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Frozen…

…And not in a good way. Not in a self-discovering, ice-castle-making, singing-on-high kind of way.

I’m currently working on my second(?) novel(?) with double question marks, because the story I am currently writing I did not intend to be anything but a short story but, as stories often do, it took on a life of it’s own and recently passed 15,000 words with no end in sight.

And with no end in sight and a meandering fifteen-thousand word tale, I had an epiphany of how the story should have began. That beginning would change the whole story and I would have to start anew.

I know what I’ve written so far isn’t very good.  I know it is directionless.  I know it is something I was writing just to keep writing and prove I could finish it (eventually).  And I know for that reason I should start over. But, that’s also the reason that’s making it hard for me to start over.

See, if you know anything about me you know I have been writing for 30 years, and only started finishing things three or four years ago.  Yes, that’s right, nearly three decades of half-done stories, novels that didn’t go more than three chapters, and several that had tens of thousands of words…and then just stopped.

I just recently proved to myself that I could finish things. And I’ve only finished something so lengthy once (finished first draft of first novel in March of this year).  So I’m afraid if I start over, I’ll be falling into old habits and this will just become one more thing I didn’t finish.  I also know what I’m writing now isn’t that great, and what I would write, if I began again, could be awesome.

I’m frozen, a big ball of anxiety.  I hope I figure it out soon, because I tend to only draft one project at a time.

Guess Who’s Back…

…back again, Jess is back, tell a friend…

Yeah, I’m that old.

Anyway, the site was down for awhile due to some PHP stuff which, as a writer, I am completely unfamiliar with. Thankfully, however, my husband is great at all things tech (and I’m based off his server) so he handled it.

Of course, that doesn’t excuse the long absence of me posting anything before the very short one of my website being wonky. That one had more to do with a mix of seasonal depression and being overwhelmed as a parent, partner, and human being for most of the winter.

More to come, and soon.

-J. M.

Anxiety is a Bad Storyteller

Anxiety, for me, is a bad storyteller.  It’s half your brain, telling you bad stories all the time. You don’t want to hear them, but can’t help but listen.

One of the most famous writers of all, Stephen King, has said that he doesn’t plot, but instead uses “what-if” scenarios.  “A strong enough situation renders the whole question of plot moot. The most interesting situations can usually be expressed as a What-if question: What if vampires invaded a small New England village? (Salem’s Lot). What if a young mother and her son became trapped in their stalled car by a rabid dog? (Cujo).” –Stephen King

Well, anxiety is your brain telling you “what-if” scenarios all the time. However, they are simultaneously weak plots and yet, also, the kind that will send a person into a panic spiral. For example, it’s been raining here for three days so here are some of the what-ifs my brain is giving me: “What if you get another roof leak?  What if you get a leak, but it’s really water seeping into the house and it’s really slow and you don’t catch it right away? What if that imaginary slow leak causes the walls to fill with mold? What if you catch it, but your home insurance won’t pay for it? While you’re busy worrying about the roof, the walls, and the whole house leaking, what if your car is leaky too?”

None of these things would make a particularly good story.   (Okay, maybe the one with the mold, but only if the mold is sentient and starts talking to you).  But I hear this kind of thing in my mind, all the time. It’s my brain’s response to everything from one of my kids sniffling to someone driving erraticly in traffic. What-ifs, what-ifs, what-ifs.

It’s not all bad.  I tend to notice bad drivers, and stay well away from them.  I’m sure to catch any leaks, should I get one in my roof.  But it’s hardly a super-power.  It’s just more worry about things most people are able to brush off.

Now, I know what you’re going to say, which is probably going to be something along the lines of “Just don’t think like that.” Person Reading This, I have tried.  Have you ever had a toddler follow you around and ask you questions and you can’t shake them, no matter what?  Sometimes you give them a cookie and they go quiet to eat it for five minutes but then they’re back?  That’s anxiety, except the toddler is IN MY HEAD.  And that toddler is insistent.  But, thankfully, also like the toddler, if I give my that part of my brain well-reasoned answers–“we checked the ceiling already and there are no signs of leaks and there has been no wind to cause damage, so it’s fine” or “No the basement is not going to spring a leak as it would take a lot of water to soak through eight inches of cinderblock”–eventually it will accept them and take a nap, for a little while at least.

