Image by PSD (http://www.flickr.com/photos/psd

Sometime this morning, after a groundhog tells us all what to expect for the rest of the winter, an armadillo will leave its burrow down here and the message will be: “It’s Texas — who the hell knows what to expect!”

It’s been in the mid 70s, lately. While winter in Texas is much different than winters growing up north of Chicago — even by Texas standards — it’s been mild.

And it’s been busy.

What’s Been Up?

Between the passing of my father in law on Christmas morning and a very busy couple months at the day job, things seem to be getting back to normal. I actually got the chance to open A Magic Life and get some work done, recently.

I’m working on a new design for my personal website, and planning things for The Juggling Writer. (There have been a few requests for more videos, so I’ve been considering what I’d like to do for that.)

And I’ve been trying to get some more interviews lined up.

Speaking of Interviews…

I’m pleased to announce that on February 7, I’ll be running an interview with author, Alex George.

Alex’s book, A Good American (affiliate link), will be released that day. It’s a great interview that gives a glimpse into how Alex juggles being a lawyer, a single father, and staying active in his community with writing novels.

We also talk about how music plays into A Good American, how Alex has been dealing with all the wonderful praise the book has received before its release, and the good and bad sides of being a writer.

In conjunction with the interview — I’ll also be doing a giveaway for a copy of A Good American, so be ready for that!

The Rest of February

And that’s it!

I’m sure more will come along as the month goes by, but that’s what I have planned for February.

If there’s anything you’d like me to write about, leave a comment or get in touch and let me know.

Here’s to a great month!

In honor of the 300th Juggling Writer post:

Source: http://itsfunnyto.me/post/15624626277

I’ve still never seen the movie, 300, but this makes me laugh every time I see it.

Thanks for sticking around for the first 300; here’s to many more posts!

* * *

Monday, it’s back to a normal update: a review of Ann Pratchett’s The Getaway Car: A Practical Memoir About Writing and Life (Kindle Single) (affiliate link).

Yesterday on my personal Facebook page, I posted the video above. A very good friend replied, saying that he’s all about e-books and audio books these days, because it allows him to not be weighed down by books and lets him read/listen on the go.

The Power of E-Books

I love physical books, but I’m not against e-books and audio books; in fact, in the past two years, I’ve read more digital books than physical books.

I find myself taking in non-fiction as audio books more and more, because it’s easy to listen to while at the gym or formatting things at work. (As a technical writer, music with lyrics and podcasts can be distracting, but sometimes — if I’m formatting a lot of procedures and not writing — I can listen to something with words.)

This is the point my friend made: reading is no longer this thing we do before bed, or on lunch breaks.

• Long line at the DMV? Pull out your phone and read.
• Ride a train to work? You’ve probably seen more e-readers in the last couple years.
• That kid you think is checking Facebook on her phone? She’s actually reading. (Okay, reading and checking Facebook.)
• Long commute or road trip? Listen to a book.

E-readers were big sellers this past holiday season, and I have to think that most of the people buying and receiving an e-reader don’t leave it on the nightstand. I see them at work, at cafes, and even in restaurants.

All over the place.

So What About Physical Books?

Just because I love e-books and audiobooks (although I’m still not a big fan of fiction as audiobook — I like the way it all comes in when reading silently), it doesn’t mean there’s not room for physical books in my life.

I didn’t get an e-reader for Christmas, but I got a small pile of books I’ve been enjoying.

The Start of 2012's Reading List

For some reason, before bed at night or on a lazy afternoon on the couch, I like physical books best. With an exception: BIG books.

I recently reviewed Craig Thompson’s Habibi, which is a stunning physical book in its design — but at over 660 pages, it’s heavy and not as easy to get comfortable with as my phone or an e-reader.

Still, for certain authors, there’s just something about cracking open a book that I will always love.

What About You?

How have your reading habits changed in recent years? Do you find yourself reading more e-books on the go, like my friend, or do you still prefer to curl up in bed with a good [physical] book?

One thing’s for certain, whether you prefer digital books to physical books (or the other way around) — taking time out to read, and the habits that come with doing so, will hopefully never die.

