Huge Revelation that Shouldn't Have Been Huge that was Super Huge

I've been avoiding writing for a long time. Perhaps you've noticed. It's spilled into my blogging. Slightly.

But the other day, I had a revelation that freed me from the shackles of avoidyness that I was kind of confused by, since I wanted to write, and I had things to write, but for some reason, was not writing.

I read a book. It was the third in a trilogy. It was good. It was just fine and I didn't have any problem with it. My thought was, "That was a good ending." It didn't blow my mind, but it didn't disappoint.

And then, I got hooked on that word: Good. It was good. This author is one I consider to be quite talented. I figure this author will continue to be successful, as well they should be. Because they are a good writer. They write good books.

(Are we sick of the word good yet? Is it starting to look like a fake word? Good good good good good good good good whoa I have to stop.)

So, here's what hit me. The book was good. I'll even shake things up and say it was great.

But it wasn't perfect.

And for some reason, when I thought of that, I also thought, The person who wrote it, was just a person.

And I was struck by this notion that I had burdened myself with, that I couldn't write this story that I love so much, I couldn't do it justice, because I'm not perfect. And therefore, I can't get the story perfect.

But guess what? I can make it good. And I can be a good writer. And I can get better every day.

So, once again, time to take off my self-inflicted pressure suit and remember that I might not be perfect, but I can be good. And that's something I can control.

What's Really Important

I recently came across an old notebook, the one I was using when I wrote the first draft of my current WIP (the WIP fondly known as "The Story That's Trying to Kill Me") (more on that another day). Along with some utterly embarrassing story snippets that I thought back then were pure gold, I found a list I wrote called "The Important Points of the First Ten Chapters."

The reason I made this list was because I had just realized my story started at the wrong place. I'd read a blog post that suggested making a list to see what really needed to be included and going from there. So, with that brilliant idea, and my equally brilliant and creative list title, I did that.

Guys.

It's been over a year since I made that list, and my beginning is finally (hopefully) where it should be, but on a list of over twenty important points, guess how many are still in the story?

Four. Yes, four little things that have survived the hacking and slashing and ugly weeping of six more drafts. It was amazing to me to see how much my story had changed. And it's not just changing, it's improving. Very encouraging.

It made me think of this post by Natalie Whipple about the malleability of stories. Things might feel so important and key to our plot, but if they're not working out, you know, it's okay. It's okay, guys.

Now. I'm going to chant that to myself as I go back to kneeling in front of my laptop, begging this WIP to cooperate. Malleability. I got this.

A Post Not Very Related To Writing--But I'll Give It a Shot

In a fit of exuberance at the end of January, I joined a health and fitness challenge. Pretty much, I have an exercise regimen and I commit to eating healthy, check in every day on my progress, post results weekly, and post pictures every 30 days. Also, there are mini challenges once or twice a week.

All in all, I'm feeling pretty good. However, this week's food challenge may be the hardest one yet: no sugar until Saturday morning. *sobs quietly into fist* *trashes house in search for grapes*

Actually, it hasn't been that bad. Since I got the message this morning, only a third of my thoughts have been sugar-related. So I'm thinking this will be a piece of...carrot stick. *sob*

In other, non-related, non-writerly news, my husband and I went to a basketball game in Utah this past weekend. A few observations:

• Utah Jazz fans are CRAZY.
• Utah Jazz fans don't appreciate people cheering for the Heat in their arena.
• Utah Jazz fans really don't like LeBron James.
• LeBron James doesn't care.
• Booing LeBron James only makes him play better.

So, here's the writing connection we'll make: I'm lucky enough to have full support in my writing from family and friends, but I know some people have to deal with naysayers. If that's you, just let their booing propel you forward. Become the LeBron James of the writing world. Because like him or not, watching him play in real life is poetry. Unless you're a Jazz fan.

Dirty Houses and Messy Manuscripts

In the past six months, I've had the chance to meet two awesome women, my CP/BFFs Christine and Julie.

