Becoming Desperate

Me and My Younger Kids in Capital Reef

I just got back from a trip to southern Utah and Capital Reef National Park (thank you, Utah, for reopening your national parks during the government shutdown!). I drove down with my brother, a film student, and we had a long chat about artists striving for big breaks in their careers and how they often lose who they are in a desperate attempt to reach their dreams. I've seen it happen with actors, as well as with writers, and my brother's seen it happen with those trying to break into the film industry.

Making a living as an artist is HARD. I know this. My husband's an actor, and my dad is also a writer. (Speaking of actor husbands and writer wives, check out my friend Michelle Argyle's post about that today.) And trying to become published, get an amazing paid acting role, or a directing gig means HARD WORK and sometimes long hours, days, months, and years without getting a nickel. You do feel desperate at times, but I think it's important not to become desperate. Because desperate people become blinded by that one thing they want, no matter the cost.

They conform to trends, rather than writing the stories their hearts dictate, the stories they wanted to write in the beginning. Their most important relationships fall apart as they work to climb social ladders that will lead them to "better places." Their lives become completely out of balance until it's all or nothing. If they don't get X and X, they are failures.

Desperation is an easy trap to fall into, and for me, the best way to battle against it is to remind myself that there isn't one formula for success. I should have dreams, I should fight for them, but there are other options and back-up plans. If the most amazing editor reads my story and rejects it, the road doesn't dead end there. Other stories are waiting to be written or reworked, other editors can be a better fit. We do have to be open-minded, flexible, willing to revise, revamp, and reimagine. But I like to remember that girl who set out on this journey a few years ago and remind myself of what she wanted, what stories she set out to tell, and why she wanted to tell them. I'm determined not to become anyone else to make a break in this business. I want to be myself and pave my own way, even if it's the road less traveled, or a road no one has traveled at all. My dreams shouldn't be achieved at the cost of selling myself.

This is one blog post I hesitated to write because I don't want to sound self-righteous or condescending. I do have strong opinions on the matter, though, and if anything I write this as a warning to myself, to not lose sight of what's most important in my life. And as much as I love writing and my stories, what I hold most dear is so much bigger and more precious than that. They're standing with me in the picture above. They are my best dream.

Christmas, Weddings, Nano, New Stories

Lots of things have been on my mind this December, and my life has been packed with all brands of wonderful. Here's a sampling of the sweetness.

Winter bride

1. My baby sister got married yesterday. She looked lovely in her beautiful white dress and lacy winter shawl, but much, much more importantly, she was SO HAPPY. She cried. I cried. We all cried. I love you, Emily. I'll make 700 crepes for your reception any day.

2. I won NaNo in November. I realize this news is late and therefore anticlimactic, but I'm still thrilled about it. While doing NaNo again was cool, it was ten times more thrilling that I also finished my novel in November. Now The Lovely Invisible is taking a little rest in prep for a scrutinizing revision, and it always helps to have a little distance so I can get super objective.

3. I have a bright, shiny, and very different (for me, anyway) idea for a new novel! Since I revel in revisions, I'm amazed I want to draft something new already. This story is that special. It's already given me a rash of sleepless nights and all kinds of glorious distractibility. Good signs. But the premise is tricky and needs more research. I want to do this right, so I'm gearing up for major brainstorming and research-a-thons come January.

Trying to rock the 3D glasses

4. I saw The Hobbit in 3D and at an IMAX theater (my first IMAX experience). I'm a harsh film critic, and I have lots of opinions about this film, but I'm willing to forgive many things because the last half of the film was pure awesomeness (Peter Jackson rocks endings), and Thorin (played by a fab actor, Richard Armitage--have you seen North and South? Swoon!) was incredible and totally made the movie for me. So go see The Hobbit (but not in 3D). I can't wait to see it again!

5. I'm spoiling myself for Christmas (yes, I pick out my own presents) by getting a bunch of novels and writing books I selected with a focus on emotion and impactful endings--two aspects of writing I don't feel get enough attention on blogs or books on craft. I'm excited to dig in and continue to learn, learn, learn.