And, like most storytellers, every so often that half of my brain comes up with a “what-if” I can turn into something…besides anxiety, that is.

This blog post was brought to you by my brain not being able to sleep at night and coming up for with this idea at 1 a.m. thanks to Anxiety!

Imposter Syndrome, It’s Coming For Ya! (Or My First Story Got Published)

Back in mid-March, I received an email every writer longs to get. You know, the one that starts with “Your story has been accepted…”  and follows up with said writer’s utter disbelief.  My personal favorite story, “Doran” had been accepted by Allegory Magazine for publication in their May issue! And there was even token payment involved!  I didn’t scream. I did shout at my family very loudly and very excitedly.

You would think that would solve that imposter syndrome, that finally having a story published would make me go, “Yes, I am a talented writer.” Instead, even as I signed the contract, wrote up and sent them a bio (I hate writing those by the way, and should you go read the story, I almost want to hear what you think of the bio more), and waited for publication day, I kept waiting for the other shoe to drop.  For the magazine to fold, for the editor to tell me it was a mistake and they meant the other story about a swamp child by the other J. M. Bask.   But nope, my story got published (and yes, it’s at that link up there).

But the imposter syndrome is still here.  My brain is convinced no one has read it.  My brain is convinced no one will publish anything else of mine.

And you know what I do?  I tell my brain to STFU.  It doesn’t work, not really.  Those thoughts come creeping back. Every time I send out a story it tries to tell me I’m wasting my time.  Every time I pick up a pen to work on my novel, it literally asks,  Why are you doing this?  I can’t get it to shut up, but sometimes, if I shout back loud enough–Because I want to! Because I AM good at this!–that stupid part of my brain that wants to see me fail will at least go hide in a corner for a little while.  And if that’s enough for me to keep going, then I’ll take it.

Read More? Screen Less?

All of us writers, we say it all the time: the two best ways to become a good writer are (of course) to write, but also to read anything and everything you can get your hands on.  I’m going to leave alone the writing part for now and I’m going to focusing on the ‘reading more’ bit.

It’s so hard isn’t it?  It used to be easy.  When I was twenty, I’d go to the library and get ten books, and read most of them in a week, often switching between two of them, at night before bed. I would read at work.  I would read on the toilet.  I would read at dinner. I’d read on the bus, in the car (I didn’t drive then),  in the tub. 

Then screens happened. Little computers in the palm of your hand that have all the information in the world! And all the books! But let’s admit it: we’re reading Twitter and TikTok about books rather than actually reading them. It’s so hard. Sometimes I find myself in bed at night, reading a book–a good book! An engaging book!–and my hand will creep over the coverlet to find my phone. The next thing I know, that tiny computer is back in my face and the books been thrown to the side like a piece of trash. 

Well, I’m trying to change that in 2023, so here are my tips for reading (a little) more. 

 

Photo by Florencia Viadana on Unsplash

First: Don’t bring your phone in the bathroom with you.  Seriously.  Don’t say you don’t do it. We all know that’s a damn lie. Leave it in your purse or on the bed or in the kitchen.  Now, put a book on the back of the toilet or a magazine with short stories or poems.  There are lots of great short fic magazines that could use your support such as: Fantasy, Nightmare, F&SF, and Apex to name a few.  Remember when we used to read on the toilet?  Yes? Well, go back to doing that.

Second: Find that spot in the day where you tend to pick up your phone and stare at it. Maybe it’s on your lunch break.  Maybe it’s when you get home from work, drop your keys and lay on the couch.  Maybe it’s during your morning coffee.  Now, put a book there. Put a book in the bag you take to lunch. Set one next to your coffee pot. Lay one on the coffee table next to that favorite chair. Whatever place you end up staring at your phone for thirty minutes at a stretch, put a book there. Now, pick up the book instead.

