On Relevance – Part II by Janine M. Donoho

21 Jul 2010 1 Comment

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The view from our balcony in Leavenworth.
I had the opportunity to attend Write on the River in Wenatchee this May. Actually, my friend and critique partner Anjali Banerjee was a speaker, so we made it a girlfriend weekend of three that included best buddy and fellow writer Kate Breslin. Since Kate ended up coming a day late due to her spousal unit’s truly wretched bout of gastroenteritis, on Friday before the conference I assisted Anjali as she visited two schools. Incredible writer and presenter both, she gave four different and delightfully relatable programs for various elementary school grades. Introducing her, then juggling props, especially wrapping and unwrapping children in a stunning sari that belonged to her mother, I got a good taste of the peripheral nature of a sidekick. Yes, ‘relatable’ and ‘peripheral nature’ both refer to relevance.
 
Then on Sunday, opportunity again shone when Larry Brooks, who writes critically acclaimed thrillers, spoke passionately about The Six Core Competencies of Successful Storytelling. This offered another view of storytelling as espoused by Christopher Vogler’s “The Writer’s Journey” and more recently by Donald Maass’ “Writing the Breakout Novel”. However, Larry’s approach, soon to be followed by his book on the subject, clarified the process even further. One of the samples he gave for dissection was the movie Collateral, starring Tom Cruise and Jamie Fox. Dutiful student of the craft that I am, the movie arrived via NetFlix the following week. It delivered on all of Larry’s elements.
 
However, the shocker of the day arrived as an aside. Larry claimed that actual writing, that sublime weaving of words, comes in dead last when weighed against concept, theme, character, structure, scene execution and writing voice. Last.


Leavenworth goat–apropos of this writer’s journey.
As a writer enthralled with both the import and nuance of words, this served as a body blow. All the books on my shelves, also known as ‘keepers’, are well written. However, Larry’s notion does explain many of the big brands in publishing, some of whom no longer write their own novels. So to be relevant to publishers, the six core competencies are paramount, while beauty and specificity of your words rank much lower. Ouch.
 

Which means I need to review my stories for those competencies–again. Maybe you’ll want to do the same. Perhaps publishers will overlook that they’re also delivered with well-written language. We want to be relevant after all.

On Relevance – Part 1 by Janine M. Donoho

16 Jul 2010 Leave a comment

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Okay, I’m struggling with relevance, which according to a random web definition relates to:
1. Pertinence to the matter at hand.

2. Applicability to social issues: a governmental policy lacking relevance.

3. The capability of a search engine or function to retrieve data appropriate to a user’s needs.
Evidently, humor seems inherent in this journey to find something like relevance. A black humor, in this case.
 
I’m back in the process of recovery–deja vu all over again. The frozen shoulder, unlike an annual thaw, did not simply wake up one morning revitalized into action. Instead, it required ‘medical intervention’. Read into this a nerve block and general anesthesia followed by manipulation that led to new holes in the shoulder and sawing away adhesions along with a repair to a blown bicep. Okay, the nerve block was geeky cool. My arm stayed totally asleep for 28 hours, during which time a tapping against my thigh  turned out to be my hand knocking against the leg. Oh, and I finally get the whole phantom limb thing my dad experienced. Still…
 
Remember the story of the woman who had a mouse infestation, so she got a cat to take care of the problem, which led to a need for dogs to deal with the cat problem…
 
So now at 3:30 am, after an ice pack and a pain killer, I’m deeply into questioning relevance. It’s A BIG ISSUE at this time of night. So let me shrink it to human scale first, then to being a writer in a world that seems to consider those who string words together less relevant than ever.
 
I’ve been at this writing thing for a while, my friends. Even as I write that word in plural, is it even germaine? For who reads this silly blog, after all. Yet as a reader first, I know two books that have been significant to me in this last month of deja vu recovery. The first is Kristen Hannah’s latest, WINTER GARDEN. The second? Guy Gavriel Kay’s UNDER HEAVEN, both of which make me question my ability, my vision, and yes, my relevance. Yes, they’re both wonderful. While this would be my usual cue to wax eloquently on the why of this, I just can’t right now.

Granted I haven’t been writing with any facility since December. Pain, drugs and loss of belief in self can do that to creativity. Frankly, my search engine’s gone awry. While I have four novels residing in my brain, why bother to put the time in the chair to bring them to fruition? Does the world need another of my evidently underwhelming works?
 
