A Little Something…

Posted on by sereichert

Hello friends, writers and readers.

I hope this week finds you getting back into the swing of things and finding a groove. Whether that’s winding down summer and getting ready for fall, or getting your kiddos back into school, I hope you’re finding some time to rebalance, and recenter. I’ve got a little teaser for a book I’ve been working on this year. I thought it might be a change from the poetry I normally offer and maybe a preview of a book that will hopefully be coming out within the next year.

Enjoy!

No Words After I Love You: Excerpt

““I’ve never believed in God, but I believe even less now. If there ever was a God, then it was her. My planets revolved around her and the world did not deserve the warmth of her star. None of us deserved her.” Don knows I mean him; the great idiot has to know. I hang my head, chance a glance at the crowd, blurred through eyes that are viciously crying, despite my resolution to be angry over sad. “God doesn’t deserve her either.”

That’s all. That’s all I can get out and not point my finger at Don and his treacherous heart. How dare he ruin the last testament to my wife, even if I didn’t want to be here. How dare he show up and mourn a woman who was mine? I sit down next to my father who clears his throat and in it, speaks a volume of reprimands.

Denouncing God in front of the entire church on such a sacred day such as this, Charles?

“Add it to my tab, Dad,” I whisper beneath my breath.

The flurry doesn’t stop, and I think I sign some paperwork, and I collect the ashes, which were to be separated and scattered, between New York and Georgia. Both urns come home to the apartment, where a good old-fashioned wake has been dictated by my late bride. A wake.

Wakes are for Catholics, I’d said. She shrugged in her robe and took my chin in her hand.
They always seem like fun, is what she had said.

Of her own funeral, she wanted it to…seem fun. She wanted wine and music and dancing and laughing. I have the wine. I think Meg did that. Meg ordered the food too…It’s all here, and so is the endless trail of well-wishers, face after face. Graceless, awkward patting of my shoulder from nearly all. Gina was the hugger. They are not sure what to do with me.

The only thing that’s not here is Meg and I look at every new face that enters the apartment, every milling sheep as though she’s snuck in. Where in the hell is that girl? Maybe it’s my brain, trying to distract from my grief, but it’s got me worried. I haven’t talked to her since that morning when she asked me where to put the flowers after the service. I said I didn’t care. She said she thought she could donate them…

I said God could shove them up his ass. She said she was too short to reach, but she’d see what she could do…I unexpectedly smile in the middle of someone else’s story.

Where is Meg? Did she get left at the church? Left by the people she loved, once more? Orphaned again?
Two hours into the malicious and introvert nightmare, and the endless parade of people (thankfully Don must have taken my not-so-subtle hint and had the mind to stay away) is starting to quiet.

Meg walks in. I watch, from the kitchen as she sneaks through the front door, as if she’s trying to slip in without opening another wound. Her nose is pink and her eyes are watery from the cold. Or maybe its the grief.

She hangs up her scarf and that old threadbare coat. She pauses to say hello to my father, as if he deserved her softness. She’s walking through, not a soul recognizing the plainness of her, the very un-Broadway nature of Meg, in her simple black dress, probably the only one she owns, and probably only because Gina helped her find it. She gives people that awkward, tight-lipped smile that one offers in these situations, perhaps a handshake or a fluttering pat on the shoulder. But no words are exchanged.

My God, but she’s given me something to focus on. Poetry in her plainness, an anchor in this stormy sea.
I can tell she doesn’t want to be here. I can tell she knows she doesn’t belong.

I feel like she might try to sneak out. Give me some awful excuse tomorrow, like she was there but missed me in the hustle bustle of it all. But I can’t let that happen. Because she needs to know…she’s not abandoned. Someone notices. Gina begged me to notice her. As she passes the kitchen I reach out and take her wrist in my hand. It’s small and just the act of wrapping fingers around her bones halts her world.

I always think Meg is so much bigger, but she pulls easily into my arms and I’m just as startled as she is. The kitchen is quiet and I’m not sure why I react like such a desperate man, thinking she might leave. I’m not sure what to do now, with Meg so close. I cannot account for the grief in me. I am desperate. For any normalcy. For someone not in the business. Someone who…knows me.

“Where have you been?” I hiss.

“The park?”

My heart shoots up into my throat. The smallness of her wrist and how easily I was able to kidnap her into the kitchen makes me overpour in worry.