It seems fitting to begin the new year by reading a new book: Salman Rushdie’s Midnight’s Children, a book about children born at the stroke of midnight in India in August of 1947 — at the very time of the country’s independence.

Reading Rushdie’s introduction to the 25th anniversary of the book, he talks about how he wasn’t sure he could pull it off.

The book went on to win the Man Booker Prize.

Besides the fear of trying to pull off the most ambitious book he’d written to date, Rushdie obsessed over the title. He originally thought it should be named either Children of Midnight, or Midnight’s Children.

After much struggling, he settled for Midnight’s Children.

What’s In a Title?

According to the introduction of the book, once Rushdie settled on a title, things came into focus. He said:

To know the title was also to understand the book better, and after that it became easier, a little easier, to write.
- Salman Rushdie, from the introduction to the 25th anniversary of Midnight’s Children.

I’ve written about what goes into a cover before, but titles are where a book really sings. At least that initial connection. The cover can pull you in from across the room, but the title is the next step.

I haven’t read it, yet, but I can’t imagine Midnight’s Children being named anything but Midnight’s Children.

I can’t imagine most books I loved named anything but what they are named.

My Own Books

I have to admit — despite its length — I’m mighty proud of the title of my first book, Hell Comes with Wood Paneled Doors. It tells a reader all they need to know. It is, after all, a humorous book about a family traveling cross country in a possessed station wagon.

My second book, Glimpses, is a paranormal mystery set in 20s Chicago. It’s about a nice-guy detective in a tough city…a detective who gets glimpses of crime scenes when he’s left alone to focus on the places where terrible things occurred. Since writing the book, that type of character has become kind of common over the years, so I may change the character’s ability and the title of the book should I decide to dust it off and actually do something with it. (It’s the only big writing project I shelved.)

My third book, Promise, is named after the small town in Wisconsin where the book takes place. There is no real Promise, Wisconsin, but those who have read it so far — first-line readers and agents alike — feel I’ve captured a sense of place. That’s one of the best compliments I’ve received, since the town is an important part of the book.

Lately, I’ve been working on a book called A Magic Life, a story about a female magician rising to fame against the odds in the 40s and 50s. So far, what I’ve written is the writing I’ve dreamed about creating for decades.

I even put stock into the titles of books I have yet to write. The book I’ll write after A Magic Life is called The Lost Luck of Edek Baran. It’s about an old man in a nursing home who promises to pay off a recent college graduate’s school loan if the graduate helps the old man escape from the home. When the graduate discovers the old man is broke, the old man — Edek Baran — promises to give the graduate his luck…if only he can find where he lost it along the way.

It’s a story close to my heart; years ago, a one-legged World War I veteran asked me to help him escape from a nursing home where I worked.

How About You?

How about you — what are some of your favorite titles? Did the pages between the covers hold up to the titles, or fall flat?

2011 wasn’t as busy a year for The Juggling Writer as last year. I’m sure, in part, that starting a new job was partially to blame for only 93 entries for the year — not the 150 entries of the year before. But it was still a good year.

• I wrote almost 95 entries this year.
• I started a new novel. And I like how it’s coming along.
• I self published some short stories and a novel as e-books.
• I made more videos.
• I juggled more.
• I took a 101-day social media break.

So not a bad year at all!

And of the entries I wrote for The Juggling Writer, here are my favorites…

My Faves

January: Be Quiet. I don’t reveal much about things I’m working on because I think talking about writing spoils it for readers. There’s a lot to be said for the adage, “Actions speak louder than words.” There’s a lot to be said for being quiet and plopping a manuscript down in somebody’s lap instead of telling them all about a story that’s not even written.

Honorable Mention: In Praise of Slacking Off. It can be so easy to fixate on writing — spending most waking hours thinking about it and piling up pages. This entry was written after a weekend of no writing. Surprisingly, there was no guilt; in fact, it was a great weekend that led to better writing. Sometimes it’s a good idea to just slack off!

One More for the Hell of It: The entry that comes up the most in Google searches bring people to this site: How to Know if You’re a Good Writer.

February: Snow Juggling. Since I cheated and shared three entries for January, here’s just one for February to even it all out. Not writing related, but I am in the snow, while wearing a kilt…and juggling.

