On Outlines and Planning Your Novel

I photographed this leaning royal palm while on vacation in St. Lucia. It got my attention. I don't know why the tree leans to the right, it just does and it has grown into a beauty. Perhaps heavy winds of a tropical storm or hurricane caused it to lean or maybe the tree to the left shaded it and the palm like a flower, kept searching for more light. Maybe it was always meant to lean, who knows! But for whatever reason, to me it's still a majestic royal palm with a quirky, interesting side. It wouldn't have gotten my attention any other way.

As a new writer, I made quite a few mistakes with my first novel, A Decent Woman, but I was enthusiastic! All I knew was that I loved to write and I kept at the business of telling my story. Ignorance was indeed bliss with me. I didn't compare myself to anyone and I didn't try to emulate other writers. As a matter of fact, during the year that I wrote the first draft, I didn't read novels about Puerto Rico so that I wouldn't be swayed by other writers. I wanted to see what I could come up with on my own, realizing that nothing is really original in this world and also realizing that five writers could write about the same town and come up with five distinct and original story lines. But I'm a little stubborn and love a challenge. So, that was my plan - just write.

I wrote the first draft without worrying about specifics. Some writers plan out every single detail with outlines, charts, plans and index cards, but I didn't. I had an outline and knew where I'd wanted to begin and end, but the middle was pretty much organic. Both methods work well in my humble opinion.

I thoroughly enjoyed writing my first novel and afterward, I began reading novels about Puerto Rico again and started reading books on the craft of writing. I did, however, do research along the way. When the first draft was finished, the editing began. I rewrote, strengthened the story and my characters and the direction and side roads that my characters chose became clearer. I learned a lot and tried out many different approaches in trying to better my craft and my novel, but being held to a rigid outline in the beginning wouldn't have worked for me. I'm a flexible, spontaneous person by nature and it shows in how I write books.

When it comes down to writing my second novel...I'm sticking to writing without a detailed outline, it works for me. I want my writing to be fluid, organic and I love the discovery along the way. To do otherwise would discombobulate me! I paint the same way - I don't have a plan in mind. I might have a theme or might have a series in mind, but that's about it. I just paint and see what comes about.

There is no wrong or right way to write a book, go for it. Just write. Write your story. Do what works best for you.

I'm following the same path with my second novel, Finding Gracia on the Path, a novel about a woman who finds herself along El Camino de Santiago in France and Spain. I kept detailed journals during our two week walk, I took dozens of photographs, and I have personal accounts of pilgrims I met along the way. I walked the medieval pilgrimage path with my children right after my husband left our family home. Talk about combat enlightenment! You know, that wouldn't be a bad title, either!

I'm getting it down in West Virginia...my way.

Happy Easter to you!
Ellie

Necessary Research for Writing Chapter One

How long have we been naming snow storms? Did the naming of snow storms just start or did I just begin to notice this year? I find the naming of snow storms annoying and I'll tell you why. I can barely remember and retain the names of hurricanes and tropical storms I discovered during the research for my historical novel-length manuscript, A Decent Woman. Too many names!

Hurricane San Felipe, Ciriaco, Cirilo, Isabel, Ana, Betsy, George, Irene, the winds of Santa Ana and the Mistral, Snowmageddon and now, Snow Storm Virgil. I think that's where we are today - Virgil - which leads me to believe that I don't know the names of the snow storms that preceded Virgil if in fact, they (who names them, anyway?) are keeping to the alphabet I know.

When I was a kid it just snowed. No name, no saint's name, it just snowed! 

However, since the first decades of the 15th century, hurricanes and tropical storms have had names. Hard to believe, isn't it? I found it fascinating to learn about the hurricanes and tropical storms that either were direct hits or came within a few miles of Puerto Rico in the early 1900's. Research was paramount for my first novel which begins in 1901 in Ponce on the southwestern coast of Puerto Rico, and Ponce took many direct and indirect hits from hurricanes and tropical storms.

