Bethany Hagen's Blog

Now that I have a clearer sense of where I’m going with my revision of Landry Park, I’m ready to get cracking.  I’m not sure how much of the novel will ultimately be rewritten, but I’m guessing the answer is somewhere between some of the novel and most of the novel, and it’s probably going to take a lot of hard work and time.

So why not toil shoulder to shoulder with the NaNo folk?  Draw inspiration from the community?  Remind myself that once I finish Landry Park (ha!), I can start on a new shiny project like the real NaNo-ers do?

My WrAHM Society friend, Melissa Hurst suggests NaNoFinMo for those of us who are in the middle of novels (or revising them,) and I think it’s a fantastic idea.

It will be difficult to carve out time to write every day, but I’ll make it happen.  After all, I’m hoping to get and agent and get published, and write many more books — perhaps one day, every month will be like NaNoWriMo.  Not necessarily in it’s difficulty or intensity, but in that I have the resources to focus on my writing every day of the week, consistently and for long spaces of time.

There are no crushed Cheerios in the carpet in this fantasy either.

This year, these are the core Halloween songs I’ve been digging:

1. Organ Donor — DJ Shadow

2. Thriller — Michael Jackson

3. Razor Sharp — Collide

4. Red Right Hand — Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds

5. Little Red Riding Hood — Amanda Seyfried

6. Heavy in Your Arms — Florence and the Machine

7. Bloodletting — Concrete Blonde

8. Sally’s Song — Fiona Apple

9. Halloween –Dave Matthews Band

10. Undertaker — Puscifer

In my last post, I may have mentioned that I once drank water out of a plastic bag in front of my boss.  Let me explain:

For three of my six years working for the county, I worked at the public library.  The library was in a fairly well-to-do suburb, but most of our clientele were senior citizens, aliens and half-human alien hybrids.   The library looked like an upside down boat, and sometimes potatoes or porn fell through our book-drop.  This is just to give you atmosphere.

At that point (circa 2005), the assistant branch manager was a lovely patient person, who deserved much better than to have me as an employee.  She was very, very sweet woman.

Anyway, after a long shift of putting books away and sitting in the stacks and reading the books I was supposed to be putting away, I found myself thirsty.  The important thing to remember here is that while, yes the library did have two or three or five water fountains, the water fountains do not factor in much to this story for one simple reason: I forgot about them.  When I was back in the staff room with its old couch and wood laminate table, all I could process in the midst of my thirst was the (chronically) empty vending machine and the water cooler.  We usually had disposable cups of the paper or plastic variety.  When that avenue failed, I dug under the coffee machine for the squeaky styrofoam cups that I hate because they are squeaky they are bad for the environment.

No cups.

Now I was forced to consider using other people’s dishes that they brought from home.  There were three or four coffee mugs in the sink, smudged with old lady lipstick and ringed with caustic-looking instant coffee stains.

There was no soap or or sponge to wash them.

It is a testament to how thirsty I was that I considered using the hand soap in the employee bathroom and paper towels to wash the cups, but somebody was in the employee bathroom and from the length of time they were in there, they were either working through a hangover or some bad Chinese food.  I looked back at the mugs and made up my mind.  I for the most part didn’t mind my co-workers, but I drew (and still would draw) the line at finger-and-tap-water-washing day old coffee and lipstick (or gross lip residue from the dude librarians.)  So, as any reasonable person would do, I tried kneeling down and drinking the water straight from the water cooler spigot.

This only resulted in getting water in my hair (somehow) and making a puddle on the linoleum that would later be called “a hazard for people trying to get their dinner out of the fridge.”

Tap water would do.  I hopped up on the counter and tried to bend my body under the sink faucet.  Nope — again with the water in the hair.  I tried standing in front of the sink and lapping at the faucet like a dog, but it extended deep enough into the sink well that it was impossible unless I cupped my hands and drank from them.

Why didn’t I do that?  Ah, because I spotted the box of sandwich bags.  They were the bad kind, the kind you have to fold over and tuck and will end up with a stale lunch anyway.  But they might just solve my beverage issue — after all, ancient people used to drink out of water skins?  Like, goat stomachs and stuff?  How hard would a horse-mounted Indo-European invader laugh at me turning up my nose at a clean plastic water skin?  Probably really hard before he rode off to torch tents in India.

Plus, with a water skin, I could return to the water cooler, She of the Chilled Filtered Water.  I filled up my water skin and drank.

Okay, I’ll just put it out there that the plastic sandwich bag is not designed to be a water skin.  The water skin — even of the animal stomach variety — has some advantages on the plastic bag, namely that it won’t lose all structure and pour freezing water all over your face and chest while you’re drinking from it.

