I’m convinced that as my belief in love itself transformed, so did my novels. It didn’t feel as though I was writing science fiction any longer. I identified more and more with the heroines of my books. I had lost a great deal of my early cynicism and was a much, much happier person for it.
About six years ago, I got an email. It was from that guy, you know, the one I loved? The one who’d dumped me like yesterday’s paper? Yeah, him. He’d found my email address through my books. He wrote. I wrote back. We spoke on the phone, and there was still something there. Okay, there was still a lot there. Especially after her apologized. After he admitted that letting me go had been the biggest mistake of his life. I’m convinced that he came back into my life because I was finally ready for the real deal. I had a heart that beat, a concept of love that wasn’t just happy endings, but included hard work. I could trust again, not just him, but myself.
We got married at the RWA conference in Reno.
I know, for me personally, that I now believe in love. But only because love believed in me.
—Jo Leigh
www.joleigh.com
Why I Write
#39
When our oldest son was eight years old his kidneys failed. I had two other young children at home; I was pregnant. And here I was, on the Critical Care floor of a children’s’ hospital seventy miles from my husband, my other children, surrounded by sick children, injured children, dying children…and sleeping on a cot beside my own very ill son. For weeks on end. For nine long months, until his first transplant (and three weeks after the birth of our daughter), I performed dialysis on our son at home and in the hospital. I rode in too many ambulances, I watched too many children die, I sat, unable to sleep, in the Parents Lounge with other mothers going through their own hells—and I noticed something.
The nurses who lived with all this pain and suffering every working day, all seemed to have romance novels stuck in their pockets as they rode the elevators to the lunch room in the windowless basement. The mothers hid inside the pages of romance novels when they couldn’t sleep, knowing they could be interrupted when the words “Code Blue” blared over the loudspeaker, knowing one of those calls could be for their child. A librarian friend kept me supplied with romance novels—I had a special small suitcase for them and lugged it to the hospital with me along with my pajamas, maternity clothes, and stash of cookies.
We mothers would read, share, trade the books that kept us sane. We all lived in a real world in that hospital, a world too real; we all functioned at the highest level, because there was no choice but to function, to persevere—and we all occasionally escaped that world into the hope and happy endings of romance novels. Those moments of “escape” made it easier, never easy but easier, to deal with the real world.
I’d written my first book, THE BELLIGERENT MISS BOYNTON, just before our son’s kidney failure. It wasn’t a career move, it was just an idea I had and wrote with little thought to a career. I wrote my second book during those long nine months, staying awake all night twice a week, to scribble it in longhand at the dining room table. A Regency romance, a very funny romance, this book became THE TENACIOUS MISS TAMERLANE—and, looking back now, as I write this, I guess the word “tenacious” was, sub-consciously—a pretty good choice.
Years later I was told, by a reviewer, that she called this book her “rainy day” book, because if she felt down, she knew reading this book would make her laugh. I wrote that book for me, and for those nurses, for those mothers trying to make it through just one more night. So that’s how it really began, with that second book, before the first one was sold. It was that second book that told me, yes, you have a chance for a career here. You can do something for yourself that just might make somebody else’s day a little brighter. It sounds hokey, but that’s how it happened…
A quarter of a century later, I am writing my 100-and-some novel for these same people. I want to believe, do believe, I bring smiles, I bring hope, I bring the CHANCE of happiness; not a promise, not a certainty, but the CHANCE. I know, have learned, that one of the best ways to keep your sanity is to escape reality every once in a while.
—Kasey Michaels
www.kaseymichaels.com
#40
I heard a hugely overweight comedian the other night. Someone asked him how come he breathed so hard. His response? “I want to live.” I chuckled and went back to my knitting.
Writing is like breathing to me. I can’t imagine my life without story. I view almost everything in my life as story—it’s how I experience the world. I see; I feel; I create.
People ask what keeps me writing and generally joke and say, “Two house payments.” The truth is, I don’t think I could stop if I had to. God gave me this talent and I expect He intended me to use it and I am.
—Debbie Macomber
www.debbiemacomber.com
#41
There was never a time when I wasn’t writing.
Even before I could read or even form letters, I was telling stories and making my mother write them down.
So clearly, my first writing mentor was my mom.
She still is, in a lot of ways. (Thanks, Mom!)
Grade three was a pivotal year for me, writing-wise. I moved from manuscript printing to cursive writing (a magical moment) and declared to my teacher that I was a writer. “Fine,” she said, “you go write a book.” And so I did. She was the kind of teacher I wish every child could have, showing a total belief in me that I still remember. (And she still reads my books, although due to low vision, the audios work better for her these days.) Thanks, Mrs. Green! And Mom, being Mom, saved that first effort:
Throughout high school and college, I went underground. I sensed that my stories wouldn’t be well received. Too commercial, too sentimental. So I kept them to myself. And then in graduate school, professor Roland Barth at Harvard told me I was a good writer and even my master’s thesis “reads like a novel.” I took this as a compliment rather than a suggestion that I’d made it up.
