JourneyPersonal

Diana Gabaldon and Romance

One of the main reasons I went to this particular writer’s conference was to meet and learn from Diana Gabaldon, my favorite writer of historical romance fiction. Reading her works fired my ambition to write a novel because she was able to take all the things I love to read about – history, relationships, humor, fascinating trivia – and write about them well. She creates characters that I care about, that stay with me, inspire me. I care about her worlds as much as those Tolkien created, but Gabaldon's are much more accessible to me.

I was anxious to meet and talk with her, learn from her, but hesitant to approach her. My few vestiges of shyness aside, I try to imagine what it must be like to be a bestselling writer of works that pull the reader in emotionally to the extent her works do, and apply the Golden Rule (do unto others...). Surely everyone she meets at a signing feels compelled to tell her the effects of her books on them, the depth of their own love for All Things Scottish or 18th century. I tried to come up with something to say to her that I imagined hadn’t been said many times before, and came up dry. She’s been a bestselling writer for more than 10 years; I'm sure she’s heard it all.

I saw someone collar poor Catherine Coulter in the hotel gift shop, and thought, "Damn! She can't even buy a bottle of Advil without having to gladhand." I renewed my resolve to not thrust myself on these writers.

My friend Marjohn, whom I met on the plane to Vancouver, didn’t have that shyness of appearing just another fan. She’d come all the way from the East Coast and wasn’t leaving without having made the effort at contact. She approached Gabaldon and said, “I’m so happy to meet you! The relationship of Jamie and Claire is the most mature, touchingly rendered romance I’ve ever read.”

The bestselling author has got to have heard this before, but that innocuous comment touched a nerve, Marjohn reported. “It’s not a romance,” Gabaldon snapped. Marjohn didn’t argue. Gabaldon went on to explain that she felt her work was miscategorized by those in the publishing industry.

At one of the sessions, Gabaldon expanded on this theme. Her recent book, Lord John and the Private Matter, is typically placed with her other novels in the Romance section at Barnes & Noble. This is a ridiculous mistake, she says, because the protagonist is a gay man, there is no romance in the book at all, and the one sex scene is a brief glimpse of a chance encounter with a sympathetic male prostitute. Because there is no heterosexual relationship or romance featured, it simply doesn’t belong there.
When the Barnes and Noble managers explain that her fans will look for her works in the Romance section, Gabaldon warns them that they’re going to piss off the readers with that strategy.

I wondered. As a user-centered designer of websites, I sympathize with Barnes & Noble's plight of anticipating reader search patterns and expectations. I know that Gabaldon fans will look for her works in the Romance aisle, even if she next turns to the technothriller genre.

And I have more – probably way too much – faith in romance readers, especially those who’ve responded to Gabaldon’s books before. She’s right – there is no heterosexual romance in the book, no hetero sex, and no hetero relationships. But we have Grey’s relationship with his mother, his friends, even chance acquaintances, all rendered with that emotional authenticity that we’ve come to expect from Gabaldon. John Grey is an inherently emotional character. There are two fundamental relationships underlying and informing the book – Grey’s relationship with himself, and his relationship with Jamie Fraser, the dashing hero of Gabaldon’s Outlander series, which is further developed in the John Grey book.

Now, I do agree that the John Grey book doesn’t belong in the Romance category. As far as formula, this one is fundamentally a mystery. Gabaldon writes so well, in my opinion, that all her books belong in the Literary Fiction category. My best suggestion is that her works be featured in a big endcap display, but that's not exactly practical.

Which brings us to another problem. Relegating any book to a category is inherently a criticism, isn’t it? Jane Austen and Emily Bronte wrote romances, of course, but we don’t find them in that category. Maybe I’m too sensitive, but the Romance label squelches any association with quality. Some of my book group buddies were amusingly mortified to have to stoop to buying a book from that category, whereas shopping in the Science Fiction or Mystery sections didn’t bother them.

Then I realized, there’s an easy way to tell how readers are responding to the John Grey book. Her Amazon reviews. A quick scan of those find folks who feel, like I do, that the Gabaldon magic transcends genres, as well as hugely disappointed fans who want nothing but Claire and Jamie.

I’m reminded of musicians being inveighed to play their tired old standards over and over again. I’d be disappointed if I went to see Paul McCartney and didn’t hear “Maybe I’m Amazed,” myself. But that doesn’t mean I resent him moving on to something new. (We can hash out whether he actually has another time.) Musicians also struggle with the categorization issues. Is Alison Krauss Bluegrass? Gospel? Christian? Pop/Rock? And of course, the answer is, "Yes."