So there I stood, water dripping off my face and shirt, half lapping, half swallowing the sandwich bag, when my boss came in.

She stood there for a minute, blinking at me and my water skin.  “Are you okay?” she finally asked.  “Do you need help?”

“Oh, no, I’m good!” I pulled the bag down, and gestured to my wet face and shirt.  “Just thirsty.”

She walked over to me and took my hand.  “No, I mean are you okay?”

“Uh, yeah.”  Duh.  I wasn’t thirsty anymore.

“You know…we have water fountains…and disposable cups in the meeting room.”

Oh right…the meeting room…and the water fountains…

It was only later that night that I realized the poor woman probably thought I was drunk or high or possibly turning into an alien.  And ever since that day, I have never forgotten a water fountain, although I will have an edge on you all when the Mayan apocalypse comes and you have to learn how to drink out of plastic bags.

So I got to talk to a Real Literary Agent last week.  She was awesome and helpful and kind, and offered me her time that day and in the future to talk about revisions for my book.  Before Thursday, I thought R&R stood for Rest and Relaxation, but now I know better.

It means Revise and Resubmit.

As I watch my agented/published friends in The WrAHM Society, and as I mull over the Agent’s suggestions, I am beginning to appreciate the difficult nature of the publishing business.  Good news comes bundled with disappointing news.  Praise comes bundled with criticism.  Almost-but-not-quites, and you’re-not-done-yets are as common as coughs in a proctologist’s office.  I’d like to think this is true of similar professions: visual artists, musicians, and even small business owners.  It’s the price of not being a drone at some Evil Corporate Office or Faceless County Entity, although, truth be told, I miss Faceless County Entity (the Library Version) quite a bit.  It was safe, and comforting, and I could do things like drink water out of a Ziploc bag in front of my boss and not get fired.

Getting an MLS and glaring at patrons from behind a desk is my career back-up plan, but Faceless County Entities have nothing on writing.  I like wandering around like a space case, trying to imagine the perfect level of drizzle for the background of a tea-drinking scene.  I like watching hundreds and thousands of words trickle out from my fingertips in libraries, cafes and on my couch.  And I like the freedom of knowing that once I am finished with a book — whether it be trunked or published — I’m free to seek out fresh stories and new voices and different types of drizzle.  At the library, the only fresh things are the potatoes accidently dropped into the book drop.  (Yes, that happened.)

Back to my R&R.  The Agent’s perceptions were incredibly insightful and diagnostic, and while she was giving her editorial notes, I could start seeing the new book, a better book, taking shape out there in the ether.  This revision would be substantial and more like a rewrite, but in the end, I think it will be a much better novel.  My main characters will stay, the setting will stay, the angry and restless Rootless will stay, but the things they are doing will be different.  There will be more exploration of the world.  There may be some more character-level intrigue a la Downton Abbey, and less twists and turns a la Ringer (which I love, btw.)  It will take a while.  Months.  Many months, even.  But I feel like Landry Park is worth it.  And hopefully so does the Agent, otherwise she wouldn’t have called and offered to be a resource for working through ideas.

Here’s to hoping that the tortoise wins the race, and that my local coffee shop is well-stocked with brew.

ps. Link soup

http://kathybradey.blogspot.com/2011/06/so-its-revise-and-resubmit.html

http://www.yahighway.com/2010/07/how-to-revise-and-resubmit.html

http://www.butterslastmeal.com/2011/06/revise-and-resubmit.html

http://www.kristinhalbrook.com/2010/07/on-revise-and-resubmits.html

I wonder if other women have as fraught of a relationship with their house as I do.  It seems like most of my other friends are able to effortlessly juggle work, children and their housework without breaking a sweat.  Or, if they’re not able to get to the laundry or the dishes or the suspicious stain on the carpet, they’re able to brush it aside.  Leave it for another day.  Go to bed without feeling like The House is staring at them with bright red eyes while they sleep.

These other magical women.

I, however, feel like The House is always following me around like a diseased parrot digging its talons into my shoulder.  The dishes!  The laundry!  The floors!  Those cats I used to love but now regard as burden of litter-boxing and feeding!  No matter how much I clean, it never feels like enough, and whenever I’m doing something else–babysitting, playing with my own kids, collapsed on the couch–I feel like I’m shirking my duties as a part-time SAHM/WrAHM/what have you.  This has become an issue in the last few weeks because, with my son off to preschool, I thought that meant I could use my daughter’s nap-times to write (if I didn’t take a nap myself.)  But so far, I just spend that extra free hour cleaning.

