Do Your Characters Live and Breathe? (7 pm June 18, EST)

Since grade school I had promised myself I would be a writer. Born with dislocated hips, flat feet, and a noticeable limp, raised Jewish in a Catholic suburb of Chicago, overweight, in thick pink glasses since second grade, misunderstood and under-appreciated by everybody, I’d have lots to write about. My novels would earn me the respect and attention I so deserved. I leaned toward science fiction, the genre of misfits. I’d create better worlds than the one I was stuck in.

Fast forward a few decades, I’d started a business, run it into the ground, adopted a baby, got married (in that order), moved to the suburbs, adopted another baby, and become a stay-at-home wife and mom. I tried writing again, many times, but I never finished anything.

One afternoon I was outside with a bunch of my mom friends… and something happened. Nothing earth-shattering, but it STUCK. I couldn’t stop thinking about it, couldn’t stop spinning out the story in my head. It was one of those “what if” scenarios Stephen King talks about. But instead of killer clowns, mine was a twist on the life I was leading as a middle-aged mom in the suburbs. I tell the whole story in my writing seminars.

I worked on that novel for four years, went to a writers’ conference in California, was asked to submit my first 50 pages to the literary agent who ran the conference, did so, and waited for the invitation to sign on as one of her new, most exciting new talents.

Instead, I received a rejection letter. The agent wrote three words: You’re not ready. I was right back in grade school. Here’s what I heard:

You’re still nothing special.

You’re still invisible.

You’ll never be one of the cool kids.

I thanked her for her input, put on my big girl pants and started revising my novel. Okay, no, I didn’t. I was depressed and hurt and upset. Four years of effort, and I had nothing to show for it? I complained to my writers’ group, and they joined in my outrage at the agent. I love my writer’s group.

After a week or two, when I stopped feeling like a victim, I began to wonder if she might be right. What if I wasn’t ready? Could I GET ready? I’d been given a catalog for the Iowa Summer Writing Festival by the woman I shared a cabin with. I dug it out and started reading the course descriptions. Some of them were confusing. They used jargon I wasn’t familiar with. It occurred to me that if I didn’t understand the class descriptions, maybe there was other stuff about writing that I didn’t understand. Like how to write a novel.

Ten summers later, and at least 20 classes into studying the craft of writing, I had my first novel ready to publish and my second nearly finished. Ten years of classes is a long time, but I was still raising kids, helping run the school PTO and the neighborhood HOA, making dinners, lunches, and breakfasts, and writing when the rest of the family was asleep. I didn’t have time to write—I made time. Because with every class, I knew a little more, gained a little confidence, and understood myself well enough to know that WRITERS WRITE. You can’t call yourself a writer if you don’t write.

Later, I also came to see that I also enjoy teaching writing. Having been an absolute SPONGE in Iowa, I realized I can help people become the writers they want to become, just like my instructors helped me.

One-on-one coaching process gets my clients where they need to be a lot faster than I got there because we focus on their project and the skills they need to see it through. It saves them time, frustration, and money. Most of my coaching clients find me through my free seminars, so they’ve experienced my style. I’m honest, but nice about it. Harsh criticism shuts people down; constructive suggestions lift people up.