonderful in its own right. I wanted to share his or her story with the world to make our troops more real, more like the boy or girl next door rather than some GI Jane or Joe way over “there”.

I did some research. Looked for names and biographies of regular men and women who served this country in the ultimate way – by giving their lives. I came upon a list put out by the Wall Street Journal that included names and 1/2 inch square headshots. Click on a name and it takes you to that soldier’s page.

I thought I’d hit the jackpot. I’d find a plethora of information on those personal pages and be able to write up my story. Instead, the soldiers’ pages contained the same basic information as on the list from page one. The soldier’s name and birthplace, their photo – larger now, the location of their service and their rank. Sadly, there was no information about who these soldiers were as people. Regular stop-over-for-coffee people.

Though limited information was given, one name intrigued me. Sgt. Nicholas J. Aleman, 24, of Brooklyn, N.Y.

Brooklyn, New York. My hometown. Here was the boy I would profile. Look at me calling him a “Boy”. He was all of 24, still a cub and yet he’d trained, fought and died for his country. That’s a man. A hero.

But I could find out nothing about him except that he’d come from a military family. I did about a dozen searches and kept coming up with the same lines about this young man. He was a Marine Reservist, had been assigned to Camp Lejeune for deployment processing and then had been in Afghanistan, supporting combat operations when he was killed.

Not much of a bio for a hero.

Eventually, I did find a few local articles about this young man. Still, I couldn’t help wonder why it should be so hard to learn about the people who have sacrificed themselves for freedom.

I even went to YouTube and searched his name. There’s someone else out there with the same name. He’s a musician. I scrolled down and then I saw something that told me at a glance that this boy was loved. It was a home video taken as the casket of Sgt. Nicholas J. Aleman, 24, of Brooklyn, N.Y. arrived at church for his funeral. The title of the video was simply: R.I.P. Buddy

I cried for that young man and for the family and friends he left behind. He was loved. He laughed and teased just like the rest of us. He hurt, he cared, he shared. Unlike the rest of us, however, he dared. Sgt. Nicholas J. Aleman, 24, of Brooklyn, N.Y went into battle – knowing each moment could be his last – and all because he believed in his country.

R.I.P. Buddy. We cannot thank you enough. We cannot thank enough those who have gone before or who will go in the future.

And yet, something disturbing about the video has haunted me since I first located it. It was posted six months ago as of this writing. Check the number of views it’s had. Seven is the number I saw when I first clicked on it. Hopefully there are more now. Three minutes, and thirty-three seconds. It’s only a procession and a salute. There are no bells and whistles, no Hollywood celebrities or gyrating dancers. There’s just a soldier coming home.

Three minutes and thirty-three seconds. I watched. I ached for his mother. I cried for his buddies, for his military family and for those of us who too often fail to appreciate that which allows us to be who we are.

At least on this one day, we need to remember what it took for these brave men and women to leave their families, leave their homes and everything familiar to go wherever they were sent, without question, with ofttimes fair-weather support from their own countrymen to regularly risk and give their lives.

On this one day, can more than 7 of us view the video, R.I.P. Buddy and share the grief? Can we, just for a moment, consider the pain and pride of the family and friends of Sgt. Nicholas J. Aleman, 24, of Brooklyn, N.Y and those like him who we will never know?

R.I.P. Buddy. And thank you.

=======

In walks a beautiful woman with poise, talent, a sense of humor and a quick wit. She’s tapped for a role in an American television show, packs her bags, gives goodbye kisses and heads to the big time. American fame. International fame.

Hold on!

What did she say? What? No, no, it’s not that she said something dreadful. It’s that she pronounced it dreadfully. Or so it is said.

So it goes for the beautiful Cheryl Cole – a star and sweetheart in her native England – who was chosen as a Judge on Simon Cowell’s The X Factor. She was a judge on the British version and so, I assume, it was logical to invite her to the states. But her presence was nixed before the show started, supposedly, because her accent is too high-country for us Americans to understand or appreciate.

“I don’t care how you treat me. I don’t mind your swearing at me.I shouldn’t mind a black eye; I’ve had one before this. But I won’t be passed over!” ~Eliza Doolittle

Now I don’t know about anyone else, but I love listening to accents from all over the world – and even from within my own country. Besides, who am I to talk about someone else’s accent when I speak Brooklyn? Fuggetaboudit.

Don’t you love the Geico gecko? Didn’t we all watch – and listen hard – to the Harry Potter movies? Weren’t some of the accents a tad thick? Didn’t you have to replay the DVD here and there for clarity? Did you mind? Seriously?

Now, I confess, I wanted to hear the Newcastle accent that cost this young woman a job. I admit, I really have to listen at times but no more so than I had to listen hard to my grandfather’s Sicilian accent. It is what it is. And, in my opinion, it’s not only interesting, it makes the world a little smaller. And I kinda like that.

What about you? Listen to these clips, tell me if you think her accent is too thick for an American audience or if you think there may be another reason this young lady was denied the job.