Third: Most importantly, the book before bed!  I’m pretty sure all of us readers try to read before bed. It’s relaxing, it’s not a screen, it’s supposed to be good sleep hygiene.  But as I said, that hand takes on a life of its own and goes sneaking over to the phone. The fix for that? When you walk into your room to get ready for bed, plug in your phone far away from you.  Put it on the dresser. Plug it in on the bathroom counter.  Put it wherever it needs to be that is far enough you won’t be tempted to rise out of bed to go ‘just check it.’ If anywhere in your bedroom is not far enough, order yourself an old school analog alarm clock from Amazon, and leave your phone charging in the kitchen when you go to bed.

This has honestly been the biggest help for me. I have been reading more since I started doing this, because I hate getting out of bed once I’m cozy.  It has also had the neat side effect of improving my sleep because I’m not turning off the lights and then immediately picking up my phone to ‘check Twitter one last time’ for an hour before I go to sleep.

Fourth: A final tip for all of the above: if you don’t like it, don’t finish it. This one is hard, I know. A lot of us writers feel like we really have to give our fellow authors a fair shot, and we end up slogging through a book we aren’t enjoying because we feel we ought to.  Well, you ought not to.  Give the book a fair shot–read a quarter, thirty percent, one chapter–whatever amount you feel should have engaged you.  If it hasn’t done that, put it down. Go find another book. If you don’t like that one, rinse and repeat.  Keep going until you’re enjoying yourself.  You’ll read a lot faster if you love it, I promise.

(And of the guilt ridden of us, remember, just because you’re not loving the book right now doesn’t mean you won’t love it later.  You might just not be in the right ‘mood’ for that story or genre right now. And that’s okay. So if you feel really guilty about not finishing a book, tell yourself you’ll come back to it and put in back in your TBR pile.)

 

Welp, that’s it for this list. If you only do one of the things on this list, do number 3. It will benefit both the time you spend reading and your sleep habits.  And if you end up staying up all night to read a really good book, I guarantee you’ll feel a lot less guilty about it than if you’d stayed up until one a.m scrolling the same Facebook posts over and over and over.

Until next time.

 

-JM

Setting Writing (or Other) Goals for the New Year

My first rule of setting goals for the New Year is obviously going to be that this is not a big deal. This is getting published in late January, so the  main thing you need to know is to not put a lot a pressure on yourself. This should not be something you agonize over, because that will make you not want to do it. This leads into my first actual tip:

  • Make your goals doable.  If you read my last blog post, you’ll know I made about 100 short story submissions in 2022.  For 2023, I set my goal to half that. Why not set it higher? Well, first, my hope is that some of those will get published and, therefore, cannot be re-subbed.  Secondly, my goal for 2022 was to make 25 submissions, so 50 is actually doubling that.  I know it’s achievable, and I’m still improving on the previous plan, but I am not setting myself up to fail.
  • Write your goals down. Seriously.  Scribble it on a sticky note.  Make a detailed graph with plot points. Do a spreadsheet. You do you, but write them down. Studies have shown (but I’m not looking them up right now because I’m lazy) that people who write down their goals are considerably more likely to achieve them.
  • Make your goals for you, and NO ONE ELSE.  That writer over there might write 1,000 to 2,000 words a day, but maybe they have a cushy job or a rich spouse. Maybe they don’t have kids. Maybe they do have kids and they neglect them.  You know what you have going on in your life–be it school/work/family obligations/a need to rewatch the entirety of Parks & Rec once a month–better than anyone else. You also know whether you’re a major procrastinator or not, so factor all those things in when setting your goals.

Much like making goals, the tips for making goals are pretty simple. Make them achievable, write them down, and make them for you and no one else.   That’s all I got.  I don’t want to agonize over this post anymore than you should agonize over those goals.

Review: “How to Sell a Haunted House” by Grady Hendrix

Be warned: Spoilers, puppets and creepy dolls ahead.

Grady Hendrix’s How to Sell a Haunted House tell the story of two siblings, Louise and Mark, who come home to Charleston to take care of their parents’ estate after both their mother and father pass in a tragic car accident.

The story gripped me in the second chapter, when Mark calls Louise to inform her of their deaths, and he begins to regale her with a very gory description of the incident because he said ‘it helps to know the details.” His sister has only had seconds to process the loss of both parents and already he is telling her that. Wow, what an asshole, I thought. And then, I hope Grady kills him off by the end.