I know what you're thinking.

Yes, they are as awesome in real life as they seem online. Yes, I am actually taller than Julie. Yes, Christine does make the most a-MAH-zing scrambled eggs.

And no, I didn't watch them sleep (tempting) or hold them hostage in my crawl space when it was time for them to leave (also tempting).

When Julie came, I had just moved into my new house (living there for over a month still counts as JUST moving, right?) and there were still boxes everywhere. Within five minutes of our meeting, I had her and her husband helping me stuff boxes in a closet so we'd have room to hang out.

When Christine was here, she did my dishes on more than one occasion. She also babysat my kids while I picked my husband up from work.

Although our visits were--overall--super fun, I mention these lame things because inviting your best friend into your disheveled house is kind of like turning over your disheveled MS to a crit partner. It's not perfect. There are rough spots. There are embarrassing parts. There are things that don't work. But it's okay, because they are your friend, they love you, and they're there to help.

Turning a rough draft over for anyone to read is hard, but giving it to someone who cares about you takes away some of the pain. They have your best interest at heart. They don't want you to strain your back carrying those heavy boxes by yourself. They want you to try eating crab that's cooked right so you can get over your seafood phobia. And they want your story to be the best it can be.

It might be mortifying at times. It might make you feel like a dork. But, when the boxes are cleared, the dishes are dry, and the manuscript is fresh and tight and beautiful, you see that the most daunting tasks are better with a friend or two.

We Are Us

There are two common interests my dad and I share: music and books.

There are two things my dad and I almost always disagree on: music and books.

It's sad, really.

I mean, we agree on common stuff, like the Beatles. And the Bible. That's about where our tastes diverge.

We're both on an unofficial mission to convert each other to the "right" side now. I recommend books to him. He makes me listen to his music. Sometimes something sticks, and sometimes it doesn't.

This isn't a bad thing, though. We have lively discussions. Chairs are thrown! Decorative pillows are ripped! Windows beg for mercy!

Okay, no. But, we do enjoy the lively discussions.

I was thinking about this in relation to writing. I would love to be the next amazing whoever, but the only thing I can be is myself. I'm the only one who can write like me and that's so awesome.

Regina Spektor doesn't sing like Colbie Caillat. If she did, people would probably rip decorative pillows, because come on, that would sound weird. They're totally different.

So, yo, Regina (or, you know, insert your name here), KEEP UP THE GOOD WORK. Because when you make your voice do that weird cool thing like only you can do, we know can write that character with a funny little quirk. Or the plotline that some people might think is too out there, but that we can pull off.

Because WE ARE US, dang it!*

*eloquent bits of wisdom brought to you by Jeigh. Keep being yourself.

The Spark Blogfest: Who Set You Off? (Part Four)

This week I'm participating in Christine Tyler's blogfest and talking about who and what made me decide to be a writer.

 When I started writing seriously about a year and a half ago, I was reluctant to tell people what I was doing. I knew I wanted to be a published author, but I was afraid that if I told people, then I was setting myself up for failure. What if it didn't work out? What if I didn't have what it takes? So, I kept it to myself.

Secretly, I bought a book on writing by Gail Carson Levine called Writing Magic: Creating Stories That Fly. It was geared more toward kids, but something about her words bolstered me up and gave me confidence in myself. I liked that feeling, so I bought more of her books.

Here she is, by the way. Is she not the cutest EVER???

Later, while I was still keeping all writerly things secret and therefore suffering with my self-doubt all alone, I read one of Gail Carson Levine's novels, called The Two Princesses of Bamarre. I don't think I can explain exactly why this book touched me so deeply, I only know that it did. It's about a girl who has to find courage when she doesn't believe she has any, and the strength of sisters, and the importance of bravery when all hope seems lost. I read late into the night and finished with tears of bittersweet joy smeared all over the front of my shirt. (And then the adrenaline rush hit and I was bouncing around the house, but that's not important right now.)

