Writing

Errors and Oopsies

February 9, 2018 By Susan Crandall Leave a Comment

Back when all my interaction with books was as a reader, I used to tisk and huff when I came across an error on the pages. Misspellings. Incorrect grammar. Missing words. Inconsistent details. I wondered how on earth such a thing could happen in a properly edited book.

Of course that was back before I knew anything of the process. Now that I’ve spent some time on the other side of the publication timeline, I’ve learned not to be so judgmental.

I just spent the past few days going over the page proofs for THE MYTH OF PERPETUAL SUMMER–a manuscript I personally have combed for errors over the past months, my editor has combed for errors, and a copy editor has combed for errors. And still, I used an entire sticky note pad marking newfound errors and changes. Of course, a proofreader is reading at the same time and probably finding many I missed. Because you see, after living in this book for nearly a year, I see what I want to see, I read it as it is in my mind, not as it is on the page–I’ve become error blind.

So now, the book is back at the publisher, where an actual person has to make all of the collective corrections on the page files. So you see, there are many human fingers involved, thus many opportunities for things to slip through the cracks.

I am now a much more forgiving reader. And so, I ask all of you to remember the book writing business is done by fallible humans who are trying our best to offer you a perfectly presented perfect story. Sometimes we reach that goal, and sometimes we fall short. Heck, there are probably errors in this blog post after I read and reread it!

Hurdles and Barricades

January 30, 2018 By Susan Crandall 3 Comments

Hurdles and Barricades. Blockages and barriers. They’re not all connected to my writing life.

I once thought that when my two children were grown and out of the house, I would no longer be crippling myself by stepping on stray Legos, tripping over Barbie Dream houses and near-missing the occasional hamster someone forgot to put back in its cage. My basement would no longer house rock band equipment–and a rock band. As some of you know, when children leave for college their stuff stays put and you long for the day they have their own place—which turns out to be an apartment too small to house the accumulated wealth of their childhood.

Finally the children were both married with actual houses of their own. Bit by bit, boxes of comic books, baseball cards, beloved dollhouses, and vacation and school mementos moved back with their owners. (It was quite amazing how many things that were too precious to part with when stored at my house were useless and needed discarding when it was time to move on.)

The ping pong table was once again unfolded in the basement. I commandeered more closet space than any one woman should be allowed to have–but that’s a subject for another blog.

Then came the grands—all at once. We only have four. But because the eldest was barely two when the twins and their cousin came along within eight weeks, most of the time it feels like there are more. Up went the baby gates. Out came the cabinet locks. New collections of toys accumulated and had to be kept at the ready, the tiny table and chairs came out. My house was once again a labyrinth of obstacles.

Ahhh, at last. They were all steady on their feet. They knew not to eat scouring powder. They could open closets to retrieve toys and put them back before they go home. My house was once again blessedly barrier free.

But fate said, “Not so fast.” My beloved dogs are now geriatrics. The elder, whom we’ll call Houdini, can no longer hear or climb the stairs to

In happier days

his special, private territory on the second floor. And the other dog, whom we’ll call Hateful Harriet, has become super nasty toward her gimpy and deaf housemate. Sooooo, after taking Hateful Harriet (her name changed to protect the guilty,, although to be fair, she’s by far the smartest, most obedient–unless Houdini is bothering her–dog we’ve ever had) to special dog behavioral counseling, etc. with no results and after breaking up one too many dog fights, the gates came back up. Peace at last? “Not so fast.”

Hateful Harriet doesn’t like it when her housemate hangs around the gate. (Again, to be fair, he’s a knocker, tap-tap-tapping his nails on the metal until we’re all batty). She’s perfectly capable of jumping over said gate (at age 11) but, fortunately for her, has not. She does try to teach him a lesson, by charging, snarling and acting downright inhospitable. Of course, he can’t hear and basically just stands there and antagonizes her further.

So now we need to establish a no man’s (or no dog’s) land (the dining room). And until my next order of gates arrives (naturally one of the openings is 96 inches wide), makeshift barriers must suffice. This, my friends, is worse than any of the above stages.