With that thought in mind, as Louise leaves her daughter and flies home to help younger brother, Mark, deal with the estate and sell the house, I began to think this was a story of sibling rivalry. I watched, through Louise’s eyes, as she returned to the house for the first time in years, as she witnessed her mother’s doll and puppet collection collecting dust and the house in disarray, as she reminisced to herself about her parents’ lives, her mother’s puppet ministry and her father’s Christmas stollen. I watched as she discovered a boarded up attic and indications that something in the house had gone wrong just before her parents’ car accident. Louise tells the reader about the way her brother dropped out of college, and meandered his way through bartending jobs, while the mom and dad supported and encouraged every failure he made.  At this point, I was sure this was a book about sibling rivalry and the way our parents completely mess us up, intentionally or otherwise.

Hardover version of "How to Sell a Haunted House" by gRandy Hendrix laying on a grey background.

How to Sell a Haunted House by Grady Hendrix. No creepy dolls in the photo because I don’t keep them in my house–like a sane person.

Then Grady pulled the strings of his puppets on the page and the story began to twist and the characters became real, the same way the puppets in the story begin to take on a life of their own. The story went from what I thought it was, what I wanted it to be—as a sister and a sibling—to something else. How to Sell a Haunted House is about so many things—how we only know our own sides of the story, the secrets people keep for good and bad reasons (and how those things can be one and the same), how a family’s way of telling stories can just be another way to lie. It’s about all those things, as well as grief and terror, evil dolls and murder puppets, and it’s got the aforementioned sibling rivalry and parental damage to boot.

Grady Hendrix manages to take a story about a couple of siblings and a house full of haunted dolls and puppets and add to it layer after layer, to make it true horror—something that strikes at our deepest fears of love, loss and grief, that is more than just a story of murdeous marionettes. This book

made me laugh, it brought me near tears, and it gave me the damn creeps.  It’s also, easily, one of the best books I’ve read in the last year, in this genre of any other.

Oops…NaNoWriMo Was It?

Hmm.. *checks notes* It looks like my last post was way back in November, saying that I was going to write 30,000 words of my novel for NaNoWriMo, and finish it by the end of the year.   I also said it was going to be, and I quote “a busy damn month.”

I wasn’t wrong about the later.  Kids got sick. School (for me, not them) was more overwhelming that I expected.  I discovered that I really like reading and analyzing fiction, but do not enjoy writing essays about it.  Then, there was Thanksgiving, which we hosted, and Christmas shopping.  And all the things that come with the holidays when you have kids, like baking cookies and making sure the house is decorated.

That 30,000 word goal was a stretch to say the least.

I didn’t do too badly though.  I could have hit it if I had kept going.  I got seventeen thousand in less than two weeks and then…honestly I don’t know what happened.  The last half of November and all of December were a blur of brightly colored wrapping paper, holiday spices, and reruns of Call the Midwife.  

Now, school is back in (for me and the kids), and things are returning to normalcy and I am hoping to be more productive in the coming year.  I have set some writing-related goals for the New Year, and they are as follows:

  • Write seventy thousand creative words. This is about what I wrote in 2022, so if I actually finish said novel and write some stories, should be doable.
  • Finish that novel. I don’t expect it to be good.  I just want to finish it to prove that I can, as well as for practice.
  • Make fifty or more short story submissions. I made almost exactly one hundred this past year, and none of them got accepted, so this one is definitely doable, considering I have at least two stories from last year that haven’t even been typed/edited yet, in addition to all the ones I will write, and all the ones that have not yet found homes.
  • Post here more.  If I’m hoping to actually get published and have my bio for that link here, people have to have something to read, right?

Just going to throw this out there that I’ve been a little depressed, which is has been a huge contributor to my lack of writing (and to me watching over half the seasons of Call the Midwife in less than three weeks).  Not a lot depressed, just the kind where one feels like being more of a couch potato and less of a productive potato.  I think trying to do so much just overwhelmed me into submission.