There’s no reason for me to feel this way.  My stepmother worked two jobs while my father sorted/washed/folded all the laundry and made meals once or twice a week.  My own mother stayed home, but was not particularly domestic.  In fact, growing up in my mother’s house should have inured me to all forms of mess.  I supposedly come from a generation of educated women who’ve grown up with more equal opportunities and less gender stereotypes than any generation before it.  So why do I feel like I’m letting my husband and children down if my house doesn’t look like a 1957 Redbook advertisment?

I didn’t always used to be so racked with messy house guilt.  When my husband and I first got married, and the sum of my responsibilities was an education from a state university and a part-time job shelving books/napping in the staff room at a library, I didn’t really give a crap how our apartment looked.  I still did most of the cleaning because I felt like that was my way to contribute, since I wasn’t contributing financially, but none of the chores ever haunted me.  I didn’t find myself wondering about a leftover load of laundry in the washing machine at parties.  I didn’t spend my drive to school wishing I used my morning to sweep and mop.  I maintained the apartment to the point that rats wouldn’t live in our closet, and that was good enough.  I had other things to do after all–watch Lost, and procrastinate on other things so that I could watch Lost.

No, I didn’t morph into a clean freak until after my son was born.  And then my brain split apart, and my eyes went red and a voice said, “There is no Bethany.  Only Clorox.”

Why do I feel the need to be Suzy Homemaker?  When I’m educated and modern and married to an educated, modern man?  Do our cultural roots go so deep, that unconsciously I associate good motherhood with the image of a woman in an apron scrubbing her toilet?  Or is there something biological in my mama bird brain that demands an organized nest?

In an effort to curb myself before I fritter all my time away wiping baseboards, I am resolving to Beat Back the House Guilt.  Go away, House!  You have no power here!  Not when there is writing to be written and books to be read and husbands to steal bites of pie from!

The Lantern, by Deborah Lawrenson

Taken from the jacket copy:

“Meeting Dom was the most incredible thing that had ever happened to me. When Eve falls for the secretive, charming Dom in Switzerland, their whirlwind relationship leads them to Les Genévriers, an abandoned house set among the fragrant lavender fields of the South of France. Each enchanting day delivers happy discoveries: hidden chambers, secret vaults, a beautiful wrought-iron lantern. Deeply in love and surrounded by music, books, and the heady summer scents of the French countryside, Eve has never felt more alive.

But with autumn’s arrival the days begin to cool, and so, too, does Dom. Though Eve knows he bears the emotional scars of a failed marriage—one he refuses to talk about—his silence arouses suspicion and uncertainty. The more reticent Dom is to explain, the more Eve becomes obsessed with finding answers—and with unraveling the mystery of his absent, beautiful ex-wife, Rachel.

Like its owner, Les Genévriers is also changing. Bright, warm rooms have turned cold and uninviting; shadows now fall unexpectedly; and Eve senses a presence moving through the garden. Is it a ghost from the past or a manifestation of her current troubles with Dom? Can she trust Dom, or could her life be in danger?

Eve does not know that Les Genévriers has been haunted before. Bénédicte Lincel, the house’s former owner, thrived as a young girl within the rich elements of the landscape: the violets hidden in the woodland, the warm wind through the almond trees. She knew the bitter taste of heartbreak and tragedy—long-buried family secrets and evil deeds that, once unearthed, will hold shocking and unexpected consequences for Eve.”

Sounds delicious, no?

Now, this isn’t a real review where I dissect the novel and say intelligent things about motifs and character development.  Although, I will say that there are some strong motifs–lavender!–and the characters are beautifully complex.  I did find myself a little let down by the ending, and the threads didn’t pull together in the way that I wanted, however.  Also–Dom is no Maxim de Winter.  But who is?

What is really magnificent about The Lantern is how the author took inspiration and transformed it.  So much of the novel is related to Daphne du Maurier’s Rebecca.  Dom has a mysterious first wife who vanished under questionable circumstances.  Bodies are found on the property.  Eve (we never learn her real name, just like the protagonist in Rebecca) feels haunted, literally and symbolically, by the presence of Rachel and another presence in the house.  Like Manderley, Les Genévriers is its own character, alive in its history and teeming with the shades of people who lived there.  Even Rachel’s name comes from another du Maurier novel.

I love the modern gothic sensibility, and the way she was able to create a male lead that felt contemporary and real, but still had the sexy-broody-older-man characteristics of the Byronic heroes I adore so much.  Another problem she surmounted was the occasionally “passive ingenue” issues that Gothic heroines typically have (Cathy from Wuthering Heights and Jane Eyre excluded).  While we love the second Mrs. de Winter just the way she is, it would be difficult to stomach a twenty-first century character wandering around crying and imagining that her husband hates her.  Eve straddles the tropes of the genre and the active qualities necessary in a contemporary protagonist, and we still get to keep the claustrophobic lost feeling that gothic heroines exhibit.