And of course, both dogs want to be with me at all times. So, to be as fair as possible, I currently I divide my writing time between the kitchen counter and the living room sofa. Someone’s always miffed.

In order to go from my kitchen to virtually anywhere in the house is a feat for an acrobat—gates, furniture, barriers and barricades (which, amazingly, our gimpy guy, by acts of willpower and magic, finds a way around–thus Houdini).

Probably any sane adult would see the futility and surrender at least one of these dogs. But they are part of our family, so we adjust.

I’m pretty sure when the sad days come for Hateful Harriet and Houdini cross the rainbow bridge, either me or my husband will be nursing a broken bone from falling over a gate or a barricade—and we’ll have to accommodate an entirely new scenario of inconvenience.

The Long and Winding Road

March 17, 2015 By Susan Crandall Leave a Comment

I’m often asked about my “process,” my approach to writing a novel. We writers are a widely varied bunch and our writing processes are just as wide and varied. Many a time, I’ve listened to another author expound on their process and have returned to my own work convinced what I’ve just heard is brilliant, and once put in practice will, no doubt, fuel my creativity, streamline and sharpen my prose, and cut out hours and hours of dithering.

Unfortunately, in trying to employ said brilliant processes, I discovered all I’ve done is hobble my creativity. So after countless repetitions of this futile exercise, I’ve come to trust that my own process–shabby, meandering and slow as it is–is the only process that will, for me, produce a book anyone will find worth reading.

It’s a long while before my Mom gets to hold the finished product in her hands!

Now, as I’m ready to embark upon my next novel, my twelfth (if you don’t count the five unpublished I wrote, which I consider my writing education), I’m going to take you all along for the ride on this long, winding, sometimes potholed road I travel. The posts will come in fits and starts, at first with long gaps and months later, picking up speed. I normally take anywhere between 9 months and two years to write a novel. There are many factors which dictate this time frame, the biggest one being a DEADLINE. Others include how long it takes me to discover the voice of the story, how long I fiddle around experimenting with construction (first or third person narrative, past or present tense, which character or characters get the job of narrating the story, tone, atmosphere, etc), how much research is required, and what else happens to be going on in my real life at the time. And of course, the all important IDEA.

Ideas are easy to come by. Ideas that will create an engaging story that is strong enough to go on for 400 pages are a little more rare. However, sometimes the opposite is true and my head is a flurry of ideas and I must choose wisely, discover which one will be the next “logical” progression for my readers following my writing journey. If I suddenly started writing a Game of Thrones-esque series (as fun as that would be) my faithful readers might be knocked out of their saddles.

Oh the crossroads at which I now stand!

I’ve just completed the final stage of THE FLYING CIRCUS, reading the page proofs. It has bounced back and forth between my hands and my publisher’s for the better part of 4 months. First, I turned in my finished manuscript. Then my editor sent it back to me, suggesting a few revisions. For the next couple of weeks, I reread and reworked. Then my editor read it again. Yay! it’s now ready to go! (Said revision process can take several passes.) Now is the time I start mentally sifting through story possibilities for the next book. This time, I’m just a little worried, my mind is a blank page.

As the copy editor does his (in my case it was a he) work on THE FLYING CIRCUS–checking for consistency, grammar, etc., asking for clarifications in areas that seem confusing, and putting in all of the typesetting markings. While he’s doing his work, I’m engaging in all sorts of activities that normally lead to good story ideas–closet cleaning, finding my desk underneath all of the notebooks, books, scraps of paper with notes that accumulated while I finished writing THE FLYING CIRCUS. Unfortunately, I begin to panic as all ideas that parade through my head are old, tired, and unoriginal.

And then…a question pops into my head. A wondering that, while it isn’t the idea for the new book, it’s the springboard that leads me there.

Watch for the next installment–which will most likely be weeks away–when I settle on who is going to be in this story and what it will be about. You will see just how haphazard my process is and how I manage to hop from stone to stone until I’ve crossed the river that leads to the land of actually writing a novel.

For now, the pot is simmering!