Instead, I’ve taken on a local job with a community school as programs manager. The relevance of that is to bring local creatives who have something to share into an environment where they can do so. Yet even here, this month of drugs and pain has limited my intention. There’s a catalog due to go out at the end of this month, yet I’m still in the ferret roundup stage of trying to get the creatives to commit. Ah, irony lives.
 
So, how to find relevance as a writer in this search engine world? More on this later.

My Bridge of Sighs by Janine M. Donoho

06 Apr 2010 2 Comments

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This blog might have dealt with persistence. Sigh. However, after an evening in Tonasket at the annual Community Center’s Girl’s Night Out, thank you Suzanne, this idea of story awoke me this morning. Maybe it was Lindy, a wonderful poet, who edged me in this direction with her stunningly tactile quilt of a poem. Perhaps it was the exuberant time spent with two student dancers or the carafe of sangria we shared afterward. Or it might have been the experience of dancing for the first time since shoulder surgery. Okay, dancing might not give you the complete picture, for my shoulder limited me somewhat. But this body knows how to isolate muscles and break a move in equal parts to Pussycat Girls’ Buttons or Elissa’s Tloud Temana.
 
Which brings me to what, how and why I write. Also the what, how, and why we all may share a passion for what we do. What makes a story, chorography, painting or even a gathering of friends ring true? I believe it’s a matter of maintaining linkage to our vital essence.
 
A recent opportunity to meet-and-greet mustangs serving our local border patrol presented itself. Captured wild and gentled by Colorado Corrections inmates, these bold animals appear to be perfect for their endeavors. Who taught who more–horse or inmate–before being integrated into the fold of this rugged Border Patrol station poses an inspired question. Surefooted, brawny, intelligent, they’re still enough mustang to stand against grounded cougar or foul malefactor and even stomp a rattler mid-strike. In other words, they retain their horsey essence–their wild being. For that we can thank the humans who chose to shape rather than break. Both wrangler and riders recognized the importance of maintaining their mustang’s nature even as they partnered with them for the rugged terrain in which we live. This is not a trivial matter, since each depends upon the other for life.



As when confronted the extermination of wild mustangs during my child- and young adulthood in Nevada, when reading accounts of stories, both long and short, that have been through a purported gazillion editing cycles, a part of me recoils. Another part longs to read the story, which is often what happens. Here’s my take.

Some stories survive the process of editing to become better, while others wither from the writer’s imposition of will. The latter lose their spark. Those of you who write with equal parts persistence, joy and heartbreak know what this means. On of my BGFs met the heartbreak of this headlong. She took an award-winning Scottish historical romance, then proceeded to break its spirit in hopes of crafting a bestseller. She was young in the art of the edit then and has since cultivated a more deft hand. Stories from short to novel to series in length have met the same fate. Obviously, these have been published, but they’ve been edited to the point of schlock. Schlock for me means that after reading the story, often with vast tracts of skimming, it will never ever be a keeper on my limited shelf space. Instead, it will go back to library or be found in a Friends of the Library sale. Often that author will never again grace the endless list of books I want to and do read.
Then there are the keepers. My friend Susan Wiggs wrote one that brought out the clichéd response in me–I laughed, I cried, I rooted for the protagonist and threw virtual rotten tomatoes at the antagonist. This was her novel JUST BREATHE. I felt the same about George R. R. Martin’s first few novels of his SONG OF ICE AND FIRE series, which since has shifted from fantasy masterwork to perhaps simply lost and unfinished. Sigh. Another friend and writer Anjali Banerjee writes young adult novels with a beating heart–stories that deal with ISSUES, yet remain true to story. Her first was LOOKING FOR BAPU and her latest SEAGLASS SUMMER. She edits, bends, spindles and mutilates herself over the process, which as her friend I wish she’d simply trust, but ends with these beautiful stories with essence intact.
 
Which brings me to my stories. Two have been beautifully published on a small scale, found a tiny, but growing readership, and continue to haunt me. For you see, Susan and Anjali have become well-published authors with a vast readership. Sigh–again. Granted, an infinitesimal distribution and zero public relations combined with living in a sparsely populated county with one struggling indie bookstore has been problematic. However, if my stories had sold to a large publishing house, would that have made a difference?
 
