Writing

Support Your Local Author

/ J. F. Riordan / 34 Comments

I have two full days with nothing on my calendar, and a substantial but unfinished manuscript, which means it’s time to read through the new book on paper. Every once in a while I need to step back from writing and read what I have so far as an actual book. That way I can see the plot line and get a sense of how the story flows. There’s always a lot of literal cutting and pasting, which I often prefer to do the old fashioned way. One dog nose, phone call, or other interruption and it’s too easy for computer cuts to disappear into the ether.

So, while I attend to my work, I thought it might be a good time to remind you that you can catch up on my series by purchasing the first four novels now, or, should you prefer, pick up a little children’s book, My Dog Pete (available exclusively at the link) to add to someone’s Easter basket. It’s on Kindle, too.

You don’t have to buy my novels or essays from the guys in Seattle. Let’s face it: civilization needs local bookstores, and if we want them, we need to patronize them. Some of my favorite bookstores include Honest Dog Books, Books & Company, Boswell Book Company, and Politics and Prose. You can also order at Barnes & Noble, Target, or WalMart.

Or maybe you can find the time to follow me on Goodreads—where my numbers are pathetically few—or to leave a nice review wherever you buy books.

And, of course, you can also pre-order the one I’m working on now—the fifth in the series— if you haven’t already. You have, right?

Now available for pre-order wherever you buy your books.

If you have a favorite bookstore, leave a link in your comments, so others can find it.

Thank you!

Thinking makes it so

/ J. F. Riordan / 19 Comments

Who’s your audience? It’s a question asked of writers all the time. Agents want to know. Publishers want to know. Even book club readers want to know. Most writers know how to gauge our answers to meet our business needs. Of course, to be published, a book needs to meet customer demand. But, to be honest, most of the time that’s only a guess based on what has sold before, and demand can also be created by marketing teams and media campaigns.

So, while I am delighted to have my books published, I don’t think about any of that when I’m writing. I really only write for an audience of one: me.


I write the kinds of books I want to read, and to be honest, while I do read for information, I mostly read for comfort and companionship. When I had high-pressure, stressful day jobs, I didn’t want to come home to read high-pressure, stressful books. I taught in the inner city. I didn’t want to read about suffering, murder, crime, drug use, and lost opportunities. I lived with that every day. When I moved into an executive position, I still spent a great deal of time thinking about human misery and how to help alleviate it. Again, I was often in the inner city, visiting schools, homeless shelters, prisons, half-way houses, and addiction centers. I also had many uplifting experiences in the fine arts world, to be sure. But what hung with me was always the human traumas that went on before my eyes every day.

I don’t think I’m alone in that. Many people have intense, exhausting, high stress jobs. And some of them find catharsis in reading about intense things, perhaps because at the end of a well-written book, there can be a release of the built-up strains.

But that’s not for me. I want to go to a world where there is a group of characters who feel like friends I can hang out with. I want to look deeply at the small miracles of daily life. I want to feel enmeshed and revived by the creativity and joy of an ordinary day. And so, both in the novels I write, and in my books of essays, I linger on the hope, the joy, the beautiful and all the ways in which frustrations, unkindness, and misery can be diminished—although never eliminated—by the way we focus our attention.

And so, when I’m writing, my incentive is the pleasure I take in joining the worlds I’ve created. I write (mostly) about characters I want to be with, who live in a world I enjoy being in. Maybe that’s selfish. I don’t know.

But honestly, I don’t know any other way to write; I don’t think I could write a horror story if I had to. “Write what you know” is the old adage, and I really don’t think there’s any better advice. Luckily, based on my readers’ comments, the kinds of books I like are also liked by other people. And that’s a pretty good system, I think.

So now, if you’ll excuse me, it’s time to go hang out with some old friends.

Cheers.

***

Turkey in the Sky Addendum

Many of you couldn’t find the turkey in the photos yesterday. That’s because I don’t have a good zoom lens. But here’s the best I can do.

Today’s Gratuitous Dog Photo

He’s snoring.

Old Finds

/ J. F. Riordan / 38 Comments

The thing I miss about Tw*%^tter is the little pockets of community we built among ourselves. The connection was mostly about animals, and then mostly about dogs, but there were also the writers, photographers, farmers, and scientists whose work you could take interest in, and the neighborly people whose company warmed on a bleak day.

Among the unlikely acquaintances I made was a bookseller in a little town in England, whose job was to comb through estate sales, the ruins of well-loved libraries, and mountains of cardboard boxes dumped like abandoned puppies, rescuing old or even ancient books. At first he would tweet about some intriguing find and I would reply requesting a price. But soon I had given him a hopeful list, and he began keeping an eye out for me.

The arrival of these books was an event. They always came beautifully wrapped in brown paper, or sometimes in the pages of old magazines. There was twine. The packaging suggested to me the perfection one used to expect from a purchase in London: very much not shoved into a bag. There were no plastic bubbles.