“The difference between a lady and a flower girl is not how she behaves, but how she is treated.” ~ Eliza Doolittle

=======

Tribbles, as many people know, were – are? – an alien species humans found oddly compelling. They trilled or purred sweetly. They were soft and cuddly. They made humans feel happy. The trouble with Tribbles was how rapidly they reproduced. Suddenly these precious fluffy purring things were everywhere, including the engine of the Starship Enterprise!

Too many tribbles spoiled the inner workings, distracted people from their jobs and basically caused chaos in an otherwise well-run system. Of course, in the end, the Tribbles saved the day. Yes, many of them sacrificed their lives to do so, but without them, the poisoned grain would not have been discovered and people would have died.

What do tribbles have to do with writer’s workshops? Everything.

Workshops, to the writer, are as appealing and irresistible as Tribbles were to the crew of the Enterprise.  While Tribbles gave physical comfort with their soft fuzzy bodies and sweet cooing, workshops give emotional comfort with their promise of clarity and focus. Writers flock to them – especially THIS writer. Paying with cash and time. Investing creative energy into new methods to develop characters, plot and theme, as well as new ways to see each.

The trouble with workshops, like Tribbles, is they way they multiply. The way the lectures pile up until there are mounds of them – mostly filled with phenomenal advice about the writing craft. The trouble with workshops, like Tribbles, is their allure.

And so, despite the distraction of Tribbles and workshops, I simply cannot resist their pull. And I, clearly, will not even try.

Resistance is futile.

=======

Justice served cold is still justice. There is unity once again in this country. Ten years ago, we were united in pain and determination. Now, we are – for the moment – united in celebration and remembrance.

The news showed people gathering at the White House. They were singing and cheering. At the World Trade Center, people were holding candles and singing the National Anthem.

Here, in my town, people poured onto the street to hug and clap one another on the back. Fireworks lit up the sky – those flashes of light, colorfully bursting above us, brought smiles and cheers from onlookers.

And then police cars and fire engines drove along the boulevard, their sirens whirring, their lights pulsing. The people grew quiet. Solemn. Some saluting. Some waving. Some bowing their heads. All clearly moved by memories of tremendous loss and incredible bravery.

The world is still not a safe place. And though we have taken this moment for all it’s worth, relishing in a sense of unity, happiness, grief and hope, America will Never Forget.

9/11/01

=======

I said I’d come back here with an update and it’s an update I don’t mind giving.

I did not write six pages per day for five days this week, However, I learned something vital – if you keep writing, you keep writing. Simple, ain’t it? 

The muse, like a muscle, when lazing around too long, turns to mush. It’s harder to get it into top form because each time you start, it’s like starting a new workout routine… or worse, starting to work out for the first time. You have to keep the muscle moving, working, in order for it to reach maximum potential.

After pushing through my first day of real, wrist-numbing writing, I found myself, once again consumed by my story. That’s a good thing. I heard the characters’ voices again. I saw them moving, they way they gestured when they spoke. Their clothes, their environment. The beauty of Book-in–a-week is that you’re immersed in your characters’ world and that makes the writing fluid.

I confess, I broke a couple of huge Book-in-a-Week rules. I re-read my work. A lot. And I stopped to research various locales via Google Maps – Street View. I had to. I’m the kind of writer who winds up preoccupied with story blanks and must fill them in if I’m to move the story forward. It’s okay. It’s my process.

And so, because of my process, I didn’t write six pages per day this week, I wrote four. I’m happy with that. That’s sixteen pages more than I had before – and, if you’re doing the math, then yes, that means I wrote for four days so far. Today will be my fifth. And, for the record, since I write single-spaced pages not double, that’s actually 32 pages in four days so, in fact, I’ve written eight pages per day.

No matter how you look at it, writing daily – in solid blocks or in ten-minute spurts – is the not-so-secret secret to getting the story down. Of course I’ll need to polish, but the ‘story’ is there and as Nora said, “You can’t edit a blank page.”

Speaking of Nora Roberts… I attended a writing lecture about a month ago and heard that Ms. Nora writes her first drafts with just dialogue. Once the chatty bones of her story are down, she goes back into the story to add those details that make Nora’s work so unique.

Why does it matter? Because everyone has their own method. And as my wonderfully wise and encouraging critique partner often says, “Trust your process.”

Onward.

=======

I shouldn’t be blogging right now – I should be working on my story. However, I figured, I’ve given myself a goal and, as I’m known to do, wanted to put it out here for all to see. It’s a way of holding myself accountable when life gets in the way… or when I LET life get in the way.

So here’s the goal – finish my work-in-progress by June. Why? Because June is when I will be attending my first Romance Writers of America’s National Conference (more about that in a future post). I want to have something to pitch to the agents and editors who will be there eagerly seeking new stories.

So… according to my math, I have to write about 1-1/2 chapters per week from now until then. That’s not so bad (unless you’re a slow writer like me).  It’s only six pages per day, single space, and I know I can do it. I’ve reviewed my Book-in-a-Week workshop notes and and am ready to go.

