Lynette Bishop Snell

Dogs are our link to paradise. They do not know evil or jealousy or discontent. To sit with a dog on a hillside on a glorious afternoon is to be back in Eden, where doing nothing was not boring–it was peace. –Milan Kundera

 

Black and Blue October 24, 2006

Filed under: Writing — Administrator @ 5:45 pm

0440226104.01. Sctzzzzzzz I finished this book tonight in preparation for my book club.  I had to blog immediately.  This is the tale of an abused woman, trapped in a relationship with a husband who beats her and yet who is so lucky to receive her love.  I cannot fathom it.  I cannot fathom the life, the woman, the abuse…any of it.

I would not recommend this reading if you are at any sort of vulnerable place in your life.  However, if you are looking to be “educated,” for lack of a better word, about the life of an abused wife, then this is the book for you.

I, however, am not certain I can ever read a book like this again.

 
 

Fly Swatters October 6, 2006

Filed under: Writing — Administrator @ 6:01 am

Last week I wrote and wrote and wrote and wrote.  And when I was done, my mind churned constantly with more things about which to write.  This week, I can barely help my kids come up with things to write on their homework papers.  Keep in mind, it’s first and second grade homework!

I’m going through the “I stink as a writer” phase of my journey.  I know I have stories dying to get out, I know I can write, but when I sit down at my desk, the screen stares at me, and in the distance I can almost hear a mocking, evil laugh.  My computer is laughing at me!  It knows I am telling myself lies, and that I’m on the verge of believing them.

So instead of subjecting myself to this punishment, I do all manner of things I don’t normally do:  Clean the house, do the laundry, go to the mall and simply walk around–without buying anything!–play my piano for hours on end, get my nails done…the list goes on.

All the while the unfinished-ness of my WIP looms over my head and every time I walk near my office, I find reasons to turn away from the dark cloud hovering there and move on to more gratifying tasks. 

In Dallas at the ACFW conference, our keynote speaker was Liz Curtis Higgs.  If you have never heard her speak, I implore you to find a place where she is speaking and do everything in your power to get a seat in the room.  She has wonderful insight, it seems she has a colorful past, and that girl can make people laugh!  I didn’t want her to stop speaking!

In one of her sessions in Dallas, she carried a fly swatter on stage with her.  I wondered, “OK, how in the world is she gonna tie in a fly swatter with her topic, ‘Writing to Bless the Readers’?”  As she spoke, it became clear.  She used it to smack away the lies that the enemy of all Christians, the devil, uses to try to convince us we are worthless, we are not good, we are hopeless causes.  So when she got some derogatory emails, she picked up her fly swatter and started smacking the tar out of her computer.  “Lies!  Lies!  Lies!” she hollers, smacking the podium.  The image stuck.

Rita and I have been sending each other fly swatter images lately.  Since she’s in Florida and I’m, well, not, we are reduced to cyber-swatting.  So yesterday, she swatted me. 

Pastedgraphic

Perhaps I should print it out, set a fan behind it, and whenever I begin listening to the lies, turn the fan on, so it simulates a hand swinging a fly swatter back and forth.

Or maybe I should stop listening and start writing.  Again.

 
 

Butterfly Kisses September 8, 2006

Filed under: Writing — Administrator @ 4:54 pm

Not the kind from the song you’re probably singing along to right now.  But the kind that settle in your stomach and flutter around, dropping kisses of nerves and anticipation and fear and excitement throughout your insides.

Those are the kind I have right now.  The mean reds have been replaced by butterfly kisses.  Angry, mutant butterflies. 

I have taken a major leap of faith, fear, stupidity (choose your own motivational word) in my writing career.  I have submitted an original work to a writing competition.  Now, this is not, in itself, a major thing.  People do it all the time.  What makes this submission special is the venue.

Avon Publishers has created something called “Avon Fanlit.”  In late August, a panel of editors and authors came up with six potential storylines and asked readers to vote on which one they would most like to read.  The idea is to have a collaborative work created by random authors (mostly unpublished).  Each person can submit 2 or 3 entries per chapter, then the polls open and readers from all across America can then vote on the chapter they like best.

The pressure is intense because not only did I have to write the chapter (the easy part) but I had to come up with a tagline (150 characters or less) and a short description (500 characters or less).  I am not a sales person.  I just write and hope someone else will go on & on about how wonderful my writing is.  This time, however, I am forced to rely on my own talent (gasp) and hope and pray someone sees enough potential in 150 characters to keep reading. 

So today I did all of the above:  submitted a chapter (easy), wrote a short description (not so easy), and a tagline (rottenly, stinking hard).

If you are so inclined, feel free to go to Avon Fanlit and check out my entry.  It’s called “Uncovered.”  And vote (or not) as you see fit.

In the meantime, I shall be a bumbling, neurotic, butterfly-filled mess.

 
 

Sweet Dreams are made of this… September 6, 2006

Filed under: Writing — Administrator @ 6:12 am

…lovely images, images that make you smile or laugh, images that change reality and distort it to an unrecognizable shape.

But let me ask you, what about nightmares?  What defines a nightmare for you?

Desperately trying to run somewhere and being stuck in the mud?  Trying to answer a ringing telephone but your hands are heavy as lead and you can’t move them?  Showing up at school for a very important final exam several hours late?  Showing up at school for that very important exam, late and naked?  Shudder.  Moving right along.