6. I'm most grateful, especially in light of world events, for my sweet family. They are my best gift.

Celebrating my oldest daughter after she performed in A Christmas Carol

I'd like to leave you with a Christmas present (courtesy of Coldplay). This is one of my favorite songs ever (probably tying for first place with Brandi Carlile's "The Story"). Even though this is a Christmas song, it reminds me of summer, which is when I first heard it. But it's definitely a year-round favorite.

Merry Christmas, everyone!

Remembering My Grandparents

A book about Grandpa Ralph

Since it's Memorial Day weekend, I wanted to pay a little tribute to my deceased grandparents. They all had a profound impact on me. 

Grandpa Ralph

My mom's dad passed away from a complication of hemophilia (a rare bleeding disorder) when she was only eighteen year's old. When I was a little girl, I imagined Grandpa Ralph was buried in a quiet corner of our backyard. I'd sit there often and think about him. He spent a third of his life in a hospital, but he managed to live such a full life. He was an avid journal writer and an expert in classical music. Now I have a little boy with hemophilia, so I appreciate my Grandpa Ralph even more. The medicines are much better today, so my boy doesn't face the same level of challenges. Somehow, I feel grateful to my grandpa for that, as if he paved the way to make things easier for my son. Grandpa Ralph, thank you for teaching me to not take anything for granted, and for having an amazing attitude, despite your setbacks.

Grandma Doris

My dad's mother died of cancer when I was eight years old. I remember her fondly. She lived in a little yellow house in Boise, Idaho. As soon as I walked through those front doors, I felt enfolded in peace and love. Grandma Doris was quiet, gentle, beautiful. But underneath that was fire and passion. One time she pulled us grandkids into her kitchen and performed an enthusiastic clog dance. I couldn't have been more surprised. She also painted--mostly pictures of Christ. My favorite was on a canvas of deep purple velvet. Grandma Doris' faith didn't come easily, but she held onto her convictions. For much of her adult life she was addicted to Valium, which she took at a dose her doctor prescribed. Only in the last few years of her life, was she able to break the addiction. The lesson I learned from Grandma Doris is, no matter what, you can always choose happiness; that's a freedom no one can take from you.

Grandma Georgia

One word best describes my mom's mom: feisty. She was self-confident, free-spirited, outspoken, sharp as a tack. I actually didn't like her very much as a little girl. One time after I'd finished cleaning the laundry room, she came in to inspect and announced I'd neglected to wash the inside of the washing machine. Yeah! But in my teens, I grew to love her immensely. She always wore crazy big jewelry and animal print jumpsuits. She'd even snarl like a cat. Even though she was raised on a ranch in Montana, Grandma Georgia loved to act and sing. She and her sister performed together in a duo-act called the "Collins Sisters" (like the singing sisters in White Christmas). Grandma Georgia was a socialite and always the center of attention. She got Alzheimer's late in life, and it was painful to see her slowly decline. I learned from Grandma Georgia that life is beautiful if you work hard and don't complain (remember, she was married to Ralph, who practically lived in a hospital), but life is also about having FUN.

Grandpa Shaw

After Grandpa Ralph passed away, my Grandma Georgia married Larry Shaw. I've never seen a man who doted on his wife more. He enjoyed watching her in the limelight and did everything she wanted. This man had a smile on his face--ALWAYS. There's a picture taken on my wedding day where my veil caught the wind and blew over Grandpa Shaw's face, yet he just kept smiling for the camera. Later, when Grandma Georgia got Alzheimer's, Grandpa Shaw took the most loving care of her. My Grandpa Shaw left me with a legacy of complete selflessness. He was truly one of a kind.

I love you, dear grandparents. Thank you for everything you gave me. You're forever in my heart.

Daughter of a Writer

Sixteen-year-old me and my dad

Growing up, I was not the kind of girl who wanted to write a merely passing paper in English class. True to the perfectionist that I am, I always strove for an "A." But the grade that mattered most didn't come from my English teacher. It came from my dad.

My father is a writer. His middle grade novels, historical fiction, non-fiction, and self-help books have been published by regional and national publishers. No matter the genre, my dad's books are insightful, compelling and beautiful--upheld by strong and moral themes. I grew up wanting to please my dad with my own writing as well. Easier said than done.