“By yourself?”

“I couldn’t—” she pauses and looks into my face. “I didn’t think you’d notice.”

“Didn’t think I’d notice? That you weren’t here?” Words come out of my mouth. I’ve been regulating all day. I can’t regulate with Meg.

“You’ve got a lot of people here and more socializing than I know you want to do. I didn’t want to be one more obligation for you.”

Martin, one of my favorite horn players from the pit of many a show-stopper, steps into the kitchen for another sandwich. He gives Meg an awkward, tight-lipped smile, and pats my shoulder lightly, before he leaves. My brain refocuses into the tired vulnerability, unguarded in her.

“Don’t leave me alone.”

“You’re not alone, everyone is here,” she points out.

“They’re here for her—” I ache. I look towards the sounds of laughter and stories in the next room over. In this sea, I am alone.

“I’m here for you,” Meg says and puts both of her hands on either side of my face. I look into her eyes, a quiet shore. I feel my face pinch up like I’m going to cry and that stupid girl, throws her arms around my waist and holds me. Buries her face in my chest, so I can cry and not be watched. She holds me so tight.
Like someone who loves you holds you. Without reserve, without any awkward pause, without worry for societal rules or false conclusions. I’m stunned into accepting. When was I last hugged? Hugged like a Midwestern girl hugs? Warm and close and like two hearts are trying to reach each other through the cage of ribs between. Never.

She smells like cold air and the traces of someone smoking on a park bench, and shampoo that’s soft and flowery. I could push her away and berate her for being stupid and sentimental. But my body sinks into the warmth. Fuck, I need a hug. A real one. Does she need it as badly as I do?

I put my arms around the smallness of her. I don’t know how tightly she needs this and I know I shouldn’t care, so I just hug her like I want to hug, and she shivers and I shiver back and I feel the tears welling up between us, a great lava flow started from an earthquake. I run my hands through her hair, and hold her tragic little brain next to my heart.

“My girl,” I whisper and catch myself.

Who’s girl? Which girl?

It demands an answer and I have to decide. “She was my girl.”

The grief flies its middle finger to my stoicism and Meg is so warm and close and just so…there…that I start to cry. And I don’t know what to do, so I just let it go. She’s whispering her anguish, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry over and over like Meg was responsible for the treacherous cells or the decade long affair, or the loss of everything I thought was true. As if she was putting that on her plainly dressed shoulders.

Comfort in her warmth starts to feel like betrayal. I think she feels it too. I sniff and pull away. I’m too confused to have her so close. I’m too far into the middle of my grief, I’m bound to make poor choices. I can’t look at her in case any part of this ache is still in my eyes. She tries to look at me but I pat her shoulder like Martin patted mine. Awkwardly. Boundaries thrown up in defiance. I need to get out of this kitchen. Into a crowd where I can be unseen again. I pause and hand her a box of Kleenex before I go. I hear her sniff and pull out a couple before blowing her nose in a very…moose-like manner.

The honking of it brings the first tickle of a laugh I’ve felt in days.”

Move, Pitch, Get Out the Way

Posted on by sereichert

Yeah, I did just title this blog that…No, I’m not sorry. Yes, I hope that song plays in your head all day. Yes, it may seem “Ludacris”. Yes, I did just make a dad joke out of it. No, you can’t get a refund, this shit is free.

This is actually a post from a couple of years ago, but oddly enough, I’m headed up tonight to the Wyoming Writers Conference again. And again, I’ll be pitching. So I’ve tweaked a few things but the advice remains solid. I hope it can help you.

Now, on to the blog

This week, tonight actually, I’ll be pitching a novel to a publishing company at the Wyoming Writers Conference in Casper, Wyoming. I know that this should be something I do at least every year but with the past couple of years spent in catching up and starting new jobs, and my creativity taking a giant dump of late, I haven’t had the drive, material, or need to throw myself into the ring.

But, by strange happenstance, the novel that I started at last year’s WWConference in Laramie, turned out to be one of my favorite books. Its a strange blossoming feeling of re-reading it and having it punch me in the gut and make me laugh-cry. I could independently publish it. But…the past years have taught me, that there’s no shame in rejection or in throwing your heart in the ring, especially when you really believe in something you’ve created. So I slammed the breaks down and took a breath. A pause. A consideration. That if the story was “Well written, with a voice we really like” that maybe I should give it another tour around the pasture before sending it out, on my own.