Perhaps. WILDFIRE and CALLING DOWN THE WIND, award-winners that they are, might have reached a wider audience, found more of those who love them, then been touted to their friends. I’ve done the same for stories I love. Yet here’s the problem. Four, possibly five of my novels loosely fit into either what’s called contemporary fantasy, magic realism, speculative fiction or urban fantasy, although really four of the five are actually rural or ex-urban fantasy. Large publishers refuse to fully embrace any of these categories. Just look at the well-established Alice Hoffman’s lovely novels, that bounce from literary to fantasy dependent on the bookstore or marketer. Of course, there is my homeless high fantasy trilogy that’s too big to take on with an ‘untried’ writer. Why can’t too big to fail work in this case? Sigh.
 
But I stray into rant and really, here’s the gist. My editing, like my dance, taps into the feral side. No, I’m not talking lizard brain, but the part of me that disdains being overly civilized. As an editor, I’m ruthless about craft, but mostly true to self when it comes to essence. How else could I have worked in male-dominated fields without losing my edge species element that takes ultimate joy in raqs beladi? This side mourned the loss of dogness in my retired runner greyts, then slowly and surely brought them back into touch with their essential dog nature. This part of me revels in my tuxedo cat’s inability to be wholly tamed.
 
This landscape in which we live embraces the wild as much as my writing. Yes, I grow annual vegetable and fruit by the square foot, but only in response to predatory deer who would leave me nothing. Elsewhere, it’s drought- and deer-resistant plantings that follow the curves of the land and find homes where they’re most likely to take root and thrive. Drip system all the way…
 
So why try to form story into cubes that fit the perfect square systems that our current publishing world clasps to their collective chest in a death grip, which indeed may turn out to be the death of them? I can count on one hand the books I’ve purchased as keepers in the last year. This from a voracious and careless reader.
 
Thus my conundrum. From the onset of writing a draft to publishing, where do we draw the line at editing for publication? Well, my answer changes dependent upon the compelling inner essence of each story. For now, only the beating heart, the coursing blood, the heightened sense of story lures me to the keyboard. I’ll keep you posted on how that goes and hope you’ll share your insights with me. Sigh.

My Winter ‘Vacation’ by Janine M. Donoho

18 Feb 2010 Leave a comment

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Having been absent from BlogWorld for over two months, it’s time to ‘fess up. Not hard to do when your arm’s still in a sling for part of each day. You see, on December 29th, I went in for shoulder surgery. Of course, before that came the amazing, standing-room-only NIGHT AT THE CASBAH on the 19th. So December was seriously compromised by actually participating in life versus writing while thinking about it. Thank goodness for anti-inflammatories.

About the shoulder… No, the injury didn’t occur because of dance or during any of my usual actions, although I suppose gardening was peripherally involved. Last March, yes, March 2009, I was admiring my tiny seedlings beneath our hoop house that adds two months to our growing season. Then what to my wondering eyes should appear… Well, around here winds start as debris. Not like Gobi or Mohave or Sahara sandstorms, but rife with sand and duff from the sagebrush steppe far below us. As often happens, the wind moved up the mountain toward us, all the while picking up speed.

So I turned to my inestimable guy and mentioned that maybe we should move the hoop house, which is covered with heavy mil plastic, before the wind arrived and lofted it like a parachute. He was busy doing other things and would most certainly help me soon–very soon. By then the wind hit our level–about 3000 feet–and by the movement of Ponderosa limbs and needles, it looked to be about 30-40 mph. Again, I asked the guy for some help moving the hoop house off the raised garden. He waved that wave that says, “I’ll be there–soon.”

By the time he joined me, tree and shrub action proclaimed gusts of 60-70 mph. The hoop house slid across the brick top of the garden. I considered throwing myself on the top in a Kitty Hawk-type flight scenario. Instead, the guy hoisted one end and I the other. Then we began to move toward southerly leeward side of the house. What happened between there and the garden was why I needed shoulder surgery in December.

The wind gusted, caught the hoop house and lofted it much more gracefully than the Wright brothers’ contraption. In a fit of ridiculous arrogance, I tried to hold on to the frame. That’s when my supraspinatus tore away from my rotator cuff in a wrenching and high torque move. Ouch! From my mouth flew Bad Words, also wrenched away by the wind.