March: Dyslexic Writers Unite. In 7th and 8th grade, I was put in learning disability classes for dyslexia. I never let it get in the way of my love of reading and writing. In many ways, I owe my love of reading and writing to dyslexia. Here’s why…

Honorable Mention: Moving Forward. I have yet to meet a writer who doesn’t think they could do more. Whether it’s promoting their writing more or producing more, we’re often our own worst enemies. Here’s what you can do about that.

April: 12 Tips to Prepare for a Writing Weekend. Give yourself at least one long weekend in 2012 to just hole up and write. Follow these 12 tips, and you’ll get a lot done.

Honorable Mention: Where is the Big Literary E-Book Self Publisher? 2011 was quite a year for e-book self publishers. We saw strong mid-list writers walk away from half-million-dollar contracts and do it on their own. We saw no-name writers become millionaires through self publishing their work on Amazon.com. But we still haven’t seen the big literary self publishing success story. I wonder if we’ll see it in 2012?

May: A Writer’s Politics: Does it Matter? Written in response to seeing a reader mention on Twitter that he was going to stop reading the writing of Bill Willingham because of Bill’s politics. It made me wonder: does a writer’s politics matter?

Honorable Mention: Book Review: Bernard DeVoto’s The Hour: A Cocktail Manifesto. One of my favorite entries of the year was a book review. While DeVoto was a curmudgeon and outright wrong about more than a few things in this book, one can’t but love his writing. And the last chapter of this book is simply beautiful!

June: Exciting Writing. Write what excites you…or consider not writing at all!

Honorable Mention: Writing about Writing. I work on The Juggling Writer because I want to…not because I feel I have to. By not trying to make money with this blog, I don’t write just for the sake of writing in the hope of advertising impressions or clicks — I write because I genuinely enjoy what I do and because I like sharing things and seeing what people feel about the things that matter to me.

July: Google Plus for Writers. Another social network to pull at a writer’s time. But…I like G+ — so much so that I wrote a little tutorial about how writers might use it.

Honorable Mention: Initial thoughts about Google Plus. From the beginning, Google Plus seemed like a place that could be cool for writers. I love that the writers I follow on G+ are able to really chat with people in ways they can’t on Twitter and even Facebook.

August: The 50-Day Social Media Break. August found me logging off social media sites for 50 days. I liked the break so much, I went 101-days. Read why I decided to take a break.

Honorable Mention: Shameless Plug. I’m fortunate to know some very cool people. This entry was a shout out to some of my creative friends.

Hell Comes with Wood Paneled Doors: The first review.

September: Speak Out with Your Geek Out. Monica Valentinelli was the inspiration for taking a 101-day social media break. She also came up with Speak Out With Your Geek Out, a movement to celebrate one’s geekier side. This is my entry, a love letter to juggling and my wife.

Honorable Mention: 20-Sided Ideas. Another Speak Out with your Geek Out entry — this one about Dungeons and Dragons and how it affected storytelling.

October: Evernote for Writers. An entry so cool, it deserved its own page! A video and tutorial showing writers how to use Evernote to keep all their research together. You know you want to read it — it has a zombie alien in it!

Honorable Mention: Judging a Book by Its Cover. Why book covers matter!

An Interview: Oh! October was the month that Shawn Kupfer interviewed me about Hell Comes with Wood Paneled Doors over on his blog.

November: 101 Days without Social Media. The results of going 101 days without social media. (I must admit, I liked the break so much that I’ve toyed with the idea of making 2012 an entire year without social media.)

Honorable Mention: Writing Terroir. What does your writing taste like? This is one of my favorite Juggling Writer entries ever!

A Glimpse at a Work in Progress: When I made a change with the novel I’m currently working on, I decided to share a little bit, here. Thanks to all those who have let me know they liked it — that means a lot to me!

December: What Do Italian Fig Cookies have to do with Writing? When people find out I can only make 4-5 of these cookies an hour, they think it’s all kind of futile. At the same time, everybody who sees these cookies is impressed. What does that have to do with writing? Sometimes, the best things take time…

Honorable Mention: The Things Not Said. Often, it’s the things not said that speak the loudest. Just like in the clips in the entry by comedian, Louis C.K., good writing relies not on hammering points home, but a degree of subtlety that stops a reader mid-sentence and makes them think.