Christopher Columbus discovered Puerto Rico on November 19, 1493 and the first Spanish settlement was established years later by Juan Ponce de Leon. The first recorded tropical cyclone (hurricane) to hit the southwest part of the island in 1508 was recorded by Juan Ponce de Leon - Hurricane San Roque. From the 15th century until 1961, the naming system of storms was based on the Catholic tradition of naming cyclones after Catholic saints, the saint of the day in which the hurricane hit. San is the masculine word for saint in Spanish and Santa is the feminine word and there are more names with San than Santa in the history of recording hurricane statistics. No comment, just an observation :)

Many times, I had to remind myself to keep moving my story along and leave the Internet behind, but I couldn't very well write a novel about life in Puerto Rico without adding description, detail and dialogue about hurricanes and tropical storms. Every year, from June to November, hurricanes were/are a constant threat and in the months where the island is relatively safe, people are cleaning up, recovering and rebuilding in the aftermath. Hurricanes were and are a fact of life on the island and no one was/is spared. Nearly everyone on an island is affected by nature in one way or another.

I discovered 67 hurricanes and one major earthquake that I had to think about in the years that my novel takes place! So, I decided that the opening scene of my novel would introduce my main character Ana, an Afro-Cuban midwife, who is assisting seventeen-year old Isabel in the birth of her first child during Hurricane San Cirilo, the first tropical storm of the 20th century. I never hesitated that this was how my book would open. As you can imagine, it's a dramatic scene. I loved writing it and still see it in my mind's eye when I think of the first chapter.

In Chapter One, Puerto Rico is still recovering from the devastating loss of life, crops and livelihood from Hurricane San Ciriaco the previous year, the most dangerous recorded hurricane on the island that claimed nearly 3,400 lives and had the damage estimates at nearly $36 million dollars. The Americans had invaded the island two years prior, food is relatively scarce, many buildings have been destroyed, and it seems that the life the islanders have known has been turned upside down. Many believe that God has turned His back on the island and wonder what sins they are being punished for. Some like Ana know what sins they might be punished for.

It's a story of survival, courage, loss, redemption and love...and white squalls, damaging gale-force winds, white-capped waves battering the coast, ten foot storm surges, flooding, sideways rain, and ominous black skies. There are, of course, days of azure skies with no clouds, calm seas, lush tropical vistas and heat...body and otherwise :)

Snow Storm Virgil dropped four inches of snow in my town this morning and we're expecting three more inches by tonight. I'm hoping that the next snow storm that will begin with the letter 'W' doesn't show its face until next winter!

Peace and love,
Ellie

Do You Feel What I See?

When I was painting portraits back in the day, the best exercise I was introduced to was the timed gesture drawing. A couple of friends and I would hire a model and once he or she was ready, we'd ask the model to give us a one minute, five minute, ten minute and a 30 minute pose. We were challenged to sketch as much as we could in the allocated time. It was tough and took some getting used to and many times, all I'd drawn was an oval for the model's face when time was called!

In addition to loosening up and learning to sketch quickly, I found it interesting how creative, free and spontaneous my drawings became in a short amount of time. I learned to glance at the whole and select the most interesting angle or the part of the body that told the entire story or perhaps, told an entirely different story. I love looking back at those sketches and sometimes it feels as someone else drew them. It's like when you're in the zone and I love being in the zone creatively!

I've found that the timed gesture exercise works with writing, as well. If I'm at home, I select a photograph that is unknown to me and  I write what comes out in the time I select. The Internet is useful here or a magazine at the doctor's office while I'm waiting to be seen. I always carry a notebook and a pen with me, so it works for me. I might describe the vet tech, a photograph in a newspaper left behind, or the barrista who has just made my cafe latte with half and half and two Splenda. 

This gesture drawing exercise trained my eye and brain to look at a photograph, the whole if you will, and very quickly dissect the photograph. I look for interesting, subtle, the strange or the elusive bits that perhaps most people miss. I've trained myself, if you will or was I the only kid, teenager and adult who noticed(s) strange and interesting things others miss?!

When I'm writing a description of a person, place or thing I use a similar technique. I imagine and survey the scene in my mind's eye if it's not a familiar person, place or thing to me and I dissect it. I squeeze my mind's eyes into slits and I might write about the patina an object in the corner and how it got that way, the texture and color of a person's skin when they are very embarrassed or describe and wonder about the scratches on a door I'm about to push open.