Supraspinatus sounds like a fabulous new salad ingredient, doesn’t it? High on antioxidants and other magical properties. It’s actually the muscle connecting the scapula to the rotator cuff. Mine refused to reattach on its own. Thus, my rotator cuff now sports a snazzy piton like screw and mountaineering style stitches to hold it in place. Ouch. The geek in me loves this stuff.

So I’m on the mend with stories bubbling from my subconscious in a lifting magma. As Arnold said, “I’ll be back”–most likely in time to begin my new spring garden. Yes, with hoop houses. Ah, hope springs eternal.

Losing It by Janine M. Donoho

16 Nov 2009 Leave a comment

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Isak Dinesen once said, “I write a little every day, without hope and without despair.” Such an approach continues to be a life to strive toward and even a fine way to process this world. Yet on a recent Friday, my motherboard and hard drive died. This after gifting the elderly DELL with new RAM and everything. No reciprocity there. It happened when I strolled from the room to replenish my water, then give and receive puppy love. I returned to nothing but black screen and the slow beat of a DOS prompt that took me nowhere. Ka-thump, ka-thump, ka-thump. Very Tell-Tale heart. Even my computer geek friend could not revive the zombie. Thus, I went into overdrive editing what had been a completed grant–and trying not to dwell upon what had been lost.

Allow a moment of gratitude for a back-up, even though it was not the most current edit. Now, another moment of thanks for my aging, but functional laptop–fingers crossed. In place of the nearly finished blog about our munificent harvest, along with bounteous pictures, you’re getting this one instead. There does seem to be some truth in that old saw of making lemonade from lemons, don’t you think? However, recent losses of my sweet Amanda Pandemonium, fire-stressed Ponderosa pines and even my mother came to the fore in this ridiculous crash of an old computer. Who knew?

Oh, and DAW finally got back to me about my MISTBORN CHRONICLES. Yes, another ‘at any other time we would certainly publish this…’ letter. When you can identify a market and satisfy it, that’s commerce. Evidently, targeting markets isn’t my strong suite. Thus, I believe I’m finished with the whole New York publishing thing, my friends. Even though my reading list remains deep and diverse, the books on my table and bedstead are from the local library. I only purchase keepers and those have become much fewer. New York feels more like light-years in distance. Therefore, finished work will continue to go to smaller literary houses. For me, these publishers have the ‘nads and vision to make stories into beautiful books, although they may lack the heft to make distribution either easy or steady.

Now let’s talk about stress–and flop sweat. Even though the DELL had made it nearly nine years, I still was unprepared to buy a new computer. In my rosiest dreams, my next workstation was an Apple–a Mac, in fact–with all the cool stuff. Adobe Photoshop, LiveMotion, GoLive… Ah, the vision of dollar signs flashing in my head. Nevertheless, none of my contemporary hats are full of money. Really.

Writer–not so much banquet as scarcity.
Conservation biologist–oh, come on, do employers really hire in this field of expertise? Choreographer and dance instructor–not high on the food chain in Okanogan.

Still, you probably spotted my trend of choosing satisfaction over financial security, although rarely in the vein of Dinesen’s splendid lack of hope and despair. However, I still dance and perform, lately returning to teach only advanced choreography. Plus another PC, one with speed, brains and Windows 7 has made its way by slow camel to this latitude and longitude. I’ve gone rogue with a desktop from Zt, a company with 15 years of history who has pitted itself against the megaliths. Yes, I often pull for the underdog, so long as they have spirit, integrity and heart.

Yet, I’ve also taken time to read everything and anything that strikes my fancy. In fact, a craving for the written word has engulfed me. So not idle, but not exactly centered either. Between long rambles with the hounds and the usual detritus of everyday life, I took a romp through Dan Brown’s latest, The Lost Symbol, before sliding into Frazier’s Thirteen Moons, a lyrical journey through the lost Cherokee past of my father’s antecedents. What a wonderful voice his protagonist has. Now Republican Gomorrah‘s on the table as I try to understand and find compassion for our own homegrown Fundamentalists, who seem every bit as toxic as the nihilistic foreign groups they rant against. I gobbled up Margaret Atwood‘s The Year of the Flood, finding the return to her world of Oryx and Crake more daunting than satisfying. A few short story collections beckon now: The Better of McSweeney’s, Volume 1, and Joyce Carol Oates‘ selection of Contemporary American Short Fiction. Then Naamah’s Kiss by Jacqueline Carey will balance Queen Noor’s Leap of Faith while Teri Coyne’s The Last Bridge does the same for Half the Sky: Turning Oppression into Opportunity for Women Worldwideby Nicholas D. Kristof and Sheryl WuDunn.