When I started writing fiction, my mentors were my writers’ groups and to this day, they are the most powerful influences in my writing. If I don’t have those weekly pages to show my group, I can barely stand myself. I belong to one group that meets on the mainland, across the water, and when the weather is nice, I commute by boat.
This group includes Lois Faye Dyer, Sheila Roberts and the writing team of Susan Plunkett and Krysteen Seelen.
I also founded a group on the island where I live. As you can see, we are very quirky. Our members include Anjali Banerjee, Carol Cassella, Sheila Roberts, Suzanne Selfors and Elsa Watson.
My editor and editorial director:
My incredible agent:
Booksellers everywhere and most of all, my beloved readers:
Conclusion: Any writer will tell you that simply having a mentor or many mentors is a powerful motivator, but you still have to bring yourself to the page, every day (or night), all alone. At some point, everything falls away and you’re on your own, bringing your story to life.
Happy reading!
—Susan Wiggs
www.susanwiggs.com
www.susanwiggs.wordpress.com
#42
Sometimes I think it’s a primordial urge. I joke in my bio that in the sixth grade a teacher made me write a “theme” to explain my less than stellar performance in the preceding semester and that I enjoyed stringing just the right words together to rationalize my actions. It’s true. The episode really did happen. Then there was the time I was caught doodling in class and had to write another essay about the “Art of Doodling.” Instead of it being a punishment, as it was intended to be, I took it as a challenge. I have no idea what I wrote all those years ago, but I do remember being fairly satisfied with the result.
In the years that followed I did my stint writing poetry, some of which I’ve kept. Reading it now, I have absolutely no idea what I was thinking at the time, though I have to admit some of the word combinations
are sort of intriguing. Then came my tours of duty in the Air Force and all the letters I wrote home. Writing to a friend of mine, he suggested I ought to consider becoming a writer. I dismissed the notion without a second thought.
The change came years later, when I let my wife read a fictional scene I’d written. She suggested I join the local writers club. I didn’t even know there was one! It was her way of politely saying I needed help, but it was also her way of encouraging what she saw as potential. Looking back on it now, I realize that was a watershed moment. If I hadn’t shown her that drivel, and if she hadn’t pointed me in the right direction…
What if…It’s a game that’s led to a lot of stories.
Whether I write for fun or publication, I think I’ll always write. There is, as I say, a kind of instinctive urge to string words together in such a way that they convey something special to me.
—Ken Casper
www.kncasper.com
#43
When I’m speaking at workshops or conferences, one of the questions I frequently hear is, “Why do you write?” My humorous attempt at answering that is, “If I didn’t write, I’d be medicated.” I mean, seriously, if you hear characters talking to you, you’re a writer. If you hear people who only live in your head talking to you…well, you might have a problem!
The more serious answer is, I write because I have to. All the stuff that goes on in my head needs somewhere to go. All the stories, all the characters, all the abstract ideas. If I kept them bottled up, with nowhere to release them, I’d probably explode under the weight of it all. So, I write because it’s better than exploding. LOL
But the question I was supposed to be answering is, why do I keep writing? I’ll confess, there are days that I wonder myself. Days when words aren’t flowing. Days when all the characters in my head are taking a vacation. Days when the idea of heading to the keyboard seems like too much of an effort. Days where the family needs my total attention. And maybe I’ll skip a day at the keyboard. Maybe I’ll read, or watch tv, or play PTA mom. But then the characters come back, the ideas and words start rolling around and around, looking for someplace to escape to…and I don’t just walk, but I run to my keyboard to let them all out.
I started to write, and I keep writing, because for me, there’s no alternative. I’m not sure if any writer can just quit. It would be akin to saying, I think I’ll stop smelling today. Or tasting. Or hearing. Or quite simply, breathing. I can’t stop.
I just got back from a week’s vacation and though I didn’t actually work, I’ve got a notepad filled with scribbled ideas, bits of dialogue and just observations. I can’t not-write, which is why I don’t quit. So, to answer the question, why do you KEEP writing, what’s your inspiration? The answer is, I have to write, or else I’d explode. (And just imagine what a mess that would make???)
—Holly Jacobs
www.hollyjacobs.com
#44
What keeps me writing is the striving to close the gap between the world that I imagine, and the words that finally make their way onto the page. When I get it right, the satisfaction is boundless.
It doesn’t matter what you do, whether it’s writing, baking, scrapbooking, knitting, photography, painting, designing houses or whatever. For me, it’s the sheer satisfaction in creating and making real something that started off as a flash of imagination—and being able to share that outcome with others. It’s a very special kind of magic.
—Tessa Radley
www.tessaradley.com
#45
What keeps me writing? The answer for me is quite simple. I’m a storyteller and I can no more stop telling stories than I can stop breathing. When one happens, so will the other.
During the darkest time, writing has come to my rescue. After the death of my sister. My father. My own bout with breast cancer (7 years cancer free!!). Writing gives me a way to bring light to the darkness. To change a sad ending into a happily-ever-after one.
I try and choose the books I read with care. Books live inside me long after that final page is turned. They resonate for weeks, or months, or sometimes years after the last word is read. I don’t want to store books inside me that increase the darkness. I want the light. The stories I’m driven to create, the characters that people them, that satisfying ending, all bring me such pleasure! And writing them—continuing to write them—allows me to share the good and the positive and the joyous side of life with those who read them.