2012

So that’s a glimpse of some of my favorite entries from 2011. I hope everybody has a great and productive new year!

This time of the year, Italians make fig cookies.

Most fig cookies I’ve seen are cucidati, similar enough in shape to a Fig Newton, but with a totally different dough and frosted.

[A quick aside: there's really no comparison between Fig Newtons and Italian Fig cookies. While I've liked Fig Newtons since childhood, the filling of Italian fig cookies is an explosion of flavors that puts Fig Newtons to shame. Sorry Fig Newtons!]

The cookies we make — cosi di ficu — take a lot of time to make. While cucidati are made by rolling out the rough and wrapping it around a long cylinder of fig filling and then cutting into smaller pieces, cosi di ficu are made one by one, each cookie taking 10-15 minutes to make.

When we’re done and give the cookies to friends who aren’t familiar with them, they often feel guilty because they know the effort that went into making them.

A Matter of Time

I often draw parallels between things in my life and writing. When I write, I take my time. I respect those who can produce 2-6 books a year. I have it in me to crank out writing, but it doesn’t feel right for me. Even if I’m writing something leaning more toward genre fiction, which has the reputation of being a speedy first draft, I take my time. It’s the same thing with the fig cookies my family makes.

I love taking the time to get each cut just right, just as I love taking my time with writing. Why would I rush a first draft when it — and future drafts — can be stronger if I step back and think about things more, instead of racing to the end? I admire those who take part in NaNoWriMo, but it’s not right for me. I never bought into Hemingway’s sentiment that, “The first draft of anything is shit,” as an excuse to just crank something out and then really start working on it.

It may work for some, but it doesn’t work for me.

Taking Time to Write

I can spend the entire day working on just one juggling trick in order to perfect it; I can spend the extra time cutting cosi di ficu while thinking about where part of my family came from; I can spend time sitting back and thinking about every word that ends up on the page, even though it might be in my best interest to just bang out a first draft as fast as I can and fix things later.

But I’ve always enjoyed slower things.

This isn’t a knock at those who write fast. Just as there’s no reason to argue which is better, cucidati or cosi di ficu, there’s no reason to argue the merits of genre fiction and upmarket/literary fiction over the other. I’m fortunate to have a good friend down here in Texas who makes cucidati each year. One year, he gave me more cookies than usual during our swap and I was able to let some friends try cucidati and cosi fi ficu side by side. People loved and appreciated both kinds of cookies, just as people love and appreciate different kinds of fiction.

We all find our own rhythm and move to the beat that’s right for us.

In Praise of a Steady Pace

When I’ve thought about just plowing through a novel, I think about how it’s never worked for me. I think about relatives who took their time plying their trades: art, woodworking, and even running a butcher shop. I think about my great grandmother who came over from a village in Sicily and the time she put into making fig cookies. When I think about those who came before me — just as when I think about the writers I’ve admired since childhood — I know the pace at which I work, steady and focused but still fast enough to get things out on time, is the right pace for me.

My father moved to Kansas from Chicago when I was 8 or 9. After my step mother divorced him (sometime in my early teens), he eventually settled in Independence, Missouri, where I visited during the summers.

He tried taking time off work when I visited so we could go fishing, canoeing, and camping. Before one of those trips, on a Friday he’d taken off to prepare for a long weekend, he took me to the shop where he worked so he could pick up his paycheck (he was a mechanic specializing in forklifts and heavy machinery).

After stopping at the shop, he drove to a liquor store where he cashed his check and paid his tab for booze he’d purchased there before payday. (In addition to being a good mechanic, my father was also a good alcoholic.)

Then we drove to another liquor store where he paid another tab.

Then another liquor store, and finally one more…

Autobiographic Fiction

I’ve mentioned that I like making most things up. I’ve always believed people who say, “Truth is stranger than fiction,” simply aren’t reading the right fiction.

Good fiction is a reflection of the things that happen to us, the things around us, and our thoughts. But it’s still fiction.

I’ve met a lot of people who take real-life experiences and drop them into stories…and it’s usually pretty boring. Unless you’ve lived a life worthy of a story, retelling your life’s story is probably only interesting to you and a handful of people.