From her books--all her books, but this one especially--I just felt right about writing. I felt like she was personally giving me permission to admit that this is what I wanted to do, and that I could do it in my own way, with my own voice, and that it would be great.

Gail Carson Levine will probably never know the impact she's had on me (unless some day I get the chance to meet her in real life and manage to say more than, "Uh...derr...I'm in love with your pretty books...") but she set off a spark that reminds me when I doubt that I can do it, that what I have to say can be meaningful and perfect to someone else.

So thank you, Gail Carson Levine! I think your books are pretty!

And now you'll see how insecure I really am

Today I read a really dumb book. I mean, I don't want to be catty or anything, but I really didn't like it.

I read the blurb and thought, "Okay, well, I think I know what's going to happen, but hopefully there will be some good old plot twists to shake up the norm."

Oh, plot twists, where art thou? It played out exactly how I thought it would.

No surprises. Cliches galore. Contrived plot. Stereotypical characters.

It was torture. TORTURE I TELL YOU.

Now, you may be asking why in the world I kept reading if I didn't enjoy it, so I'll tell you: it's good for my self-esteem.

Yeah, I know, that sounds really catty, but let me explain a little better by telling a story. One day I was trying to revise part of my story but I wasn't feeling it. Everything I did felt wrong and I was writing in big, fat, smelly, ugly circles. I decided it was not my day to write, so maybe I should do some reading, because we all know reading inspires writing. Right? We know this. We do this.

I grabbed the first book on my shelf, which just happened to be Hunger Games. Here's a little advice: If you're feeling crappy about your writing ability, don't read Hunger Games. Just don't. My self-esteem, clinging to the edge by a few shaky fingernails, took a lumbering dive into the abyss and I spent the rest of the day stress-eating and sporadically crying.

I love to read awesome books. But sometimes, I don't mind reading a mediocre book, because I can see where it's not working and what I would change if it was my story. Then, my self-esteem can push the Wild Berry Skittles to the side, scuttle away from the edge, and say, "Hey, I'm not doing such a bad job after all! I'm on track! I'm okay!"

Also, after I read it, I was so fired up that I threw down 1,000 words, BA-CHOW, in no time flat. So next time you're reading a book you're not so hot about, try to see the educational aspect in it.

And let's save the Hunger Games for the more stable days, shallll we?

Breakthrough

I have a confession to make: I haven't written in a month and a half. Besides nonsensical emails to friends bemoaning the loss of my muse, my hands have been sadly separated from my keyboard. Even when I found time to sit down and write, I haven't worked on my WIP, or my new ideas, or my secret-project-that-I-shouldn't-think-about-despite-its-awesomeness-because-it-distracts-me-from-my-WIP.

I know. And I call myself a writer.

I panicked for a while. Have I run dry? Have I lost interest because it's hard sometimes? Do I really not have what it takes? Should I stop blogging about writing when I'm so obviously a poser?

But then, a few days ago, I had a breakthrough. I was reading a book that I really enjoyed, but when I finished I thought, "That ending was anticlimactic." It wasn't terrible. The story was good. It just wasn't...earth shattering. 

And then I realized that I'd paralyzed myself while waiting for my writing to become earth shattering, too.

Now, based on my blog posts, I'm sure you all would be expecting nothing less than deep and profound from me (why are you laughing?), but its not likely to happen. I write for fun, and I expect people will read my stories for fun, and if I inspire the odd revolution, well, that's really just icing on the cupcake.

I don't need to shatter the earth. I have a story to tell. It's a good story. People will enjoy it. So now, if you'll excuse me, I'm going to take my self-inflicted pressure suit off (*psshhhhh*) (That's me taking off my pressure suit.) and write with reckless abandon. Reckless, I tell you. With maybe an anticlimactic plot twist or two.

The pictures that are not to be.

Sadly, the USB cable for my camera (which I called the HDMI cable in my last post like a dork) is packed somewhere, along with my muse and my inspiration. (More on that later, though.)