There’s an ugly, depressing undercurrent of homophobia in some of the negative John Grey book reviews which I’d hoped not to find. That hostility is largely veiled. I’d rather the homophobes declare their abhorrence openly, so folks who aren’t similarly blinkered can engage in a discussion or skip those reviews as someone they're never going to agree with anyway.

I suggested we read Outlander, but worried that the gay men in our book group would be offended by the characterization of Jack Randall, the antagonist depicted as a sadistic gay/bisexual. When Lord John Grey surfaced later in the series as a sympathetic, believable, honorable gay character, I wondered whether Gabaldon had felt the same pressure, and decided to demonstrate her belief that all gays aren’t predatory sadists.

Surprise: Gabaldon knows her readers better than I do. She’s unwilling to cut loose those for whom romance means one man and one woman, but willing to risk alienating them in favor of broadening her own horizons, and those of her readers willing to undertake the journey.

I attended each of the sessions where Gabaldon explained in generous detail just how she achieves the stunning effects of emotional versimilitude in her novels, the vivid historical details, the sex scenes that are hot without being lurid. I asked her whether she intends to write about the Hispanic culture, since her father was Hispanic. She said that didn't interest her so far. I asked several questions of Gabaldon and the other historical fiction writers, and got amazing, in-depth answers that provoked the "Aha!" response.

I never did thank her as a fan. I show my appreciation by buying, thoroughly enjoying, imitating and being inspired by all of her books, even the eBook snippet of the John Grey story that was available a few years ago. I'm not one who treasures physical mementos. It would mean a lot to have her inscribe my splayed, waterstained, dogeared copy of Dragonfly in Amber, but I took only carryon bags and that book alone weighs five pounds. And since I’m sitting here back home in San Antonio, having missed my moment, I’ll just have to say my fan bit here.

“You’re doing wonderfully. Thanks for moving us along."

Writing Fantasies

Writing dreams. I have lots, but most are not really "writing" dreams, so much as payoffs for having written something that touched people. When I'm feeling particularly powerful, I use these fantasies to plan my next move.

I began thinking, whose approbation, advice and encouragement would be the most meaningful to me? My answers were Diana Gabaldon (author of Outlander series), Terry Gross (NPR's Fresh Air), and Marion Winik.

So I Googled Diana Gabaldon, found her website replete with specific advice on how she writes, and links to the Surrey Writer's Conference in Vancouver, where she offers blue-pencil, one-on-one sessions. I signed up in July, and I've been saving my money.

When I despair of my ability to write fiction, I think, "Just try and put something down. In October, I'll meet with people who can help focus me, but for now, just practice, learn. At least have something to show them, so they can help me figure out where to go next." When the going gets tough, and my fears about money threaten to overwhelm me, I think, "OK, I need to freelance a little to feel safe. But for five days in October, I'm going to the conference, and I'll focus on the novel then. Any time I can spend between now and then on the novel is just gravy." I go next week. I have lots to show.

Persevering with the novel feels like climbing Everest to me sometimes. The dreams help carry me through when I really don't feel like writing.

Getting the call. I fantasize about when I get "the call" from a publisher about my novel, and I'm happy and excited, negotiating (with the help of a talented, hard-nosed agent) payment for the first novel (which is already written) and the advance for the sequel.

The long period of having finished, but waiting for the book to be printed and distributed. Waiting for the early reviews. Trying not to take the reviews seriously.

Then I fantasize about release parties, signing events all over the country. I want my first one to be here in San Antonio, run by my good friend Debbie, an old hand at this. My purse loaded with Sharpies. Boxes of books, my nervousness that no one will show up, but people will show up. I rehearse answering questions, picture myself listening empathetically to their own stories, hearing their reactions, being gracious, trying to keep emotional distance while learning from what I hear. I'll want a notebook to jot down insights, impressions.

Serendipity takes a hand, and news events make my historical novel suddenly relevant. Timing couldn't be better.

Then I fantasize about the series of excited, back-and-forth emails and calls with my agent during the screen rights bidding war. Being a script consultant, but I let someone else drive for once, so I can learn about this end of the business.

I'm gratified by all this buzz, but the real payoff comes when Terry Gross of NPR's Fresh Air asks me for one of her fascinating, in-depth radio interviews.

Just when I think the book has peaked, Oprah's people call to discuss my book as a book club selection, to schedule an appearance. I've already identified the 3 women friends whose fashion sense and tastes I trust to help dress me for these various occasions. There's a designer right here in San Antonio that I have pegged as appropriate for me. I will have reached an acceptable weight and size, of course.