Yes, the impact of losses remains. The dynamics between adversity and abundance will certainly continue. However, the space feels much less empty when filled with actual living. An artful life allows you to reveal your own truths, n’est pas?

A Long and Winding Road by Janine M. Donoho

07 Sep 2009 2 Comments

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Between late April and early November, my two young hounds and I take the high roads. Old forestry roads, that is. A short VW ride away we can access one relatively tiny island of the Okanogan National Forest. By ‘tiny’, that would be from a furry mega fauna’s perspective. You see, bear, mountain lions, wolves, elk and moose need sizable territory to meet their range needs throughout the distinct and oft-extreme seasonal changes we experience here in the highlands. However, the hounds and I do just fine.

With the VW parked just off the main dirt road, we have plenty of choices for narrower and less traveled paths. This has become a necessary break from winter’s YakTrax and layers of outerwear. Black squirrels, chipmunks and rabbits keep the hounds’ interest peaked, while sharpening the wild critters survival instinct. Foraging turkeys roam the forest in polygamous family flocks. The largest flock spotted so far runs at an even dozen with three adults, a gobbler and two hens and 10 lanky poults.The stunning males sported iridescent red, purple, green, copper, bronze and gold feathers. Some mornings, their rich language fills the forest, driving my coursing hounds crazy with longing. Fast as Connor and Kartouche’ are on terra firma, they want to fly, too. Luckily, wild turkeys remain shy, cunning and agile flyers–unlike the domesticated variety.

On a good day, the hounds range about me. They break into sprints only for cagey rodents, who then torment them from treetop or burrow. The sun loosens muscles and fresh air stimulates the creative pathways. Entire stories or scenes come to me in this state. Essays are written and short stories composed. Sometimes a knotty plot problem or deeper character issues from the hike.

Yes, obstacles present themselves. Beyond the above-mentioned critters and my attempts to minimize our impact on their daily lives, cows also graze the forest from June to October. As you might already know, domesticated animals lack the wiliness of wild ones. For instance, once my quickly leashed hounds sight a cow/calf pair, the bovines don’t leap off the main trail into the forest. No, instead they plod ahead until a turn hides us from view. Then they act flabbergasted as we come around the corner–again and again and...

This becomes my upper body workout as Connor and Kartouche’ intermittently try to pull me along at their speed. Did I mention that my whippet and greyhound live to chase anything that runs? Of course, they’re also much faster than anything else in the woods. Especially me. So with top speeds of 40-45 mph, they need to be leashed whenever sign of possible chase-worthy prey comes along. Much as my internal editor must be disconnected during initial drafts, accordingly it helps when I can ‘see’ ahead along the trails we walk.

As with writing, sensory input in the wilds comes in handy. So I listen for the occasional hoof against wood or rock along with unique verbalizations, whether gobble, chuff, bugle or growl. Dare I say that I’m now familiar with the scritch-scritch of bear claws in Ponderosa pine? Trust me, it’s an excellent sound to recognize.

The nose comes in handy for the unique musky smell of deer and elk or the surprisingly sweet scent of berry-munching bear, which exude what they eat. When they’re on a fish diet, the smell’s not quite as luscious. Visually, paw and hoof prints work, too. On moon-dusted or rock-strewn trails, though, it’s difficult to find a good paw or hoof pattern. My favorite was the perfectly preserved icy remainder of a lynx or bobcat paw impression discovered during April thaw.

Then there’s the scat, which can be wonderfully specific about its maker. In the cows’ case, huge mounds of steaming pies present the obvious, which Kartouche’ likes to rub along his pulse points like the finest of perfumes. As for taste, which I’m sure could tell me even more about what inhabits the wilds, I leave that to the hounds. Yum. At that point, it’s always best to go sniff a Ponderosa along the sunny side, where the bark exudes a delectable vanilla scent.

So yes, I can rhapsodize over the smorgasbord of sensory input found along the trails we walk, but in truth, each experience adds to my private library of delights to be shared with my readers. For what I yearn to do each time I write is to bring each reader into my world along the road less traveled. What better way than to do so than enrich their lives with the sumptuous details they may not enjoy in an inner city or houseboat or condominium. Besides, living life closer to the natural world definitely has its perks.