And that’s what keeps me writing.
—Day Leclaire
www.dayleclaire.com
#46
Like a lot of authors, I thought this would be an easy question to answer. And like the rest, the more I thought about it, the more difficult it became. Since I’m what might be called “decision-impaired,” I couldn’t choose just one thing that keeps me writing, so I made a list:
Sanity: I can go for maybe two weeks without writing before I start to feel depressed. I could still be working on my career—doing research, promotion, appearances—but if I’m not putting lives on a page, I’m not living. I get cranky and sluggish and feel like a generally useless person, or like an animal living out of its native habitat. (However, if I had to spend three weeks not writing in, say, Fiji, it would certainly ease my sadness.)
Peace: I love drama! Without stories as an outlet for the fantasy life inside my head, I would undoubtedly wreak havoc in my own life. So writing keeps me out of jail and in the good graces of my family and friends.
Curiosity: Though I often make a loose outline before writing (publishers usually require it), I never really know how the story will end until the words are on the page. I have to finish writing a book for the same reasons I have to finish reading one—to find out what happens.
Search for meaning: Though it might sound like high-falutin’ philosophical talk, writing provides meaning in two ways: 1) it gives my existence significance beyond basic survival. Most writers and other artists, I think, believe that there’s more to life than the daily drudge. 2) By creating and finishing a story, I discover what I believe about life and love. Every book is a search for truth.
Quest for immortality: We all like to think that some part of us will live on after we die. It’s part of every creative impulse, whether it be making babies or writing novels or starting a business. I have no illusions that my books will someday be shelved next to Mark Twain’s or Jane Austen’s (for one thing, they’re nowhere near me in the alphabet). But if my words have touched another person’s heart, if they hold my stories in their mind even for only a day or two, to me that’s a form of immortality.
Making readers happy: In the midst of hellacious revisions or deadline panic, a heartfelt fan mail can give me the strength and confidence to keep going. So if you’re ever wondering whether you should take a moment to write an author whose book you loved, just know that your e-mail can turn a bad day into a great one!
—Jeri Smith-Ready
www.jerismithready.com
#47
When the Luna imprint was born, I was thrilled. I knew exactly what I wanted to write. Stories had come to me when I was much younger, even before I started writing seriously, about average American women Summoned to another world to fight an evil invasion of monsters. And, oh, how the words flowed. The plotting was harder, but by the time I’d finished my proposal, my agent said it was the best she’d ever seen, and I sold those three books (Guardian of Honor, Sorceress of Faith, Protector of the Flight). Life was good.
Since I had my first sale, I’ve sold twelve books and am working on book eleven. Only this year have I been able to write full time (and still don’t think I’ve gotten the hang of it). I’ve coped with continuing rejections, books that needed massive rewrites, short deadlines, and nasty reviews. Sometimes the joy of writing, of following my dream faded until it vanished altogether.
I still have support from my friends and family. I have author “whining buddies.” I have, on my website, artist exercises that if I follow w
ill help me jumpstart my creativity. I have other books on writing, affirmation cards, fan mail that makes me smile in the darkest of hours. But all this doesn’t always help.
Just a few days ago I finished VERY messy copy edits, tough enough that I couldn’t face those printed pages with marks all over them until the last, inevitable hours when they HAD to be done. Naturally, I liked the story as it was, but I had to cut. Too many words. So I did my job.
And the next day I started writing new pages again, not revising, and what a joy to let characters roiling with emotions: laughter, surprise, anger, fear, walk out onto the page and take action. So freeing to just WRITE.
Yes, the writing itself can get me through.
Being open to the world around me, accepting of ideas. Letting those ideas play with people in my head. That keeps me writing.
May you let your creativity roam free.
—Robin D. Owens
www.robindowens.com
#48
At first I had absolutely no idea what to write for this blog. I don’t blog very often and I’m not entirely sure what keeps me writing. Except the knowledge that if I don’t I might just go quietly crazy. Or not so quietly.
Of course there are all sorts of external incentives. Like bills to pay. And that new washing machine sitting in glory in the laundry, smugly reminding me that the last one was a total dud and only lasted five years. I’d look at that washing machine and hear it say, “Finish the damn book and you can pay for me.” So back to the computer, to stare at a blank screen and panic.
The main problem is that this doesn’t work for me. It’s taken me three years to figure that out, and in the end someone had to tell me before I really understood.
When I started writing fiction I was working. As in leaving the house every day for a reasonably well paid job that was driving me bananas. I’d finished a Masters degree in musicology the year before and I probably had a case of TWS, or Thesis Withdrawal Syndrome. I really, really, really missed my thesis. I missed the whole writing process. So I started writing. And instead of a doctoral dissertation on 20th Century English Song, I started writing a Regency romance. My writing was something I did for me. It was Fun. Play. A way to wind down in the evenings, because for once in my life, reading wasn’t quite cutting the mustard in the switching off stakes.
A Valentine for Harlequin's Anniversary Page 6