Now I'm being courted to do appearances abroad. My first trip "across the pond" to Europe is paid for by my publishing company. I'll need to be pretty successful by then, because I'll want Greg and Matt with me on these longer jaunts - Europe, Australia and New Zealand. I'll schedule some additional time so we can be tourists together. All tax-deductible research, of course.

I fantasize about being involved in local library events with other San Antonio writers, like Sandra Cisneros and Rick Riordan. Giving talks to other fledgling writers groups, book groups.

Sometimes I think I'm crazy, but I used to fantasize about going to Borders or Barnes & Noble and seeing my name on the spine of a book - and I made that goal. I fantasized about doing the triathlon, and I made that goal. The old "To reach it, you first have to dream it" adage has always proved true for me.

And/but - I've been studying the fiction writing craft, with heavyweights such as Anne Lamott (Bird by Bird, Word by Word) and Natalie Goldberg (Writing Down the Bones) and they warn that the WRITING must be the point. The payoffs I fantasize about are ephemeral, and like a drug, their effects wear off all too quickly. They're enough to motivate me to start, but to continue, I must find my payoffs in the writing process itself, in the self-knowledge and growth that is an inevitable part of writing from deep within.

I do remember thinking, Once I've been published, that's it. I'll have it made. I made a nice career upswing on the strength of the web graphics book I cowrote, but it didn't remake my life, I didn't suddenly morph into the perfect person I've got in my head I need to be.

So I'm still on the journey. And sometimes I can accept the fact that I'll be on this journey until I stop breathing and my heart stops beating (sometime in my 90s, I'm thinking now). Sometimes I can't, and these fantasies are what get me back to the keyboard, the spiral notebook, the words, words, words.

Happy Birthday to me

I had a very happy birthday yesterday. After getting Matt off to school, I puttered around in my e-mail until 10 or so, then fortified myself with a venti, nonfat, no-foam chai latte from Starbucks and headed over to the McNay art museum with a spiral notebook and pen. And got some serious writing done, writing that I was happy with.

The McNay is a fabulous, Spanish-style house built in the 1920s, red tiled roofs and a central courtyard, filled with fabulous art. The grounds are beautiful, meandering walkways, fountains, benches everywhere you'd want them and nowhere you wouldn't. Serene, contemplative, peaceful, inspiring.

Inside for a quick visit to my favorite areas, the 15th - 16th century religious works, then I wandered the paths, stopping to write for awhile in the dappled sunlight to the weirdly reverberating thrum of locusts and the plashing of the fountain.

When my hand got tired, I cruised through the Rodin area to a Kim MacConnel exhibition that's energetic and amazing, in a space that takes full advantage of the impact of the pieces, trying to ignore the guard/docent who felt compelled to share his derogatory comments. I moved onto the patio, watching the goldfish peeking out from under the delicate pink and yellow water lilies in the courtyard fountain, more writing.

Then in to the nice visiting exhibition from St. Louis' Washington University, assembled by the same Janson who wrote my fat, well-thumbed History of Art textbook, with Picasso, de Kooning, Braque, Klee, Gorky, Ernst, Matisse and Pollock. Extra $5 fee, but Picasso's large "Women of Algiers" alone was worth it. I'll bet Sue Beckwith has seen these.

Onto the front grounds again, writing furiously again, happy as a clam, sitting on a boulder under the trees near the fountain. I really got going each time I'd stop and write - I think because I was handwriting in the spiral, and unable to edit as I normally do on the keyboard.

When I got home, I transcribed some of what I'd written - a ballooning scene - to take with me to critique group, rearranging, editing, augmenting what I had. It went quickly, again, seemed to flow. I didn't have time to reread it, just printed it out and dashed off to another Starbucks.

Our format dictates that someone else reads your work, and you just shut up and listen. Don't defend, don't explain. Get used to hearing others talk about your work. Thicken your skin. Karin read for me again, stumbling over the French pronunciations, making me wince.

Hearing my work read aloud is HARD. I stared down at my little notepad, doodling, listening intently at times, worrying incessantly about what the group was thinking. This is too long, way too long. Too much scientific detail, period detail. I crammed too many historical figures into the scene. They don't even know who these people are, I am going to have to explain more, provide much more context.

When she finally - finally! got through the 5 pages, there was a stunned silence. I was mortified. Of course, they hated it; why would they not? And they're unwilling to be the first to tell me how much it sucks.

One by one, they begin to tentatively comment. It was great! It was good. I liked it. Yeah, right; that sounded completely insincere to my doubting ears. Then Kiris (KYE-riss) said he really liked the narrative voice; it sounded to him like an older woman recounting events to someone much later. Right! He got that from what was read, cool. All's not lost, then, apparently.