That’s not to say that, as writers, we shouldn’t write what we know. We should just know enough to take a bit of truth and make it something more.

Making it Up

Rarely does something that actually happened make it into a story I’ve written. And when it does, things are often changed quite a bit.

The memory of my father paying his tab at several liquor stores popped up in my last completed novel. The protagonist, a former celebrity chef named Ryan, talks with his friend — an artist nicknamed Grizz — asking why he never drinks more than two beers:

“Why do you stop at two?”

Grizz stopped cleaning brushes for a moment and looked across the garage. “My old man was a drunk. And I think, if given the opportunity—especially now that Gert’s gone—that I could be one too. I’ve been awfully close to it in the past.”

“Gotcha,” Ryan said.

Grizz returned to cleaning, working on a brush as thick as his thumb. “My dad was a beer drunk. He drank other stuff when it was available, but it was primarily beer. From bottles—he said cans were for alcoholics. He was never mean, but he was always hammered.

“We had a deal,” Grizz continued. “He’d ask me to get him another beer when he was done with the one before, and I’d get a sip before handing it to him. There were days he drank so much—so fast—that those sips added up and I was getting drunk when I was ten, just bringing Dad beer.

“When I got older, I realized what a problem it was. He took me into his shop on a payday, and he cashed his check at a liquor store. He also paid a tab he had open: forty bucks—all booze and smokes. Then we stopped at another store and paid another tab. And then another. It seemed like we hit every liquor store in the north woods. I asked him why we were hitting so many places. He just kept driving. I knew he was embarrassed about his drinking. He thought that if he at least spread it out over several stores, he wouldn’t look like the drunk he was.

“After paying his last tab that day, he paid cash for a case of beer and went home and drank it in a sitting—a reward for a hard week’s work.”

Ryan set his beer down on Grizz’s workbench. “Damn…”

“Yeah. It was sad—Dad just sitting in a chair, watching TV, drinking beer after beer.” Grizz began drying his brushes with paper towels. “I saved the bottletops—for six months. I kept them in a bag, and one morning, before he woke up and started drinking, I went into his room and dumped them on him. He asked what the hell I was doing. I told him if he loved me, that he’d count every damn bottlecap.”

“Did he?”

“Oh, yeah. He loved the hell out of me—can’t deny that.”

“How many were there?” Ryan asked.

“Two thousand thirteen. And that’s just what I brought him after work and on weekends.”

“Geez. Did he stop?”

“For the most part, yeah. He limited himself to two beers a day.”

“That’s good.”

“Yep!”

Grizz twirled the ends of his dried brushes in his mouth and set them near his easel. When he was done with the final brush, he said, “Just wish he would have done the same thing with cigarettes…”

The Reality

With the exception of one of my earliest short stories, this is as close to something real appearing in a story I’ve written; and even then, much of it is made up.

My dad did drink beer, but never from bottles. I never counted how much he drank; I never demanded he stop. My dad did smoke — it’s what killed him 20 years ago last Saturday — but I have no regrets about it because it was his issue and not mine.

I needed a reason why Grizz never drinks more than two beers for later in the novel, and my mind went to the day I rode around Kansas City with my dad paying his tabs at liquor stores. Despite being based on a true event, most of what makes the scene is made up.

Most of what I write is even more made up.

How about you: do you base much of your writing on real life, or do you prefer making things up?

Burgundy wines taste like the region: deliberate and heady and herbal.

Piedmont wines are as crisp as the region. You can taste the craft of California wines and know how lush Oregon and Washington are in each sip without ever visiting. Taking in a mouthful of Riesling is like bobbing for stones in a cool river. And yep, you’re tasting steep mountains in South American wines.

Drinking an Islay scotch, you taste the sea spray of Scotland’s western islands. Peat lingers on the palate like cigar smoke. It’s a drink as wild and as strong as the region.

The Ardbeg Distillery (www.flickr.com/photos/fijian_scion)

The hills and hollers of Kentucky resonate in bourbon — clear springs, grains, limestone, and oak tucked away and ready on its own terms.