Sometimes You Just Have to Give Up the Bees

July 7, 2014 By Susan Crandall 2 Comments

For a writer, each and every novel is an ongoing process from conception of the vague idea until the deadline pries it from our rigidly revising fingers. Along the way new possibilities bloom, surprise characters appear (yes, surprise even to the author), unforeseen forks appear in the story’s road, and sometimes the entire theme of the book becomes defined in a way far from our original thought. For example, the concept for Whistling Past the Graveyard began as a child in jeopardy story, told from multiple points of view. I wasn’t more than two chapters into it when Starla’s character began to evolve and the story changed into a period coming of age, search for maternal love story fueled by the segregated South and Starla’s fiery personality. Her voice was so strong and unique, the possibility of multiple points of view was taken off the table entirely. (Now I do know there are writers out there whose process does not work in this way, they have things planned and solid in their minds from the instant they type Chapter 1. To those disciplined and skilled writers, I applaud you!) For me, it’s a journey with unforeseen pitfalls and newly discovered treasures–and occasionally a road that requires a bridge built from popsicle sticks and Elmer’s glue before the journey can continue on.

Very often there are details that came along with our original idea that we love for their insight, we adore for their brilliance and uniqueness. We just cannot give them up. NO MATTER WHAT. Think of a wide-eyed, starving stray puppy you take home, bathe, feed and accept into your heart even though it gnaws your furniture, poops on your carpet and costs thousands of dollars in veterinary expenses–yeah, it’s that kind of attachment. No matter how the story has evolved and the place where that original idea was to go has changed from a round hole to cubic box, we just keep trying to shoehorn, hammer and wedge them in there. Almost always to our own detriment–sadly we know this, but continue on anyway.

Recently one of my writer friends had this issue in a way that totally encapsulates the problem we writers face with our own stubborn creativity. It had to do with the bees.

Her story is filled with great character conflict, mystery, love and betrayal. As all of her books, it’s brilliant and deals with a complicated cast of characters and two intertwining plots. In the beginning, she’d planned on a bee-sting allergy to off one of the characters. It really was a great idea. However as the book evolved during the writing process, the motivations changed, as did a few of the characters. And really, the whole death-by-bee-sting just became absurdly unworkable. And still, each time we talked, she was trying to get that swarm of bees to do the dirty work. Logically she knew it had to change. That to leave the bees in would make the scene far off the mark on so many levels. And yet … the bees.

You see, I use my friend’s work because as a critique partner, it’s so much easier to see the forest and not just the trees … or bees, as it were. I have no attachment to these bees. It’s easy for me to jettison them from the story entirely. When I comes to my own work, I rely on my critique partners to hammer some sense into me when I become obsessive (which is usually four to five times per book).

I’m currently having a little love affair with some bootleg whiskey and a 1923 airplane pilot that just may have to go the way of the bees. We’ll see.

As for my critique partner? In the end, reason won and the bees were toast. But I think she might still shed a tear or two at night over what could have been.

And By This I Mean Excuses for Not Writing

September 11, 2013 By Susan Crandall 2 Comments

Today I awakened with one thing on my to do list: write. But then I remember I have a dentist appointment this morning. Which calls for real clothes and a comb through my hair, and at least enough make up not to frighten small children. Tick-tock.

Well then, as soon as I’m finished at the dentist, I’ll have the rest of the day.

Dental appointment ends with news that my mom has lost her cell phone (she’s on my family plan). This presents two problems. First and most obvious, my writing is going to be delayed. The second stems from the fact that her 87th birthday is right around the corner and she has macular degeneration (still able to see pretty well though). But a new phone is going to be an issue, relearning and all that. So my sister has an old phone (we need basic with a capital B) that we can use. Then pick up my laptop at home and drive to my mother’s house (only 2 miles away, thank goodness). Once I get the phone activated on-line, I can go home and write. Still half a day left!

The webpage of my wireless service is “unavailable.” I visit with Mom and Sister, then try again. No go. I decide to take the phone with me, activate it later, and return it to Mom after I have several brilliant pages turned out. Pack up phone and computer and head out the door. Still nearly half a day of writing time.