That means that you're just going to have to use your imagination as I talk about the pictures from the Utah Festival of Books.

HERE'S ME AND NATALIE WHIPPLE. Note how cute she looks in her blue top and how I kept my sunglasses on so that she couldn't see my eyes watering, on the verge of tears even, because I was so nervous to meet her. She was WAY nice, guys, and mildly freaked out by my fangirlness. But, she liked my yellow shoes. !!! I know! Also, I may have accidentally screamed in her face with excitement.

HERE'S ME AND JAMES DASHNER. Don't I look extra cute in this picture? He was such a nice guy. I told him I hoped to someday write a story as awesome as The Maze Runner and he asked if I was a writer. I told him I was and he asked what I'd written. I said, "Well (*shuffle shuffle*), I'm still practicing, I'm not very far along..." My SIL cut in and told him I've written a novel. "A whole novel?" James Dashner asked. "You actually finished it?" I continued to downplay, saying how it's really rough, I'm rewriting it, etc., but then he said, "That's huge! Lots of people start, but not many finish." Seeing that I still wasn't convinced, he leaned forward and said, "Really. You should be proud of yourself. That's a big accomplishment." I replied by grinning like an idiot.

Take home lesson: Don't sell yourself short. Also, support James Dashner, because he's my new BFF.

OHMYGOSHYOUGUYS, HERE'S DAVID ARCHULETA!! I promise I didn't scream like a teeny-bopper when I realized he was there. Not twice, at least. And see how close I was to him? I'm pretty sure I could have touched him before anyone tackled me, but I still had other signings to go to. AND, he was there to talk about his new book, and he didn't sing. At all. WHAT THE HECK, DAVID ARCHULETA?!? I missed his signing by about 2 minutes, but when we got to the table where he wasn't, his marker was still there. I almost stole it, but my conscience (and the look of disbelief on my SIL's face) stopped me. Because seriously, I don't even really like him that much.

HERE'S ME WITH KIERSTEN WHITE. See how we're the same height (when she's wearing heels) and therefore automatically look like sisters? And see how she put her arm around me and so I did likewise? !!! She was really cool, too, and really funny. Also, she recognized my name from her blog comments! !!! I don't remember what happened after that, because I died in a happy little heap at her feet. She asked, "Do you remember that one time we had a discussion about your name on my blog comments?" and I said, oh-so-coolly, "Uh, YES, I kind of have it bookmarked." That thread can be found here, just in case you were curious about my moment in the sun. I had her sign a piece of paper and three bookmarks before I remembered later that I'd brought a copy of Corsets and Clockwork for her to sign. So I went back and had her sign that, too.

HERE'S ME WITH ALLY CONDIE. You know how Ally Condie is really pretty in every picture you see of her? That isn't airbrushing, people. She really is that pretty. So don't look at me so much in this one. It was the end of the day, I was melting from heat and over excitement, and I'd just finished a sno-cone. But look at Ally! So pretty. Also, she is a really nice person, and impressed that I knew the name of her next book, which I gushed about on and on. I gush when I'm nervous and excited.

FINALLY, HERE'S A PICTURE OF ME AND MY AWESOME SISTER (IN-LAW), LUANNE. She isn't a writer, but she is a reader, and also she loves me, so she agreed to come. I'm so glad she did. She got Natalie Whipple's attention for me. She said everything at the same time as me when we first started talking to James Dashner until he finally asked, "Are you guys sisters or best friends?" Both, JD. Both. She took all these lovely pictures and said, "Perfect!" every time. And she kept me talking to and from Provo, which is about a three hour drive each way. She is such a great friend and was such a great support in this, my geekiest moment. Thanks for the fun trip, Lu!

And I hope you guys like my pictures. Feel free to copy them for your own albums.

"I highly doubt that."

Today I got a text from a writing buddy who just finished her first draft. She's floating on quite the cushy cloud right now and said that even though she knows she should be sitting back and not diving in to another project right away, all she wants to do is write a short story. You know, like true writers do.