What about the dreams where you dream of something you desperately want and in your dream you get it?  It’s perfect, it’s wonderful–it’s too good to be true.  And then you wake up, realize it was all a dream and are depressed and sullen for the rest of the day.  Or the dreams that haunt you when in reality you have lost something or someone of tremendous value but in your dreams it or they are returned safely to you.  Oh the relief!  Then you awaken and discover with heart-sinking rapidity that all is not as it seemed and you are once again alone, without the thing or person you most want near you.

I have had all these types of dreams, as, I am sure, have most people.  But two nights again, I had a new dream/nightmare experience.  I had a nightmare that was so horrible and awful that I began to sob.  Now, I have cried in dreams before.  The cries seemed so real that I awoke, but it was to a dry face, and I was so relieved it was over that I quickly went back to sleep.  This time was different. 

In this dream, I had had an argument with my mother and went into a closet where I promptly sat down and sobbed my heart out.  Tears streaming down my face, shuddering sobs, the whole deal.  Then I woke up…and I was still sobbing, tears were still streaming down my face and I could not quit crying.

It was horrifying.

I knew it was not real.  I knew I was awake and could stop crying but I could not shake the sensation of pure and utter sorrow.  I lay in bed for several minutes before the sobs finally died down and I was able to take a steady breath. 

It stayed with me for the rest of the day.  My mother & I even laughed about it.  But I could never quite forget that moment when I awoke and found my face wet with tears and my body aching from the wrenching sobs.

Remember the mean reds?  I think they manifested themselves in my dreams…and they were not sweet. 

They were true to their name.

 
 

Plot & Structure September 4, 2006

Filed under: Writing — Administrator @ 9:36 pm

Do you take notes in a class?  Do you write down word for word what someone is saying in order to not miss one nuance of their message?  Or do you write down major points, leaving it up to your mind to fill in the blanks when you call the information forth?  Or do you not bother taking notes at all?

It has been a long, long, LONG time (15 years!) since I sat in a classroom environment and took notes.  I had forgotten what my methodology was for learning:  copious note taker?  random thought recorder?  snoozer?

I have recently completed the book Plot & Structure by James Scott Bell.  I discovered (or learned or remembered) that I fall into the copious note taking category.  Copious.  It means abundant.  Plentiful.  LOTS.

The thing is, the more I read, the more I wanted, no, needed to take notes.  I soaked up the information as if I was dying and this was my only source of water and/or food.  Perhaps I was dying–in a professional sense.

I have always thought (in my heretofore uneducated opinion) writing came naturally to the very talented.  Of course, I fall into this category.  I have never doubted that.  (Insert loud background guffaw here).  I tended to turn my nose up to those who wrote and  those who read all books on the craft of writing.  Then I attended Glorieta Christian Writer’s Conference last year.  Everyone said the same thing, over and over:  learn, study, read, take courses, and then read and take more courses.  You can never learn enough about the craft of writing.

I heard this from well-published (and by that I mean those with 30+ published novels under their belt) authors.  One of whom was James Scott Bell.

He happened to be the keynote speaker at Glorieta.  I heard him speak the first night (he had a two-night gig) and was surprised at how dynamic he was.  I hung on his every word and took (copious) notes.  The next night I looked forward to Part Two of his address.  Before the session, however, I went to the dining hall of the facility, and, since I knew a total of no one there, looked for a table that was empty (sometimes it’s ok to be a loner…it’s good for the soul).  What I found instead was a table with one lone occupant:  James Scott Bell.

Before I knew what I was doing, I walked over and asked if I could join him.  I didn’t look at him long enough to see if the look of “oh great” passed his face or not.  He graciously offered me a chair and I joined him.  I’m not sure exactly what I expected from him, but I know none of the following moments were what I think I may have expected.  That sentence makes me dizzy.

Since it was the final night of the conference, I figured he was pretty wiped out and had probably been over-tapped for information.  He wasn’t overly chatty but he did engage in polite conversation.  We continued this awkward-but-polite dance for the duration of the meal and I made it a point to not ask him any questions about writing or the craft of writing or anything.  I hope it was a relief to him.  As we chatted, he became a very real person to me.

When I got home, I read through my conference notes and discovered that upon many occasions people recommended his book, Plot & Structure.  So I purchased it.  I received it (I’m ashamed to say, last November) and promptly put it on my bookshelf.  Then never touched it until last week, when, yet again, it was recommended by another person.

I went to my bookshelf and what should my wondering eyes see?  Not one but TWO copies of the book.  So I became Rita’s benefactress and sent her a crisp, unblemished copy. 

I found it interesting as I read through the book (which taught me more about the craft of writing in 230 pages than I ever thought possible) that I kept identifying the writer of those words with the man at that table all those months ago.  His demeanor and his voice…it was suddenly clear and fresh in my mind as if I had spent several days in his company instead of a few minutes.  It’s fascinating how an impression can be so lasting and thorough, even when brief and uneventful. 

I guess I felt the need to take copious notes because whereas before James Scott Bell had been someone I had met at a conference, now he is someone I respect. 

So my opinions about learning the craft have been reversed.  I have a stack of books I need to read that is currently 9 books tall.  And I intend to read every one.  I mean, if the first book I read produced copious notes, can you imagine what any subsequent books might do to me?

Hopefully, as I read (and continue to write), all those books will do wondrous things to me, not the least of which is make me a fabulous, inspirational, and well-respected author. 

And maybe one day I’ll sit at a conference table and share a quick meal with someone else who might read one of my books one day and say to herself, “What can I learn from her?”

Or maybe she’ll just eat quietly and leave.  And go on to write her own breakout novel.