I love reading books by authors who notice the small stuff, the minute, the mundane and make the uninteresting a fascinating experience. I love authors who open my eyes, teach me something new, make me smile and show me their wonderful world through their incredibly original and unique eyes.

I challenge myself not to describe the girl as pretty, the spoon handle as cold and the view of the mountains as majestic. I push myself to see beyond what's in front of me. I believe this learned behavior is what makes a writer an exceptional writer. A writer who can transport me to new places and encourage me see a known object in new ways fascinates me and encourages me to push my writing even more.

When I taught drawing for kids and adults, I'd say that it's not hard to draw - you just have to train your eyes to SEE and then, your mind and hand will follow.

Peace and love,
Ellie

Pictures, Words and Stories

Happy first day of Spring!  I know friends have snow on the ground as I write this blog post and I'm hoping that it's at least sunny for them today. It's a beautiful morning here.

"A picture is worth a thousand words."

The adage refers to how ideas can be conveyed by a single photograph. In writing novels, however, we need the thousand words or more to convey the idea. My historical novel, A Decent Woman, clocks in at 85,950 words. That's a lot of words :)

I took this photograph last Spring and I could tell you so many stories about this photograph. You might think it's just a nice photograph taken of a cat lounging on an overcast day and of course, that's true. It's much more than that to me.

The wicker table sat in my maternal grandparent's white clapboard country house in Cacao, Puerto Rico, high up in the mountains where they grew coffee, banana and plantain trees, oranges and lemons on their large farm.The ceramic pot belonged to my girlfriend K's father who passed away a few years back in Winchester, Virginia.The black cat I've named Noir belonged to my next door neighbor, Mr. Don who passed away a year ago. My friend M and I found the unpainted wicker chair next to a dumpster in Northern Virginia.The mountain laurel in the pot on the small retaining wall came from a holler in Front Royal, Virginia. A man I was seeing brought me the plant on our first date.

The little wicker table belonged to my maternal great-aunt Paquita who gave it to my grandmother. I don't know who owned the table before that. My grandparents took it to their coffee farm where it sat for decades before the farm was sold. My cousins and I played on that table, used it to play school and had tea parties on it. My mother packed this little table in brown paper and tied it with rope like a present and checked it in as luggage on a TWA flight from San Juan, Puerto Rico to Alexandria, Virginia in the days when we could travel with two pieces of luggage.

In those days, my grandmother and mother traveled back and forth from Puerto Rico to the US with plants with clean roots, plant clippings, food, clothing and anything else that fit in two suitcases. My Polish grandmother used to visit us bearing huge kielbasa, Polish sausages, in her luggage! A suitcase to us kids always meant it was Christmas. We couldn't wait to see what our relatives had packed and whether or not the items for us was still exciting.

The well-traveled little table. It traveled by jeep from the mountains of Cacao to the city of Ponce where my grandparents lived and then, to Alexandria, Virginia where my parents lived. The little table traveled with me to California, Austria, back to Virginia and when my mother passed away, we headed to Belgium where the table lived for 13 years. I packed the little table and drove it to France where it continued to be an end table in my daughter's bedroom. When my kids and I left Europe, the table traveled to Maryland, Virginia and now, it sits on my patio in West Virginia. The little wicker table has traveled almost as much as I have!

I hope one day that the little white wicker table will sit in one of my children's nurseries, so I think it's time for it to come inside. I know Noir will miss it :)

Peace and love,
Ellie

Thoughts of Dogwoods and Life

The sidewalks and streets in my neighborhood are wet and my garden is green again. I looked out the window this morning and smiled. No snow and the sun is out. I instantly felt energetic and wonder if the lack of sun affects me or is it just that I love the sun and sunny days. I immediately feel more energetic even if I'm home and don't go out in the sun, just seeing the sun makes me feel better. My neighbors must feel the same way as I hear my neighbor's children playing in the yard and all this week, I've heard birdsong around dawn. Spring has arrived.