Among the purchases I made were a tiny shirt-pocket sized Book of Common Prayer, a 19th century book of beautifully painted pull-out English maps (in an unusual shape, and filled with geographic detail unlike anything I’ve seen elsewhere), first editions of some favorite authors, and other very specific and odd literary delights. One of these is a vintage edition of Beeton’s Complete Letter Writer for Ladies and Gentlemen; Containing Love Letters, Complimentary Notes, Invitations, Business Letters, Applications; With Domestic, Fashionable, Friendly, and Formal Correspondence.

I find it endlessly entertaining.

I can’t find an exact date in it, but it was published in late nineteenth century London, and sold for One Shilling. It is a thing out of time, since letter writing is no longer our primary means of communication, and since we live in such a graceless era, when manners in particular and civilization in general are all up for grabs.

It is amusing, too, in its formality and superannuated language. There is the sharply worded note from a father to a fractious boy at boarding school; the disapproving note from an aunt to a newly-engaged girl; letters enquiring into the character of servants; and, as the title promises, love letters: all earnest, some moving, and some rather improbable (“Answer to a Missionary’s Proposal Negatively”).

I am happy to live in our era, with its science, medical advances, and convenience. But I do wish that along with all our advantages, we still lived among thoughtful, gracious people who understood that formality was an act of respect and dignity, and who had the time to ponder proposals of marriage from well-meaning missionaries.

Detox

/ J. F. Riordan

The house we rented in Maine is very old and very large. It has history. Perched on a small hill above the lake, it has sprawling porches, front and back, and lovely views. There’s a spacious kitchen, a laundry room, and five roomy bedrooms with four baths. There’s a massive stone fireplace in the living room. But it does not have wi-fi, and the cell signal is only one elusive bar, which seems to flit from room to room like a butterfly, and then disappear.

It has been a long time since I have left my phone sitting on the night stand, turned off, and walked away for the day. I feel released from electronic bondage. The impulse, in an idle moment, to look down at the phone is gradually being replaced by a willingness to look up, to think, to let my brain idle. That’s how writing happens. 

I had become increasingly aware of the way my phone had taken over my life. I am continually scrolling through my messages. There’s not a scene that passes before my eyes that doesn’t make me reach for the camera. There’s not a drive that isn’t accompanied by a podcast. 
It’s too much. It’s too many voices. It’s too much externality. And none of those things are good for a writer.

This week I wrote in the mornings. I hung around with my family. We did a complicated puzzle. I sat on the dock and dangled my feet, and thought about things. I jumped into the cold lake. I cuddled children. I drank cocktails. I went to bed with a book. 

It was a kind of detox, and it has put me on the path to getting my brain back. 

The temptations to return to my old habits will be strong, and I imagine there will be a gradual regression toward over-use. But I have a plan to keep it in check, and at the moment, it doesn’t even seem appealing to go back to my old ways. 

But addiction is hard. We’ll see.

Letter from a Reader

/ J. F. Riordan / 1 Comment
Hello Ms. Riordan,
I just finished reading Robert’s Rules, and so have read all 4 of your books. I just wanted to thank you for your stories, and for conveying your love of Door County and the Island so beautifully! I live just south of the Wisconsin border, and have been traveling to Door County since I was expecting my oldest child. He’s now 34. Door County is my favorite place on Earth. When people ask me why I like it so much, I describe all my favorite places, but I can never really capture why it means so much to me.
But you did. In telling your stories, you capture the beauty and the simplicity of local life, and how that life is cherished by the people who call Door County home.
I hope to spend more and more time there, especially when I retire. I’ve passed on my love for the area to my sister, and now she and my brother-in-law just purchased land on the Island, with the hopes of building their little piece of heaven.
I have never written to an author before, but no other author has focused on a place that means so much to me, and managed to capture exactly how I feel about it.
Thank you for your writings! I’m looking forward to A Small Earnest Question!
With kindest regards,
Monika

Skunked

/ J. F. Riordan / 7 Comments

FullSizeRender 7

So at 4:56 pm yesterday, four minutes before my you-can-stop-working-now alarm went off, I was done. My husband was away, I had worked all day, and I was a little stir crazy. So were the dogs.

I combed my hair, put on some lipstick, and decided to go to the local farmers’ market to see if there was anything tempting. The dogs had already had their big walk of the day, but it was cool and cloudy, so they could come along and sit in the car if I stopped. That way they wouldn’t sulk at being left behind.

We all piled into the car, but when we got there, everybody had already gone. I needed to see the sky, so we went for a little drive. After some random driving around I ended up at the grocery store. Not as good as the farmer’s market, but I’m always happy with a fresh rotisserie chicken.

As I returned to the car ten minutes later, I opened the hatch to put the groceries in the trunk. Moses was leaning his face on the backseat looking soulfully at me. “Oh, you big baby,” I said. “You are such a good dog. I know what you want.” He sighed, his eyes never leaving my face. “Ok. Just one little spin around the woods. Would you like that?”

So we went to the woods. I in my new jeans and new suede espadrilles (I know) and dogs in their usual attire. The woods have trails that make successive circles with intersecting paths. One long route around would make everyone happy.

As I walked I was very pleased with myself for having made this decision. I had needed this as much as the dogs, but they especially deserved something extra nice for having been so patient all day. The sun had come out for a bit, and it was a beautiful night.