Then my son calls to see if I want to meet for lunch. Well, I am kinda hungry. And I have to eat anyway. Plus things are pretty slim in the pantry at home. Good idea. I’ll be home by 1:30—which is about the time my creativity really kicks in anyway.

The lunch place is just down the way from the Verizon store. Might as well pop in and have Mom’s phone changed over. Son is due for an upgrade, so he goes too. Battery in Mom’s replacement phone is dead, but voila! they had an accessory battery. Son makes decisions. Leave the Verizon store before 2. Not bad.

Get in the car and point it toward my home office. Well, Meijer is on my way home. Might as well get a few things for that empty pantry. Shouldn’t take but a few minutes, save me getting out tomorrow.

I gather up my half-cartful and head to the checkout … along with every other person in my town. I’m a real control freak do-it-yourselfer, so naturally I like to U-Scan, which has shorter lines anyway. Get in line behind a couple; brilliant because one is scanning and the other is bagging, twice as fast. I’ll be home writing in no time.

I’m a patient person in checkout lines when there are tabloids and magazines to read. Make it through all of them and the couple is still scanning, apparently the scanner half of the couple isn’t a natural do-it-yourselfer and was having issues. Then the scanner got sassy. Tick-tock.

My turn! I scan and bag and pay. I even remember to stop by the freezer on my way out and pick up the ice I’d paid for — not always the case (mine, unfortunately, did not have a penguin on it). 3 o’clock, but plenty of time to crank out some quality work.

Home, unload, doggies out to take care of business. Crack my knuckles and take my laptop to my office. I usually write on the screened porch, but the temp is near 100, so upstairs I go. Clearly for the first time in eons, because I can’t even find my desk. Boxes of books had arrived. My mulit-function printer had died; its carcass plopped in the middle of the floor when its replacement arrived. Schedules for book tours had been scattered about; advanced reading copies of books requesting endorsements piled on top. Bills to be paid (uh-oh, look at those due dates!), bank statements, a million scribbled research notes for my current WIP I’d planned on organizing—oh my, there are also quite a few from WHISTLING PAST THE GRAVEYARD that was released in July. Lookie here, a royalty check for an essay I’d contributed to a book on writing—I could get an ice cream with that one.

Well, I’m all for having everything at my fingertips, but there is no way I can work in this mess. Sort. Stack. Shred. Recycle. File.

Nearly 5 o’clock. No problem, hubby won’t be home from work until late this evening. Three-and-a-half uninterrupted hours of writing!

Oh yeah, I need to scan a document and send the pdf to my sister. How did I do that? Remember it’s a new machine. Whew! Done.

Now to work.

The phone rings. Caller ID says it’s one of my kids…the one with the grandbaby. They’re feeling sorry for me all alone at dinner time. Did I want to eat with them? Remember, they have the grandbaby. Yes! I’ll still be back in time to get a couple of hours in before hubby arrives home.

Food. Fun. A lap full of applesauce. Back home.

Look at that tree we planted this year! It looks about to die (we’re having a drought and I don’t have an irrigation system.) I drag out the hose and put it on to drip water the poor thing.

Now!

Dogs need fed.

Done.

Finally sit down at my desk at 7:20 p.m. Tick-tock.

You know what? Today would make a great blog, one that all procrastinators can identify with.

8:15 p.m. Blog finished and I feel less irritated at myself because I turned an unproductive day into something worthwhile.

Now, let’s open that file for the proposal that is due in two weeks.

Oh, dear. Did I just hear the garage door go up?

Well, tomorrow I’ll have the whole day to write. I’m not even going to get dressed or shower so I won’t be tempted to leave the house.

But then…?

Things we Learn on Southern Book Tours

July 18, 2013 By Susan Crandall Leave a Comment

Southern Hospitality isn’t just a phrase. I am a stranger. I am welcome.

I love Southern cooking even more than I realized. May have to go shopping for a Mumu before I return home. I finally stopped “checking in” on FB because I’m ashamed that all of the places are restaurants.

No matter how careful I am, I leave things behind in hotels.