After breakfast, I walked through my garden in my white robe, sipping hot tea and checking on all my babies. I hope that the perennials I planted last summer bloom again. I spotted two robins along the back fence and noticed new growth on the hydrangea plants and the astilbe. The daffodils and lilies are six inches high now and the ivy in the pot is as strong as ever. I still have this month to prune my ancient grapevines and the little dogwood tree my friend D gave me last year has tiny buds on the branches. That made me happiest of all. 

Last year on Earth Day, my friend D was offered two 'twigs', dogwood trees with roots in a plastic bag of dirt. She surprised me with one 'twig' last year as a house warming gift and couldn't have known how happy that made me. D said she didn't know if the 'twig' would survive, but I was hopeful and so pleased.

You see, dogwoods were my mother's favorite tree. They will always remind me of my mother who passed away in 1992. She also loved lilac bushes. I love both. My parents had several flowering dogwood trees on their property in Northern Virginia. Beautiful dogwoods in creamy white and shades of light and darker pink. They're delicate-looking, compact trees that don't grow huge like an oak or a maple, perfect for a smaller yard like mine. Well, I was thrilled.

A Virginia dogwood had ended up in a West Virginian garden. Just like me, a Virginia transplant in a new home, I told D. I too, had been delicate, fragile, and had replanted myself many times after my divorce. My kids, family and many friends feared for me in a new town and state, worried that I'd hate West Virginia and that I'd made an awful mistake in moving. It didn't matter that it hadn't been my choice to leave Europe, end my marriage, and move across the Atlantic, but here I am.

I immediately planted the little dogwood in a large clay pot and decided that we would no longer call it 'twig'. It's a dogwood and I babied that tree all last spring. Midsummer D visited again and we planted the dogwood in my yard. I decided to plant it along the side fence away from the wind that always blows like crazy through the side yard. She reminded me that I would have to move it, but I was dead set in protecting it first. I staked the little dogwood and it has thrived there. The dogwood grew four inches last year and I'm praying that it survives the winter and continues to thrive. But, I might have made a small mistake with my precious little dogwood...

I planted it along the side fence, way too close to the fence, actually. In my attempt to protect and save the sapling, I'd forgotten about trust and allowing things to progress as they are meant to. I'll have to move it to a location where it is able grow as large as it wants. The spot is confining and not conducive to future growth...I forgot to trust.

as I write this blog post, it feels eerie. The comparisons between my new life in West Virginia and this little dogwood are amazing to me. I've always felt in tune with nature, so this shouldn't surprise me.

Two springs ago, I moved to West Virginia to start a new life. I bought and move to a house that I could well afford and to a location that would allow me to write full time. At the time, I saw no other option. Friends and my children encouraged me to look at other houses, but I was so afraid that I just made the decision and did it. West Virginia isn't forever, but it sure has been a soft place to land and I've been able to live my life as I envisioned it. I've felt safe and protected in this place. The experience of moving on my own has been difficult at times because I'm away from my two adult children, but I've healed here. I'd put down tender, shallow roots and they spread. I've grounded myself in this town and I feel I've thrived...

but, I now realize that I've planted myself real close to the fence in an attempt to regroup after divorce. I wonder what would have happened if I'd trusted and been a bit more patient? Well, I'm not one to dwell on the past nor agonize over decisions. I did what I thought was right for me. I finished my novel and have begun to write my second book. I've made friends and feel a part of my crazy and colorful neighborhood. I've also protected my heart in many ways...there it is.

Is it time for me to move away from the fence? What will moving away from the fence mean for me? What will it look like?

It looks like book #3, that's what it looks like :) The outline is already written because I've lived it. That book will be the sequel to the book I'm writing now or the ending...and I didn't realize it until just NOW. Just this second.

Trust.

Peace and love,
Ellie

Heaps and Loads of Patience...

I woke up to a couple of inches of snow this morning...no, no, no. That wasn't supposed to happen! The primroses and daffodils are blooming and I'm in the throes of a major Spring cleaning, enjoyed airing out the house on a few warmer days and now snow? Major disappointment! 