Why is it that when I get all sentimental and self-congratulatory something bad always happens?

Pete is always the pack instigator. He’s the one who ran off the path to sniff at something interesting. Moses immediately followed, and Auggie galloped after them with his adolescent enthusiasm. At first I thought it was a routine disgusting thing, and then I thought it was a squirrel because I could see the white tail flashing. It was not a squirrel. Squirrels do not have white tails.

Thank God, Auggie listened to me and did not get close. Pete, too, managed to get away. Who knows how.  But Moses, who is particularly fond of squirrels in a way that squirrels don’t quite appreciate, got a full frontal spray of skunk. I think he must have gotten a mouthful of it. I was so concerned about getting them away from there that I barely attended to his misery, which was profound. But by the time we ran back to the car he seemed better.

Let me tell you that skunk smells much, much, much, much, much, much worse than you think. My dogs have had minor skunk encounters, so I had been lured into thinking that these situations are not all that bad. I was wrong. It was a very long five minute drive home.

Then began the fun part.

Today we did a re-treatment with the anti-skunk enzyme, which is pretty good, except for the fact that you can’t just spray it on a dog’s face, where the worst smell is. Then we will wash Moses again. And probably again. And we will wash all the towels and things with the enzyme too. If that doesn’t work, the towels will have to go.

Possibly we will repeat the process. I may also buy some tomato juice for his face. Maybe tomato paste.

I suppose I should be grateful that I only have one skunky dog, not three.

Did I mention my car? And the suede espadrilles?

I’m not sure this counts as procrastination for the novel, but the results are the same.

UPDATE:

And then I noticed the lump on Moses’s leg. Skunk Bite. Vet visit. Rabies booster. Antibiotics. Rotisserie chicken dinner for Moses. Wine for me. Possibly bourbon.

Where Writers Write Update

/ J. F. Riordan

I have posted details about my usual writing situation in the past. My work is almost always enhanced by the company of dogs.

At home…

On the Island…

And on the road…

Even at Barnes & Noble…

But somehow, I can’t help feeling that after a few months this new arrangement isn’t going to work…

I mean, where am I going to put my feet?

 

Learning to Love Again

/ J. F. Riordan / 2 Comments

To the both of you who follow my blog: by now you are probably used to the reality that when I am writing a book, I don’t post many blogs. It’s a husbanding your resources thing.

Nevertheless, I interrupt this novel for a brief announcement:

We are in the queue again for a puppy. He has been born. He will be two weeks old tomorrow. We hope to pick him up and fly him home (on our laps) on May 6th. He is a cousin, of some sort, of Moses.

My husband insists that his name will be St. Augustine the Younger. He gets to pick, since I picked Moses, but I am still lobbying for St. George, the Dragon Slayer.

He will win.

So, watch this space for puppy pictures. Because my life needs a complication, albeit a delightful one.

Here is one of the puppies from the litter. Who knows? We may become friends.

 

The Vagaries of Writing

/ J. F. Riordan

I have been procrastinating. It is a well-known, but little understood phenomenon of the writing process.

Every writer procrastinates differently. My method is cleaning and de-cluttering my work space, and finishing up little tasks that distract me. Having a clear, open space, and no little worries helps to clear my mind, and then the ideas that are spinning around my head in an inchoate mess suddenly coalesce into plot lines and sometimes into complete scenes. I know this process, but it is very hard to accept that I need to do it when I feel a deadline looming, and time slipping away from me.

The other night I was driving home from some evening event and suddenly an entire sequence for the new book entered my mind, and I couldn’t get my coat off fast enough to write it all down. It is an odd sequence–a departure from my usual style–and after a few days of musing over it I put it down. It was risky, and it didn’t fit the book. Maybe another book.

Then everything stopped. I couldn’t write much. I couldn’t catch the wind that sails me through my writing. I sat at my desk, restlessly, unproductively, staring out the window, looking at YouTube videos, researching mammals and explosives (not together), and periodically going downstairs to see if I could alleviate my boredom by eating.  Spring snowFortunately, knowing myself, I have purged my kitchen of these kinds of foods, and even though I am a novelist, drinking in the middle of the day does not normally appeal to me. I consumed a lot of tea, and far too much coffee.

So, finally, I gave up. I stopped worrying about it and just got on with other tasks. I cleaned out a closet in the kitchen. I rearranged my office, and made plans for new bookcases. I dusted under beds. I threw a small dinner party, and took the dogs for walks.

This morning I began my day pre-dawn standing barefoot on the patio, loudly and frantically calling my dogs in–no doubt to the amusement of my neighbors who were recovering from their New Year’s Eve revelries–while a fairly large contingent of coyotes barked and yipped and howled somewhere very nearby.

Dogs safe, I sat drinking coffee and watching the turkeys begin their new year from their treetop berths, their big bulbous shapes silhouetted against the pink and orange sky.

All at once, the spinning stopped, and the words began again in my head. My refusal to accept the strange sequence as part of the novel had shut me down. I suddenly knew that it did belong, and that it had to be the beginning of the book. And then everything began to fall in place in my mind, like the tumblers in a lock falling into place.

There it is. Not all of it. But the main points of it.

Time to write.