So here I am again, years later, still sweaty palmed, reading and re-reading, and choking on my elevator pitch and changing it a dozen times to get the most depth of the story in the fewest words. And it’s exhausting. The sudden surge of trepidation inspired me go through some of my notes from previous classes and books on pitching. And here’s what I have to offer:

  1. Agents and publishers are human beings. They’ve probably slept horribly, are sore and uncomfortable from sitting, have heard a lot of story ideas, and are probably thinking about the cash bar. Just like you. So don’t treat them like a god up on Olympus by cowering or waving tribute in their faces. Be kind, be polite, and use some of your allotted time to treat them with dignity and respect. They’re there because they love reading and want to find a good story.
  2. Tell them why you love your story. Yes, yes, the general plot, genre, main character and conflict…but what is it about your book that fills your heart. Why do you find a reason to read and re-read it? What were some of the best compliments you receive from your beta readers. Human beings respond to enthusiasm and genuine admiration. Otherwise, we’d never watch baseball. Moving on.
  3. Be organized. Have a synopsis ready, bring a query letter and your business card. It’s been a long day for them and you; stories might start running together and they may need a gentle reminder what the 4:55 pm pitch was.
  4. Be open to suggestions and critique. Whoof, this one is hard, right? After all, we just gushed about what we love in our book. While you love it (or hate it depending on how many goddamn times you’ve had to read it and rewrite it) it is also a good time, before you sit down at that table, to think of your fledgling story like a kid going off to college. Its stepping out into the world to be made better, smarter, stronger. It has a lot to learn, so let it be open to becoming something more and living up to its potential. It isn’t a reflection on you as a parent, it’s a starting point for even more amazing results to come.
  5. Follow up. I’ve sat in the pitch sessions where every agent gave me their card and asked for ten pages. I thought I was a goddamn genius and that they’d be engaged in a bidding war over my book within weeks. Um…hate to ruin the ending there but THAT didn’t happen. Sometimes agents are required by the conferences they attend to receive a certain number of pitches. Sometimes an agent is mildly interested and looking for something to pad up their own resume. Sometimes they’re just bust-ass tired and like a parent giving in and handing their kid a remote cause they just can’t listen anymore, they pass along their card with a defeated…”stay in touch”. That being said, if it happens, act as though it’s the bidding war situation, not the tired parent. Send them what they asked for, in the format they asked for it in, and be respectful with your letter. ALWAYS INCLUDING: your name, that you met at ‘such and such conference’ and that they requested your pages. If you can, PLEASE include some other more personal detail. “It was fun talking to you about your dog, Jasper” (write that kind of thing down on their business card) but don’t make it too personal “I hope your rash has cleared up.” (that’s creepy)

After it’s all said and done a pitch session is like any other interaction introverts dread. You have to talk, somewhat excitedly, about something you love and worked hard on, and thereby risk rejection and public shaming. But please remember that the person sitting across from you is also probably an introvert (or works with a lot of them) and just wants you to tell them a good story.

Good luck out there, and if you’ll be in Casper this weekend for the conference I’d love to sit down and chat about pitches, your book, all the wonderful things we’re working on. Happy writing.

Pssst…Hey Kid, Do You…NaNo?

Posted on by sereichert

It’s that beautiful time of year again. When the leaves turn from green to brilliant oranges and bright yellows. The air turns crisp and the days beg us rest with the early setting of the sun. It means right around the corner of October will be the holidays, the hustle and bustle (and ensuing anxiety). But somewhere, wedged between this magical era of slowing into repose, and the mad dash to satisfy a ridiculous sense of commercialism, lies an opportunity. To sit down, carve out time, and *hopefully* write that novel that’s been tickling your gray matter for too long a time.

If you’ve never tried National Novel Writing Month, you’re not alone. I know brilliant writers who have shrugged it off as gimmicky or too much pressure. I know nervous neophyte writers who can’t even contemplate producing a novel in 30 days. Some don’t think they have the time. Some worry they will ‘fail’. Some might even worry that they’ll succeed (then what? I’ll have to edit it? Sell it? Pull my hair out over reviews? Who am I? Stephen Frickin King? no. you’re not.)