I had just finished a long, self-absorbed emo-fest in the shower when I got her text where I'd convinced myself that maybe I wasn't cut out to be a writer, since it's been forever since I've worked on my story, and when I do find some time, all I can manage to think about it is, "Bluuuuurrrrrggggghhhhh."

So I texted her back, all cheery and sunshine, and said, "Sadly, I seem to have lost that writing spark...perhaps I'm not meant to be a writer after all?"

Her answer, among other encouraging things, was, "Well, I highly doubt that." And it was just what I needed to hear. She helped me back on my writing horse and slapped its bum and sent me back on my way.

Aren't writing friends awesome? My husband is supportive, my family is supportive, but writing friends are there to say "I KNOW!" when you worry about really dumb things like an apocalypse coming before you can get your book published.

So, here's to writing friends. Many posts of praise to come, I'm sure, because YOU GUYS ARE THE BEST!

Phew

*blink blink*

Oh, hello. It's me again.

I almost didn't find myself under piles of boxes and dirty laundry that I'm preeety sure were breeding like rabbits in the back of the moving van for the three-day journey from West Virginia to Idaho.

Yeah, kinda like that.

Everything went smoothly, though. My two-year-old even conked out for the last leg of our flight and I got to read! A book!

Also, SkyMall Magazine has something that I really, really need. It's not even a want.

Accio Survivor!

See, this wand can be trained to take over your remote control's functions. An upward flick of the wrist could up the volume. A twirly figure-eight and the TV turns off.

Holy cow, guys. You can't get closer to real wizardry.

My birthday is in July, by the way...

Anywho, I'm thinking maybe I should take more long, languishing breaks, because I got two awards and a meme shoutout while I was gone!

Thanks to Keriann at Novel Beginnings for:

And my fab crit buddy Ani from Anime's Musings for:

 You make a girl feel so loved, really.

Along with these awards (I'm kind of mooshing the two and their requirements together) I'm supposed to tell seven facts about myself.

1) I put way too much thought into random lists like this. I think about them for days or weeks (Ani gave me this award almost a month ago and I've been thinking since then) (I took a good 2 months to write a random 25 list on Facebook). Sometimes, I'll think of a random Jeigh-fact and think, "Ooh, that's a good one!" but then I think maybe it's not quite random enough. Since most of you don't know me personally, though, I'm trying to keep the nit-pickyness to a minimum.

2) My name (pronounced "Jay" for those of you unsure) is actually a typo. It's the name my parents intended me to have, but I was named after an ancestor named Leigh. In my mom's copy of our family history her name was misspelled and my mom loved it. Later she found out it was wrong, but kept it anyway. I hated my name when I was younger because it drew a lot of attention to my shy little self, but now I like it.

3) Speaking of shy, I'm not any more, really, but you'd never know it by talking with me face-to-face. I have this unfortunate habit of turning lobster-red at inopportune times. Like, when people speak to me. Or sometimes when I get caught talking to myself in the grocery store. And especially when people point out that I'm turning red. That doesn't help, people. I also blush when other people do embarrassing things. The worst was in high school, when the guy in front of me farted and I very kindly took the blame away from him by lighting up like a Christmas tree. Did I mention my crush was sitting right next to me? He was.

4) Because of genetic misfortune, I'm missing most of the permanent teeth in the top half of my mouth. The teeth I have are either baby teeth or surgical implants, except my two, large, squirrelly front teeth. Sadly, I never had access to the tooth-shrinking spell Hermione did, so they just stand out.

5) I consider myself exceptionally dorky. My awkward years started early (1st grade) and lasted long (10th grade? Maybe still going...?) I've made peace with it, though. Hi. I'm a dork.

6) I am a sucker for color and patterns. I'm not very crafty, but I've got a huge collection of fabric and scrapbook paper and all sorts of embellishments that are just so. darn. cute. that I can't help myself.