Anyway, a lovely book with lovely references to one of my all-time favorite novels.  Highly recommend if you like gothic, modern gothic or flowers.  If you are easily bored by pages of flower description, this may not be for you.

You started preschool two weeks ago, and when I came to pick you up last Tuesday, you looked at me and said, “I’m glad you are here.  I’ve been here forever.”

Typical kid statement, but for a not-yet-three-year-old, I think it’s downright astounding.  You sounded so articulate, so adolescent in your exaggeration, that sometimes it’s hard to remember your true age when you’re throwing fits about the color of macaroni or crying because a dust bunny touched you.

Just so we can see how far your language has come this year, here is a little glossary of Noah-isms, from about eighteen months to just a few months ago, when you morphed into a tiny Cicero.

…trying to work during nap-time and after bed-time.  But this puts most of us middle-class WAHMs to shame:

http://www.npr.org/2011/09/15/140147424/for-afghan-female-pilot-a-long-turbulent-journey

This woman has to fly an Air Force Helicopter with her five-year-old.  How crazy is that?  Makes me feel bad for complaining about my children asking for cheese when I check my email.

Sunday, at church, my pastor talked about systems—marriages, families, schools, nations—and how it is impossible to untangle the individual from their respective systems.  He went on to relate this to church-y stuff and how we integrate ourselves into a narrative of love post 9/11, but his initial definition of systems and plausibility structures left me wondering what narratives am I in?  How did 9/11 shape my plausibility structures?

I was 14, just starting ninth grade at new school in a new city in a new state.  I’d moved from a fairly poor Catholic school in south Kansas City, Missouri across state lines to a public school in the much better-off Johnson County, Kansas.  I was going to school with kids better-dressed and better-looking and better-everything than me.  I lived in a trailer park and had read Jane Eyre five times.  My worldview had been shaped by simultaneously by the prosperous Clinton Presidency and living in a part of town where people were hamstrung at the shopping mall.

Then 9/11 happened, and it was a giant stone thrown into a giant pool with giant ripples.  Everything changed.  At 14, my new world demanded I think about foreign policy and inter-religious interactions and the ramifications of cultural imperialism, which are all things few ninth-graders are equipped to handle with so little preparation.  My new world demanded that I adopt a me vs. other, us vs. them perspective.  And so I did for a while, until I got older and found that perspective didn’t seem right any more.

But even with all the maturing and trying to stretch myself into a softer, there is no them there is only us narrative, I can’t deny that coming of age post 9/11 has impacted my creative work.  My novel begins with the United States crumbling, debt-ridden and weak, to an Eastern power, and with a civil war between the wealthy and the poor.  It begins with people filled with righteous anger making war and it ends with people with righteous anger making war.  It has two main characters who struggle to balance a life of privilege with doing the right thing, and another main character that uses tragedy to feed his ambition.

Would the novel have these things if 9/11 had been like every other day?  If No Child Left Behind and reality television were the most controversial things to happen in the Aughts?  Would this novel even exist?

After three years, two major revisions (which each time involved deleting about 40,000 words,) and a more normalized revision with fleshing out characterization, world building and narrative threads, Landry Park is now in the hands of my critique partners.  While I’m waiting for their disgust suggestions, I am working on other things.

At first I thought I would just flesh out notes on some ideas that have been swirling around in my brain for quite a while.  Three years is a long time to work on one project (although much of that was taken up with school, and gestating and birthing two babies) and even though I am religiously monomaniacal about finishing a project I’ve started, my brain tends to wander after that much time.  Plus, as a mom, I have a lot of dead time in the car, or while the kids smash Play-Doh into the walls, or while I’m waiting for my son to finish on the potty.

That’s right.  When you have a toddler, hours of your life will be dedicated to watching someone poop. Waiting for them to poop.  Begging them to poop so you can go check on dinner or the infant that’s started pulling laundry out of the hamper.

But, when I started fleshing out notes, the stories started getting more compelling.  The characters became more vivid.  And I could resist opening a new Scrivener file and starting.  And after gut-wrenching revisions, filled with massive cuts and hours of fine-tuning and fiddling, the feeling of a blank screen and infinite possibility was amazing.

In drafting land, there are no mistakes.  There are few agonies and even fewer minor frustrations.  You are walking along with your main character, learning as they learning, meeting new people as they meet them.  I love this part, just spending time with your protagonist, because on the long road ahead, you need these happy memories to keep going.  It’s a lot like marriage, really.  Or watching a tiny person poop.