But if you’ve ever wondered what it would be like to sit down and face those fears and insecurities and test your wits as a writer, consider this your gentle push from someone who cares about your words and your voice in this world.

NaNoWriMo feels daunting in part, because many people think they need to produce a fully functioning, ready-to-read novel in 30 days. They know (as they should) that it will not be perfect and so why bother? But I’m here to tell you from over 10 years of experience in the process, that NaNo is actually about producing the hottest mess of a manuscript you can. The Absolute WORST. And that is why we bother.

Because a hot mess of a first draft…can be edited. A blank page, cannot.

You see, it’s not about a perfect draft, it’s just about words, strung together, that tell a story. It’s about taking off the binding of expectation and polish, and letting your creativity go braless. Free. Unrestrained. Bouncing all over the place. That’s what NaNo is. It’s permission to explore, play, and pretend. When do we get that as adults? Practically never.

So, if you’re thinking of trying out the challenge, I encourage you to sign up here. I’ll be offering a few more tips in the coming weeks AND I’ll be hosting a CRASH COURSE in NaNo on October 28th with the Writing Heights Writers Association. It’s running concurrent with a great class by Amy Rivers on Suspense (she knows, trust me). Here’s the link to register. You can attend in person or on-line from anywhere. I’ll be walking you through the basics, giving you inspiration and helpful tips, and resources for staying strong throughout the month.

Isn’t it about time you wrote that book? I mean really, we’re not promised another goddamn day…so don’t wait to do the things you’ve filed under “someday”. Worst case, you learn something about yourself, you get to write, and you find a community. Best case, you get all of that, and a first draft. What you do with it after is completely up to you. But to have it out, in the world? There’s no better feeling than that.

I’ll also be blogging about some things in the next coming weeks to help you prepare and posting weekly inspiration during November to keep your spirits up.

Go register. You’re not getting younger and the world needs your voice.

Listening to Our Characters

Posted on by sereichert

Good morning dear readers and writers. First, may I offer a huge thank you for all the comments and encouragement I received from the last post. Writer’s know what it is to get bogged down in the process, and no one is better at pulling you up from that dark, dusting off the weight of the little failures that cling to your shoulders, and giving you a gentle but determined shove back up on the road. So thank you for your advice and encouraging words. They mean a lot.

Between that last blog and this one, I was lucky enough to take Todd Mitchell’s workshop on Creativity. I’d been to a few of his classes but this one seemed serendipitous. I knew I needed to start writing again, a novel. A big project to immerse myself in, and I have a beautiful trio sort of dangling between first draft and not quite done currently on my computer. I love the second book, and that’s obvious by how close to done it is. The third, similarly has pulled me in and I’m enjoying working through the rough patches. But the first. Ah…the first. Kind of the keystone in a series…well…it’s a piece of shit.

And it took me a while to really figure out why during rewrites last year. The main character had somehow taken on the dreaded Susie Sunshine persona (probably because the concept of her was born many years ago.) So, I put her through a character-lift (like a facelift but for imaginary people without faces yet). She got a spanking new name and I roughed up her edges. But nothing in the story seemed to make sense and it felt like trying to force an incorrect puzzle piece into a million different holes that did not fit. What in the hell was wrong with her? I knew what she needed to do and the plot and arc of the book was solid.

But I didn’t believe she was the woman to live it. And I was stuck.

And then Todd said something about struggling with a novel for years until he finally sat down and wrote a letter to his main character and asked him “What is it you want me to know? What’s your story? What am I not seeing?”

For the average human reading this post, I’ve just solidified in your head what absolute insanity writers possess. What do you mean you ask your characters? You created them. You know them. That’s your brain.

But the brain is a tricky place, silly non-writer. It’s vast, and expansive and it has a million rooms we’ve never even found the doors to, let alone explored. And sometimes, characters and answers lay behind those doors. And the only way to access them is to stop trying to force the answer. (I’m planning a post on Alpha State writing so hanging in for that one). Answers com only when we calm the hell down, and sit quietly outside the door, letting go of our ego and our need to tell the story, and just listen to their story.

Sounds crazy. Absolutely, bat-shit, bonkers.

And it totally works.

I put on a meditative playlist, took some deep breaths and focused on her name. Her new name. Her newly rough edges. And I sat, with my back to her door and took some deep breaths. I closed my eyes and started typing. And I didn’t question or stop, or allow myself to think of what she was saying. I just listened to her.