7) I want to own a Great Dane just because I think it would be so awesome to walk a dog that came up to my chest. I would name her Regina, or maybe Ingrid.


The other requirement of these awards is that you pass them on to other deserving bloggers. I'm going to beg moving brain/jet lag privilages, though, and only pass it on to two bloggers who I know without checking haven't gotten it yet.

Emily at Book Savvy. She won me over back in the day with some hilarious commentary on Taylor Swift's love life, among other things.

AND

Julie from rosewood pencilbox. She laughs at all my geeky jokes. And makes geeky jokes back. And I'm pretty sure we're twins separated at birth because SHE CAN READ MY MIND.

So go check out their blogs and send a little love their way.

Writing to Get Published

 I'm a little different from most other writers I've met so far in one glaring way: I have never been an English major or studied creative writing or participated in any class that might remotely help me write novels.  No, in college I majored in Floral Design Management.  Most people laugh when I tell them that, like they think it's a joke, like it's on the same level as majoring in Coloring in the Lines.

Oh, that was your major?  Oh.  *cough*

But I loved it!  I got accepted in a lucky way, too.  In high school I took a course called Experience Based Career Education, where you got to go and do little mini-internships around town.  I chose Jr. High PE Teacher (pretty intimidating when the kids are bigger than you) and Floral Design. 

The woman I worked for, Chris of Christine's Floral, was wonderful.  She made me tie bows until my hand was perma-cramped.  I stripped roses of their thorns and cleaned out buckets.  I even got to put together a vase of roses for an order (and failed so miserably that one of the designers had to bail me out.)  It was the best. 

So when it came time to fill out my college application, I knew what I wanted to do.  The school I went to, BYU-Idaho, is one of the few universities in the country that actually offer Floral Design.

The day the application was due, disaster struck in the form of a power outage.  I sent it in the next day and got a very polite rejection letter stating that I was too late.  A few days later I got a call from the department head saying that they had an opening and that I could have it if I promised to stick with Floral Design for at least two semesters and then I could change my major if I wanted.  I didn't want. 

I was so excited I ran to the store and bought myself some cheery dishes.  I was going to college!  Away from home!  To play with flowers! 

On the first day of school I showed up to class with a rosy outlook.  Classrooms full of flowers just smell good anyway.  Have you ever noticed that when you walk into a flower shop, how it smells?  That was my classroom.  Ahhh.

The class started with a round of introductions where everyone had to say what kind of floral experience they had.  At least half the class had already had jobs in flower shops.  I was confident in my abilities.  I knew that stems had to be cut at an angle before being put in water.  I knew about floral foam, how you can't push it into the water because that causes air pockets.  But, wow, I didn't know as much as I thought I did.  Or as much as other people, at least. 

And let's talk about raw talent for a minute, because there were a couple people who had it in droves.  For the first few weeks I could almost hear my poor little practice flowers whimpering to jump over to the next table and join someone else's arrangement.  I, apparently, didn't have that raw talent.  I didn't have the instincts to make beautiful arrangements. 

All I had was a love of flowers.

That love drove me to try harder, to assess what looked good and what looked bad, to learn all I could.  And this sounds totally cheeseball, but that love grew as I learned more.  To this day, my heart breaks for the poor, abused flowers in Walmart.  I'm like PETA for flowers, seriously.  Maybe I should start throwing dandelion milk on the produce stockers?  Would that be productive?

By the end of my college career, although I won't get all braggy and say I was top of the class, I was pretty decently high on the list.  But even better than that, I saw what I'd done.  And I was insanely proud of myself. 

Same with writing.  I have the love, I have some talent, but sometimes I look at other writers and think, "Oh...I have no idea what I'm doing here.  Wow, adverbs are bad, huh?"  But my love drives me to get better, to see what works and what doesn't, to grow.  I'll put in the work and hopefully I won't slice any fingers off like I almost did in my Wedding Flowers class.  Because that hurt.

But probably not as much as query rejections will.  Yeesh.