Karin, the most experienced writer among us, and our sometime writing teacher, waited to comment until everyone else dried up. "You have a definite voice, I really like it. The writing sounds very polished," she said. Cool! And I know Karin well enough that I trust what she says, she's not inclined to blow smoke up my ass; she knows (or rather I've fooled her into thinking) that I can take it.

She asked if I'd actually ever seen hot air ballooning, and I confessed that I'd only seen balloons floating across the Mississippi, at quite some distance. Of course she knew that. Turns out she'd written a book herself on hot air ballooning, and though she allowed the technology has probably advanced a good bit, she described the preparation as a lot of fiddling with stuff, and challenged some of my description in a completely helpful way. The group recommended a couple of books, including (duh!) Jules Verne's Around the World in 80 Days, which I find is helpfully published in full, online. Whoo-hoo!

Then the moment of truth came this morning - I showed it to Greg. Understand, Greg is a dramatist; his highest and best use and skill set lies in dissecting, cutting, rearranging and bringing to life bits of literature. REAL literature, not first-time historical crotch novels. He also knows, not only his history, but the specific history of this time and place I'm writing about, better than I do (or perhaps did, before I undertook the latest round of research). And I happen to know he doesn't really like fiction.

He prefaced his remarks with concerns about overstepping the spouse's supportive role. He started out by saying, "It's good." This was more effusive praise than I'd dared hope for. He doesn't bullshit me, or at least, not successfully. He went on to say that he sees why I'm excited about my writing session yesterday, that the voice sounds authentic for the period, the word choices helped evoke the time effectively.

He said he was left wanting MORE at several junctures, and proceeded to tell me exactly where more would be helpful, and what more he was suggesting. More revelations about the narrative character. More description of the crowds, especially the juxtaposition of commoners and nobles that will become increasingly important as the story progresses.

All in all, I'm quite encouraged. Happy birthday, indeed!

I'm on a roll

I've finally "gone under the surface" while writing. It's been so long, I thought I was no longer capable of it, or it wasn't going to happen with this project. But it did!

This is the state in which I've done my best creative work - usually solo writing, but sometimes art or collaborative stuff. When under the surface, I lose track of time, nothing can distract me, and I'm totally immersed in the world of my creation.

I'm pumped, thinking writing a novel is indeed possible. I was beginning to wonder!

I met author Rick Riordan at a recent business communicators' luncheon, and he showed us a novel outline done in Inspiration. If you're not familiar with it, Inspiration is sort of half-flowchart, half-outline, lets you diagram your thoughts in a freeform manner. I had researched Inspiration before for the web graphics book and seminars.

I think it'll be a good way to keep track of the way the subplots intersect. I ended up using the outline view, which I could have been doing all along in Word. I wrote the web graphics book and the self-help book in outline view first, so it has a familiarity and positive association with productive writing.

Whoo-hoo!

Dreams of Writing

Last night I dreamed I was talking to Julie about writing. I told her that I've wanted to be a writer ever since I can remember, felt that so vividly. She said she had, too. I told her that the desire to write resides in a certain spot of my brain, in a lateral section sort of below and behind my right ear.

Julie often introduces me to her friends as "the other half of my brain." So I was breathlessly awaiting her response - would she have that section too, or as the other half of my brain, would she NOT have it? Or would she have it somewhere else?

Then Matt woke me up.

But it gives me courage to be dreaming about writing, seizing my opportunity to launch a writing career. Truth is, I'm terrified about it. Logically, I know I'll never have a better opportunity to crank out some writing and see if:

• I like writing full time.
  
• I can write stuff I'm happy with.
  
• I can make progress on any of my novel ideas.
  
• I can sell any of my writing.
  

But emotionally, I'm afraid that:

• I won't write anything worth reading.
  
• I will like what I write, but no one else will.
  
• I won't have the discipline to write.
  
• I'll squander away a year, then be unable to make money.
  

My experience tells me not to give in to my fears. They're crap.

While it's true that no one may like to read what I write, and that it might not sell well, I'm pretty sure that I will like it. I enjoy reading old stuff of mine, even journal entries. I think I'm pretty brilliant, actually.

And I will always be able to find people to pay for doing something. It may not be writing, true. But it's worth the investment to see if I like writing, can write steadily and for long periods, and can make progress in a writing career. If none of these things are true, I can go back to web design, producing, writing for others, or whatever, having tried.

And if it does work out, it'll change what I do forever. Pretty worth doing, overall.