In much of the South you get your picture “made,” not “taken.”

It is less expensive to pay to check two bags on an airline than to pay for weight overage on one (My sincere apologies to my publisher.) This of course was information readily available to me had I checked; and yet I don’t think I could wrangle another bag on my travels with daily hotel changes and various modes of transportation, so it was a bit of a moot point.

A fine Southern Gentleman (and mother) at his first book signing. (Photo: FoxTale Book Shoppe

Driving on Mississippi highways (non-Interstate) is a joy. Beautiful fields and interesting scenery. Very little traffic. And hey, no potholes! Asphalt loves land without the endless freeze-thaw cycles of my beloved Indiana.

Driving in the Atlanta metro area is confusing and hair-raising. No road runs straight. Ten lanes of traffic is the norm. Many, many streets have multiple names, one to the right, another to the left. Names are reused on different streets and roads with things like SE, CONN or EXT tacked on the end that might indicate meaning to locals but really messes with me and my GPS.

Hotel air conditioners use fake thermostats…I’m convinced none of them actually control the temperature in the room.

3 weeks without my yoga class are going to cripple me.

My Yelp app on my phone is indispensable.

And most importantly: Booksellers are a vast ocean of secret (and yet easily accessible) knowledge and a sometimes untapped resource for booklovers. I have left every book store on this tour with a new and lengthy list of books to add to my TBR pile. I want to share my fabulous discoveries with you. I’ve asked several to be guests on my website with their recommended reads. Too many good books languish in the shadows. Let these booksellers guide you to some wonderful reading.

What’s Next for Susan Crandall?

July 8, 2013 By Susan Crandall 6 Comments

That’s almost always the first question I’m asked after a reader has told me how much he/she loved WHISTLING PAST THE GRAVEYARD (Or on a few occasions, what he or she did not like). I’m flattered beyond words that as soon as they’ve finished one of my novels they want to begin another. I do wish I was a little speedier in my process so I could say that next month you’ll be able to read my upcoming title. Alas, I am not that writer who can turn out three to four books a year. One a year is taxing my comfort level. I have had years with two book releases and those years gave me more gray hairs than my children ever did.

I am a writer who likes to wallow in a story as I create; hone and revise and expand and explore. I like to think that allows me to be the best writer I can be, and I hope it makes for greater reader satisfaction. Because I am a tortoise not a hare, I’m going to stick with that justification. WHISTLING PAST THE GRAVEYARD is the shortest novel I’ve ever written and it took the most time—nearly two years from start to final accepted manuscript.

I am working on a new novel. It’s in the early stages, a time when my story idea is in a steady state of flux and my main characters and I are just getting to know one another. Those secondary characters are still unseen and will be met on the road as my main characters and I make our way through their story.

So, this is what I can tell you about my work in progress. I have chosen another era of great social and economic change in our country, the early 1920s. This part of the decision making took some time in itself, with lots of reading and research to find the just-right backdrop for my characters’ journeys. This is a story of three people from very different backgrounds: a sixteen-year-old orphaned son of German immigrant tenant farmers; a young woman of privilege whose family has lost their fortune; and a WWI veteran pilot. These people have all been set adrift by life-altering circumstances and find themselves bound together by mutual need. Their tumultuous journey is fraught with drama fueled by blind obsessions and conflicting goals. They criss-cross the heartland, exploring the rapidly expanding role of aviation from barnstorming to bootlegging, from a wildly popular flying circus to the newly founded and dangerous sport of air racing. Their lives entwine with farmers and tycoons, tent revivals and rum runners. Love will blossom, unrequited and otherwise. Betrayals will threaten. Danger will come in many forms. These three will be tested … and I’m not yet sure exactly who will find solid ground and who will falter.

What’s next is a question I will ask myself a thousand times between now and typing THE END. A book is a journey. And not just for the reader and the characters, but for the author, too.

►►► Susan will begin her southern US book tour for Whistling Past the Graveyard today, July 8, in Jackson, Mississippi at Lemuria Bookstore. Check her Appearances page to see when she will be in a city near you.