Maker's Mark Distillery (www.flickr.com/photos/joeshlabotnik)

Just after the anise in absinthe presents itself, in walks wormwood, reminding you of fields of hay and dust on the back of your throat.

Absinthe Eduoard, enjoyed with my wife on a nice afternoon.

You really can taste the yeasts and pollens in the air when you sip a Belgian ale. (Okay, so brewing environments are more controlled, now, but you get the idea…)

Abbaye d'Orval (www.flickr.com/photos/inessaraiva)

The brightness of Cascadian hops from America’s Pacific Northwest; the rich malts of the United Kingdom…all these things experienced in a heavy pint glass after work make the day’s toil worth the effort.

Hops (www.flickr.com/photos/nikonvscanon)

The earthy aroma of coffee begins the day, reminding us of the very dirt whence we came.

Ethiopian coffee beans (www.flickr.com/photos/terriosullivan)

Take your time with tea and you will know fewer greater pleasures in life.

Tea plants (www.flickr.com/photos/martijn02)

Terroir…you know it, or you don’t.

It can be defined as the combination of factors, including soil, climate, and environment, that gives wine its distinct characteristics, but it’s so much more than that.

It’s a taste of a region and its history; a connection transcending the taste in your mouth.

Like terroir, the best writing defies description — to truly know it, one must experience it and take it in on a higher level.

So I ask you…what does your writing taste like?

A couple years ago, I gave thanks to a lot of people who helped me along the way to becoming a writer.

This past year, I’ve noticed more regular readers to The Juggling Writer. That means a lot to me, and I thank you.

It’s weird (and cool) that there are people I would have never known were it not for this blog. Even weirder (and cooler): that they take time out of what they’re doing to chat with me about writing. I wouldn’t be the writer I am today without the people in the Thanksgiving post linked above, but writing seems even more worth the effort when I hear from CM Stewart, Paul Lamb, Lisa Eckstein, M.E. Anders, Anthony Wendell, Tammy Raabe Rao, Larry Tubbs, and Cynthia Griffith. I’m also very fortunate to know the people mentioned in this post.

I also know there are people who read The Juggling Writer posts, but don’t reply. And I get that. I’m thankful for those people, too.

So to everybody who stops by: thank you!

I recently shared the opening to the novel I’m currently working on, A Magic Life.

I planned to start the novel next year, but it became all I was thinking about — so I started it this month. A few chapters in, something happened: I jumped from past tense to present tense.

I’ve only written one thing in present tense in my entire life (well, only one work of fiction; in my day job as a tech writer, almost everything is present tense). My favorite novel (affiliate link) is written in present tense. I’ve liked most novels I’ve read in present tense. So now I’m finally giving it a go.

Since people liked the first bit I shared, here’s a little more…in present tense:

Another Snippet of A Magic Life

She lives in a world of sound and color, lulled to sleep by the growling of tigers and the trumpeting of elephants. In the morning, the squawks of large birds pull her from dreams of faraway places. By breakfast, the calls of roustabouts and singers practicing become background noise that would seem louder than thunder if everything suddenly stopped and gave way to silence. Wherever she turns, a kaleidoscope: the tent, yellow and red, taking over a field of grass as though it were spilled from a bucket. The peeling paint from the train cars gathering on the ground like brittle flakes of colorful snow. Costumes sparkle, the world blurs before her—she will never know what it is to be bored.

It doesn’t stop with just sound and sight—all of June’s senses join the dance. The stench of dung and damp straw bales is oddly soothing, something always there at the bottom of  it all reminding her she lives in a world of extremes. Not many children her age know the scent of pancake makeup and spirit gum. The feel of summer grass beneath her feet as dancers chase fireflies with her in the gloaming will never get old. In contrast to the soft grass and billowing fabrics all around is cold steel: tent poles, cages, and heavy tools. She’s long learned that the rough wood sides of the train car she calls home leave behind splinters if she tries tracing the garish images painted on the outer walls. Finally, there are flavors: cotton candy melting on her tongue, stuffed cabbage and soups cooked by the Hungarians from the horse show, the ever-present taste of sawdust at the back of her throat.

If she lives to be 100, her mind crammed full of a lifetime of thoughts and memories waiting to be forgotten, these days will be the last to go.