Amanda Pandemonium by Janine M. Donoho

16 Jul 2009 Leave a comment

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Best garden helper ever - MandyGenerous soul-
translucent skin joining tensile tendons in
breathtaking speed-
Tender beauty and
grand companion.
My sweet girl Mandy has gone.
How can 14 years really be long enough for such a great heart? I’m undone.Amanda Pandemonium, my heart

Growing a Life of Bliss by Janine M. Donoho

13 May 2009 Leave a comment

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Spring offers a natural time of renewal. Cleaning out the cave involves more than chasing dust bunnies into the great outdoors or dealing with windows smeared with sighthound nose-hits. This time of year has become the nexus for an abundance of creative relationships. Besides another planting cycle, an ELEMENTAL novel presses insistent cotyledons from my subconscious as story reaches for light.

Earthy renewal has become as perennial as the hardy plants in my desert gardens.Digging into soil allows space between intuitive writing and more pragmatic edits. As a meditation, building soil presses me to be fully in the present. Sometimes the outcome is to let old fields lie fallow. Either way, this process opens the way for story.

Like kilims and area rugs from Turkey, Morocco and Egypt, it’s good to air winter’s buildup and knock free any debris. Just as stress fractures in a relationship heal faster under bright light, rugs and edited stories can take on a fresh luster. Worn areas can be shored up and perhaps new joys added into the mix. Let’s face it, disappointment and sorrow can dull even the shiniest, most enduring bonds, whether delivered via rejection letters or life’s bumps. But handmade carpets and individual stories hold value because of the hands that craft them. The journey weaves into both weft and tale.

As with this latest ELEMENTAL novel, for years I resisted the call of narcissus and tulips, although crocuses, snowbells and hyacinths received no such impertinence. Yet even as I adore the return of ubiquitous robins, now daffodils, unsown stories and tulips usher in this warming equinox. Thus, both saga and common flower have been invited to grow. Will there be a market for this novel? Who knows. Local whitetails and mule deer treat tulips like candy. The blossoms are more ephemeral than in less wild climes. Still, they’re in my garden today. Thus, this year my Earth ELEMENTAL, along with table grapes and kiwis, take precedence in cultivation. From the multitude of choices available, only the hardiest varieties of ideas and plants survive.

Unlike many stories, there’s a known endpoint for writing the Earth ELEMENTAL. Submissions for Barbara Kingsolver’s BELLWETHER PRIZE FOR FICTION end this September. As for the grapes, Valiant, Edelweiss and Swensen actually have a good chance of enduring arctic continental winds–with some help. The kiwis, whose male plays Pasha to a harem of September Suns, eschew the fuzzy jackets of their commercially known cousins. For each of these endeavors, structure is necessary. Grape arbors, story framework, and kiwi trellises fill my dreams. Oh, and gabion windbreaks constructed from wire and stone…

Yes, the center of my life brims with spring. My beautiful 32-yard turquoise-&-black dancing skirt, which offers no boundaries to untamed Turkish dances, blisses me out. Rich brocades and velvets for vests and hip belts await, too. In a lovely synchronicity during my last signings and library program, a budding friendship with Sou gifted me with Omid’s VICTORY CD along with body mist and butter appropriately named BLISS. Even now, French onion soup simmers in the crockpot. With final additions of Gruyere cheese and coarse chunks of thyme-infused bread, a rainy April in Paris will be revisited. Meanwhile, ferocious winds usher in the season even as chaotic thunderstorms bring pelting rains to quench thirsty gardens.

False Thaw by Janine M. Donoho

01 Mar 2009 Leave a comment

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Icicles, which began feeling like family members, melted away this week. Actually, they first liquefied, then slid from the roof into shattered crystalline heaps. It felt like spring as temperatures reached the low 40’s. Heavy coats peeled away, Yak Trax found no traction in slush, and the hounds shifted to light vests during their walks. And yet…

We had another 3″ fall of snow. You see, while vernal equinox officially arrives on March 20th, we don’t plant bulbs until after Mother’s Day in May. I start my seeds in the blue-light-flashing-special greenhouses in the garage this week with heating pads on the lowest shelves. Eggplants, peppers, tomatoes, melons–those vegetables and fruits that take longer than our short growing season to mature–begin each season this way. There will be hardy grapevines and arctic kiwis this year along with more perennials suited to this high desert.