Here’s what it looked like:

Hey Dani,

Hey Sarah.

So, I’ve been struggling with you.

Yeah, I know.

I want to create you

You can’t create me. I just am.

So who are you?

Wrong question

What is it you want me to know? What am I missing about you?

I’m dark.

You began so light and perfect

That’s not how the world works. Not for babies abandoned, babies with parents like mine.

What does that mean? Who are you?

I am Danika Brennen. I was left at a fire station as a baby. An orphan.

Who left you there?

A pregnant vagabond, disowned. My mom

Who was she?

An member of the High Guard,

kicked out

Are you ***’s daughter?

No, I’m Loki’s.

holy shit.

Now, I’m not going to give everything away, but that last thing she said…that was an answer I didn’t know until I let her talk to me. And it’s an answer that I can write a book from. That will help me, help her navigate through this story…to a better place. To a life she deserves. As dark as she thinks she is.

It’s crazy right? But talk to any fiction writer and I guarantee they’ve had some kind of experience with their characters talking to them, to each other, offering unwanted suggestions or criticism along the way. And yes, they’re all in our heads. But I think as humans we underestimate the expansive reach of our brains and neural capacity.

I mean what if they’re not just our consciousness, what if they’re wavelengths in a much bigger plane of existence that we’ve only just started to understand. The wavelengths and dimensions that only open to us, When we listen.

The Beautiful Writers Workshop #18 Writing Challenges: Why Word Counts and Time Limits Work

Posted on by sereichert

Today’s blog will be short as I’m embarking on a new writing challenge brought to me by the fantabulous people over at Zombie Pirate Publishing. Not only is it a genre that I have yet to dabble in, but the subject has to involve a planet I know relatively little about.

What madness would possess me? Well…I don’t like boxes. I don’t like to be put into one, and I don’t like to contain anyone else in one. I think we were gifted free-will for a purpose. I also believe that it’s a lot more fun to participate in life than it is to sit on the sidelines, stuck inside some box somebody once, a long time ago, put you in.

So while I’m busy researching space travel and alternate dimensions and typical characteristics of rebellions, I encourage you, sometime this summer, to find a writing challenge that pushes you outside of your comfort zone and into that strange and beautiful place of self-awareness.

You see, until we’re faced with a challenge, we never really know what we are capable of. If we are always comfortably in our box, we assume those lines around us won’t bend; that the walls can’t be broken. Challenge brings change, and with it a casting off of limits. When we break through walls/limits we come to understand how amazingly capable we really are, and then realize how much our excuses have held us back.

I believe in every single one of you. I believe you can write 15,000 words in seven days, edit it, and submit it for consideration in a publication. I believe you will finish a 50,000 word novel in a month. I believe these things because I’ve seen it happen. Because I’ve done it. And I’ll keep doing it, especially in times when my tank is empty and I start to question my worth. Because I know I am capable…deep down. I just need reminding. We all do.

Writing challenges not only force us to sit our asses in the chair and knock our procrastination methods to the curb, they also show us how much we can actually write when we focus. Sitting for thirty minutes on a good stint will sometimes give me 1,500 words. (This doesn’t account for the editing which probably will drop a third of that). The point is, when you know you don’t have the time to second guess or organize your sock drawer, you give yourself the freedom to just write the damn book.

And, sad as it may seem, sometimes that’s all we need; permission.

Go and write. Look into the Zombie Pirate Publishing site, check out local groups in your area. I did an amazing one a year or two ago for the Rocky Mountain Writers that lasted one weekend and garnered 12,000 words. One of the most fun novellas I’ve ever written and my first foray to action/spy-fi (yes…spy-fi. It’s a genre I just now made up. Copyright.)

That’s it…that’s all I’ve got. No fun pictures or anything. I’m on a mission now, I ain’t got time for that. I gotta make up some swinging character names and decide how genetic mutations might let someone breath H2 and He.

Go find a mission. If you can’t find one, make one. Give yourself a time limit, and a word count and make it a little more than you think you can handle. Hell, make it a lot more than you think you can handle and watch how you surprise yourself.

I’ll be back next week with a full report of how often I found myself crying in the closet and banging my head against the wall for comfort.

Until next time, kids, happy writing.