I’m going to try to not spread myself so thin this year.  You shouldn’t either. You deserve to be a pat of butter, not a smear.

Fits and Starts

It’s almost NaNoWriMo time.  National Novel Writing Month, that is.  I think 2010 was the last time I participated.  I ‘won’ and hit the fifty thousand word mark…but I never finished the novel, nor was I even close.

Why was 2010 the last time I participated?  Well, in early April of 2011 I got married and, by the time November rolled around, I was about six weeks pregnant with my daughter…and puking so much I could not do anything but sleep or be sick most days.  And most Novembers since have been the same. Not morning sickness but dirty diapers or a stomach bug going through the house or teething or…

It’s hard to write sometimes when you can only write in fits and starts. Even now, with my kids 8 and 10, I have spent the last half of October dealing with multiple sicks days (one cold, one sinus infection, one fever from a vaccination, and one case of vomiting). And November will be more of the same, with a holiday thrown in and, likely, at least one trip out of town, and Christmas shopping and all that.  (Oh, and school, can’t forget school.  I’ve got at least one boring essay to write).  But I’ve got 20,000 words of a novel-thingie written that I told myself, way back in summer, that I would finish by the end of the year.

And then I didn’t write a damn word from August to mid-October.  So I’m in on the WriMo this year (kind of).  I won’t be doing the traditional NaNoWriMo (since that would require me to start a new project).  But I’ve set a goal to get another 30,000 words on the book by the end of November.  I’m probably going to have to write it around the aforementioned holiday and weekend trip and a sickness or two (and that boring essay). I might only get a few hundred words one day, and have to cram in a few thousand on a free Saturday.

It’s going to have to be done in fits and starts.  But I don’t like to lose, even to myself, so I guess it’s going to be a damn busy month.

Review: Wendy, Darling by A. C. Wise

I hadn’t heard of A. C. Wise before a few months ago, when I read her story, “The Amazing Exploding Women of the Early Twentieth Century” in issue 122 of Apex Magazine. I loved it and started following her on Twitter, where I found out she would soon be releasing her first novel. I preordered it on a whim and I’m so glad I did.

Wendy, Darling brings us back into the life of Wendy, from J. M. Barrie’s Peter Pan, just has Peter has returned many years later to steal away her daughter, Jane. From there, the novel follows three lines: Wendy searching for her daughter in 1931; Jane, trapped in a darker Neverland with an ominous Peter Pan; and Wendy in 1917-1920, trapped in an institution by John and Michael, after refusing to give up her belief in the flying boy and his magic island.

The novel is well-paced and immediately gripping, but the thing I applaud the most is how Wise has made Barrie’s characters her own. She managed it beautifully, making Wendy, Peter, and the rest familiar, yet darkly different. Peter is both the boy we remember, and something shadowy and sharp-toothed, with danger lurking just behind his glinting eyes. And anyone who wanted to believe in fairytales as a child (or adult), whose imagination has ever run wholly wild, will empathize with this Wendy, unable to let Neverland go, even at the cost of hospitalization and a strained relationship with her brothers. The soft Wendy we knew becomes fierce and motherly, but in a real and raw way, not the playful pretend of her childhood. There a few other familiar characters prancing through the pages of Wendy, Darling (and some new ones to fall in love with), but I’ll leave you to discover them, yourself.

Not only is this new Neverland cast in sinister shadow and dark magic in a way that draws the reader in and brings them into its mythology and magic, but Wise also skillfully brings the reader into the adult lives and relationships back in London in a way that is heartfelt, deep and true. I’m not much of a crier, but a few of the scenes between Wendy and Michael brought me to the edge of tears.

If you’re hoping for a wonderful fantasy in A. C. Wise’s Wendy, Darling you’ll get it. You’ll also get a touch of horror and a bit of romance. It’s a story of siblings, a mother-daughter tale, and also a retelling of the dark side of fairy tales, of the terrible things that can happen when we let childhood go…or the things that happen when we don’t. This book has something for everyone who ever believed in magic, in monsters in the closet, or anyone who has longed for love and childhood lost.

Find Wendy, Darling in paperback, eBook or audiobook here.

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