None of my English papers were submitted without a thorough critiquing by my father. I sat next to him during these editing sessions in the storage room of our basement--his makeshift office. My dad would review every word choice, redundancy and pronoun with me, making sure my sentences read in a clear, concise and creative manner. When I brought him new drafts, I was sure that this time I had finally mastered the craft of writing...and was amazed that he could still find countless flaws.

When I was in college, I showed a new piece of writing to my dad. The assignment I'd been given in English class was to take a chapter from a published book and retell it from a different character's point of view. When my dad read my version of the story, he misunderstood, believing he was reading the original chapter. When I clarified it was my writing, he said, "You wrote this?"

My father, the writer

Oh, happy day!

Over the years our roles reversed a bit, and when my dad wrote new manuscripts, he would send them to me for my criticism. I know my dad never believed I was the better writer, but I always felt pleased that he trusted my opinion enough to ask for it--even tweaking his writing in places where I suggested improvement.

The other day I was talking to my dad about the progress I had made in writing my first novel. He shook his head and said, "I never thought to encourage any of my kids to become a writer."

"Why?" I asked, a little shocked. Hadn't he been encouraging me for all of my life to write well?

My dad explained that he thought we kids would have learned through his example just how hard a writer's life is; that it's slow, painstaking work--unpredictable in its possibility to provide any income.

 "But I love to write, Dad," was my reply.

He gave a little shrug as if to say, "That's what I was afraid of." But then he smiled.

I have been no stranger to criticism in the process of writing my first novel. From the earliest drafts, I have worked closely with my critiquing partner, Robin, who is a seasoned and excellent editor. But the idea of having my dad see this new work terrified me. The last time he had read anything of mine was back in my college days--thirteen years ago.

I let my mom read the first chapter of my novel last year, with specific instructions not to show it to my dad. But he found my chapter on my mom's laptop and took it upon himself to edit my work. Stopping one-and-a-half pages into my story, he wrote a lengthy essay on everything I was doing wrong. The most gut-wrenching part was that he didn't even finish reading the chapter!

I called him that night, basically begging him to tell me anything good about my story. He was able to list several things but was still adamant about what needed fixing.

"Can't you be a little easier on me?" I sighed in frustration.

A younger dad making a "kid sandwich." I'm the bread at the bottom.

"No!" he answered. "You'd never learn anything!" His manuscripts bled in red ink from all his editor's suggestions, he told me. The message was clear: I had to toughen up; there was always room from improvement.

By my upbringing you'd think I would have been better prepared for my dad's criticism of my novel. But my college days--the last time my dad had read anything of mine--were over thirteen years ago. I'd forgotten what a wonderful--and ruthless--editor he was.

As hard as it was to hear, my dad's insights proved invaluable. "Show, don't tell," "Make me need to read this," and "Don't ever let your character walk offstage" are just a sampling of what will forever be branded into my memory.

A few days after I talked with my dad, I threw out my manuscript and decided to begin anew. Up to that point I'd completed a quarter of my novel and written a sixty-page outline--all of which represented six months of my life. But I now determined to develop a new storyline, while still keeping the main characters and rules of the fantasy world I'd created.

For giving me honest feedback, I will forever be grateful to my father. I have faith that my words will blossom into a beautiful and gripping novel one day, but in the meantime I've learned how to stomach tough criticism, realizing that nothing in my story can be too sacred to undergo major surgery. More importantly, I've learned that this is my story. The genre and subject matter are not what my dad would be inclined to write or even read (though I know he'll happily read my finished novel one day). So before I run my manuscript through another editing gauntlet, I have to first be happy with an audience of one. No matter how my apprenticeship under my father has shaped my writing, the story itself comes from my own soul. I need to be pleased with myself before I try to please anyone else.

After the long and painful discussion we had about my chapter, my dad and I made a pact: the next time he'd read my story would be after it was published. "I'd rather be your father, Katie, than your editor."

I wish I was still strong enough for him to be both. But for now I'd like him most of all to be my dad.