This disappointment feels like my disappointment in not hearing back from the agent with the exclusive read of my sample chapters. I want to hear yesterday...and like winter it's taking more patience than I think I'm capable of mustering. I'm hanging in there, but it's tough. God gave out heaps and loads of patience on the day I was absent.

I don't know where I'm going to find more patience to wait for Spring AND an agent. I know agents are busy, I really do, but it doesn't make it easier to wait. I know and understand the writing business, but that doesn't mean I have to like it :)

I'd dared to dream of wearing shorts and a T-shirt which led me to trudging upstairs with my bulky winter coats last week, only to throw down my puffy vest this morning. I'd lowered the temperature in my house and shut off the ceramic heater in my bedroom a few nights ago only to turn the heater on high last night! Argh!

I've dared to visualize my book cover, I dream of crazy book sales, and great reviews, only to have to keep waiting patiently for the first step - finding an agent. I've begun writing my second book and I'm loving the research and writing only to find a typo on page 257 in my first manuscript! Argh! The discovery gripped my throat and now, I'm worried that there are more typos. Thoughts of what else I've missed plague me. Time to enlist the help of the lovely ladies at my local library who've offered to read my novel and hell...I'm also thinking about Kindle Publishing. Hey, I have to have Plan B, don't I?

So, Plan B for my first book is in place. I'm going to investigate Kindle Publishing. An ebook might be interesting as that's exactly how I buy my books these days. My Plan B for waiting for Spring to arrive is a trip to Florida. In a couple of weeks, I'll be flying to FL with my sister and we'll be visiting our father and his wife who might be recovering from surgery this week. I canNOT wait to feel the sun on my face and dip my feet in the ocean.

I'm going to keep writing my second book which I'm loving already. I'm writing it in first person POV which I've wanted to do for a long time. It's liberating and my writing is flowing. I'm happiest when I'm writing and I have a strange peace, but I'm having to force a huge smile this morning :/

Fake it until you make it! That's my mantra this morning.

Peace and love,
Ellie

Sometimes There Are No Words

In A Decent Woman, my historical novel about Puerto Rico in the early 1900's, I deal with many issues of the day - racism, poverty, the forces of nature, birth and death. The situations my characters find themselves in are no different from issues we face today. My heroine is a midwife who encounters all those issues. I was familiar with many of the situations that my characters found themselves in, so many times it wasn't a huge stretch for me to write those chapters. When I wasn't familiar with a subject, I used my imagination and research to fill in the gaps.

I put myself in my character's head, body and soul when I write. When I can't come up with an appropriate or poetic word or when I need a more powerful word, I go to the thesaurus and dictionary that sit next to my laptop. I can usually find and select words that convey and enhance what I'm trying to say, but most times, I show and don't tell.  A character's actions and behaviors can very often give the reader a good sense of scene, mood and feeling, so I challenge myself to not use fancy words.

One of the most difficult scenes in my first novel to write was when a minor character's infant dies. I've never lost a child which I've always said would be the death of me. I'd surely lose my mind. How cliche those words and phrases sound. Working on the scene, I found words such as palpable, gut wrenching, anguish, sorrow and pain. None of the words seemed appropriate, so I wrote what the mother's face looked like, what she did with her hands, body and eyes. It was a tough scene to get through. There can be nothing more painful than losing a child. I did the best I could. I'm a mother of two adult children.

Yesterday, a good friend invited me to share a late breakfast with her. I was excited to see her as we'd both been so busy this winter. As we sat in the restaurant catching up with omelets and a side of pancakes, she took a phone call. I watched the blood drain from her face as her eyes filled with tears. "I have to go see my friend and you must come with me. I can't go alone." Her face told me that there was no backing out. We quickly paid our bill and left the restaurant. On the drive to her friend's house in another town, my friend told me that she'd found her adult son dead that morning. Her only child. A woman I've never met. My friend had lost her daughter years ago and although I felt like a major, major intruder, I would be there for my friend. No doubt, memories were flooding her mind, as well. I couldn't imagine. I said prayers for everyone.

I won't go into the scene that we walked into. I will tell you that at times of deep sorrow, anguish and pain, there are no words.

Rest in peace.

Ellie