I’ll see you here at the end of this week with an update.

Onward!  

=======

Of course, the ‘sane’ part is up for debate, but I’m happy to say there was minimal blood-loss as I completed my new query and synopsis.

The synopsis scared me even more than the query. I knew my characters so intimately that I couldn’t imagine breaking their stories down to the simplest terms – as required for a synopsis. What about all the ‘other stuff’ they endured throughout their story…?

However, with the help of a phenomenally efficient list of questions, I was able to zero in on what truly mattered and tell my story in under three double-spaced pages. THREE. Double-spaced. That is an amazing feat for me since the shortest synopsis I’ve ever written was four pages, single-spaced.

How did I do it? With help from a lot of people and places but especially from a brilliant article by Gina Ardito: The Top Ten Questions for a Successful Synopsis.

If you’re struggling with your synopsis, read Gina’s article. You’ll be amazed. I was.

And now I wait. I’ve submitted my baby to three more agents/publishers and, since responses can take months, I’m off on a new adventure. Plotting another story. As I mentioned in an earlier post – Creating the Mood – I’ve chosen a gorgeous new journal, a seductive soundtrack and a sultry frangrance. As for inspiration, I am in no way lacking.

Onward.

=====

So, you know what comes after edits and revisions of a manuscript? Edits and revisions of the synopsis and query.

I’ve been told, several times, that the synopsis should be written before the story. If you can do that, I highly suggest it. However, since I’m not a plotter, but a pantser, writing the synopsis ahead of time would be like plotting the abduction of my muse. The fun part of writing, the creative part – for me at least – is in the discovery. When  I start to write, I have an idea of where I’m going. Blips of scenes flicker in my mind, in flip-book form. From there, I develop the meat of the story.

Months later, when the story is complete – and polished – I try to write a two-paragraph query and both a short and long synopsis but find myself overwhelmed by all of the intricate plot twists, emotional discoveries and settings. The query and the synopsis are supposed to ‘tell’ (not “show”) your story in a compelling yet succinct way. A way that clearly showcases your voice and your story’s tone. You can think of the query and synopsis as relaying an event to a friend. You’d hit the high points, string out the suspense of it, keep them interested without bogging them down with details. That’s what you want in your query and in your synopsis. You want to hook an agent or editor with the high points, showing them the entire work without showing them the ENTIRE work.

What’s your story about?

It seems like such a simple question to answer. And no doubt you can. But can you do it in twenty seconds or less? I couldn’t. I found even my own eyes glazed over when I tried to tell my story.

We must be creative artists when we write the story but marking pros when we sell it. It’s hard to switch hats like that.

I approached my first – hundred or so – attempts at this backwards. I had just finished revisions and figured I’d never know the story better and so writing the 1-page query and short-ish  (2-3 page synopsis) should be easy. Or should I say, ‘easier’?

I started at the beginning and wrote. Soon, I was caught in the story’s rhythm. Writing the query and synopsis in glorious detail, only to remember that wasn’t the place for it. My poor muse slumped. She’d been giddy. Guiding me through, reminding me of ‘moments’ so compelling, to me, that they just had to be included in this selling tool.

I resorted to bribery and promised my muse a new story. I tossed a thought out there and she ran off with it, trying to figure out how to work that idea into 300 pages of colorful language and gripping scenes.

I also did the dishes, the laundry, the vacuuming and grocery shopping. And then I sat down to write. My goal? One sentence. From the “Snowflake Method” to “Pitch University“, I’ve always heard about breaking the story down to one sentence. I could not imagine how to do it then found help in the form of examples from Nathan Bransford‘s fantastic site.

Using his examples as a guide, I went through several drafts of my ‘one-line’ pitch until, finally, hours later, I had it. If you can break your story down to it’s raw form – which, for me ,turned out to be the idea that prompted the story in the first place – you can find your one-sentence pitch. Don’t get me wrong – it’s not. Maybe, though, it’ll get easier with time and practice.

Meanwhile, that one sentence grew into one paragraph. That paragraph being the way I’d tell friends and strangers about my story. Just enough detail to cover the main plot and leave them wanting more.  From there, came two-paragraphs, with more emotion, more mood and a touch more detail. Those paragraphs are for the query.

It took hours to write those lines. You’d think after hours of work you’d have more to show than that, yes? But if it took months, maybe a year or more, to write the story, shouldn’t it take a decent amount of time to market it properly? I rushed through my original query, thinking I just had to give a basic idea of what my story was about. Now, I realize it’s not simply what it’s about, but specifically and succinctly what happens, why and what’s at stake for your characters.

I’ll repeat – it wasn’t easy. I’m sure I’ll be banging my head on the keyboard next go-round. But now that I’ve invested the time the query needs and deserves, the process finally makes sense.

What’s next now that the query is finished? The synopsis. Let the head-banging begin.

========