Last week, I also finished another edit of my MISTBORN CHRONICLES. Printed out, the entire manuscript was 8″ tall, a high fantasy indeed. MISTBORN went to Peter Stampfel at DAW books, home to many of my favorite fantasy authors: Jennifer Roberson, C. J. Cherryh, Mercedes Lackey and Melanie Rawn. Of course, whenever I address a manuscript to New York, an echo of Black Hole ricochets back to me.

But wait! Another edit? Yes. This one surfaced after finishing the 3rd novel, when another revision became necessary to bring elements into alignment. After nearly 1575+ manuscript pages and 375,000+ words, a story still can take a writer in new directions, which is one of the great joys of building worlds, after all. Besides, aren’t all artistic endeavors works-in-progress? Each time, we take our piece as far as we know how, then release it into the universe.

Then like a thaw, growth as an artist occurs. Malcolm Gladwell in Outliers believes, then supports his claims, that it takes 10,000 hours to master such a process. He draws from fields of hockey through piano virtuosity to computing excellence. Think Bill Gates. Of course, Malcolm also discusses the uniting legs of commitment and opportunity, which regrettably can hinge on birth month. Ah, synchronicity.

Hence as writers progress, we move through precipitous curves onto plateaus, then continue toward mastery by putting time in the chair. Periodically, a thaw happens. Shoots of megacreativity take root, then reach toward the sun. When we revisit previous endeavors, we find ways to clarify our vision and strengthen the work. So we edit.

With each edit, we realize a composition as whole and light-filled as we can make it…at that time. Like early thaws in the Okanogan Highlands, thaws that come with greater frequency as global climate changes persist, we tell ourselves, “This is the moment. This will be the last time this year that the trucks sink into slushy mud up to their wheel wells. Spring has come.” We have taken our work as far as we can.

Every time, that is true for now. Accordingly, MISTBORN CHRONICLES goes into the Mecca of publishing that is New York. Will the novels fill my chosen editor’s needs? Perhaps. Yet when the manuscript comes back, you can be sure there will be ways to improve the work. On balance, isn’t that what this writing profession is about? We seek to bring our unique vision, story, and voice to readers in ways that change their perceptions. Thus do thaws arise. 

Into the Cave by Janine M. Donoho

01 Jan 2009 Leave a comment

by janinedonoho in A Change of View Tags: , , , , , , ,

Don’t you love caves? Frissons of excitement and danger key us into the secrets those dark places hold. What critters might inhabit the depths? What precious veins or rare nuggets formed by geological shifts? As a youngling, I lived to explore old silver mines and vacant dens. These were my favorite haunts. Caves tickled my curiosity, perhaps in part because such journeys were expressly verboten. However, the urge to explore felt primal, even crucial.

As a creative being, journeys into more existential caves continue to thrill me. Winter in the Okanogan Highlands offers the perfect time to spelunk through inner spaces. During this season of deep powder, arctic continental temperatures and yes, brilliant sunshine, mind caverns open. Despite my varying ability to be a social creature, my luxurious cave is where I want to be.

Not only does winter allow me to stay in my thermal jammies and wool socks most days, but the season encourages me to go deeper within myself to explore story. Somehow, when the spring thaw arrives and snows melts, external pressures from gardens, social life and community make the writing process more time-specific. However, as the highlands go dormant and freeze over, that’s when inner realms beckon. Cave time often turns into my most prolific. As an added fillip, unique archetypes come into play.

Think of Orpheus, who went into the darkest cave of all to find his beloved Eurydice, only to lose her when he failed to resist one last look. Or Ursus spelaeus, the original cave bear. One of my favorite books was CLAN OF THE CAVE BEAR by Jean Auel. How cool were those Neanderthals and Cro-Magnons? In an alternate universe, you see, I’m an anthropologist…

So here’s the plan. This winter my completed high fantasy trilogy proceeds through another editing cycle. Then off the series goes to my chosen publisher. Writing the rough draft of my Earth Elemental, which has perked for years, comes next. Then if global climate change provides an extended winter, I may dash madly into my Fire Elemental, too.

For now, my friends, enjoy your time in the cave. Come spring, we’ll burst into the world with a fresh perspective, joyful energy, and stories we can attribute to our winter sojourn.

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Soundings, Water Elemental

LaunchFebruary 27, 2015
The big day is here.

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