I've never had one of my novels reviewed. It's one of those things that will happen soon (in the geological sense), and I've been trying to prepare myself. Generally, I'm great at dealing with criticism - but reviews aren't the same as crits.

Like, when I totally pan a movie it isn't about me saying, "Hey guys, you asked my opinion and here are the ways I think you could make it better." No. It's about me laughing at what a crap job I think the final product is. There's no going back and fixing, no revising. Crit = opinion about ongoing project. Review = opinion about something that is totally out of my control.

I hate that. The lack of control thing.

Some bad reviews are so ludicrous that while they're memorable, they're easy to NOT take seriously. (See Maggie's "dog secks" review for proof of this.) Some are mean, or flippant, but some are thoughtful even when they're negative, and possibly also true. Or at least there's that little voice in your head telling you they just might be right and why didn't you see it or think to change it?

So I've been thinking about how I review things, how I make judgements about a work of art for various reasons. Last night, I was feeling melancholy so I put in one of my comfort movies: Kenneth Branagh's HAMLET. I watch it when I'm needing some beauty and tragedy. I just choose a scene and start. Sometimes I skip around depending on what I'm in the mood for. As I watched Hamlet say "time is out of joint" I realized that here was a perfect example, right in front of me, of how sometimes we hate things because WE'RE WEIRD, not because they're in any way bad.

Take Kenneth Branagh. There are a million and ten reasons to love his Hamlet. And I do. For this post, though, I'm going to be EXTREMELY shallow in order to highlight my point. So just look at him. SEXY. And when he speaks those words (I'm thinking in particular of the longing in, "what a piece of work is man" and the despair in "I loved Ophelia!") I want to die a little from nerdy, passionate bliss.

But. And of course there's a but. I have a hard time watching his Henry V. Not because it isn't brilliant. Not because he isn't amazing and all the other actors, set designers, etc weren't also amazing. I can listen to it, and his delivery of all the lines is stellar. I just can't watch it.

Same with many of Branagh's other roles. Some make me cringe for no apparent reason, other's I'm cheering for even though the rest of the movie totally blows.

Why?!?

The answer came to me one day when I was watching the totally rocking movie Dead Again. Branagh plays two characters in two different times.

1)

2)

I love love love the past life Branagh. I hate hate hate the modern day Branagh.

Going back and forth as the movie does, I realized the answer. ( Answer and image-heavy proof back here! )

In a perfect coincidence, the Kansas City Renaissance Festival ended the same weekend I came down with the harrowing disease of the novelist:

BOOK BRAIN!

That's right, no matter what I'm doing (or trying to do) every five minutes (give or take) my brain turns back around to The Novel. No, not the one I'm going to be revising as soon as I get my letter from my editor, but the new one. The draft.

I'm dizzy with it. Distractible.

For the past few weeks I've been reading source material for the novel, brainstorming, looking on the internet for inspiring pictures (and, ok, LJ icons), imagining what I'll say to interviewers when they ask me about the theme, reading poetry for appropriate epigraphs, writing various first lines, and listening to Lady Gaga*.

The purpose of all that is to create a miasma of book ingredients in my imagination, all swirling around in there while I sleep and eat and read. I've written a few mini-character sketches, some cherry opening lines. Little things.

And then, Saturday morning at approximately 8:47am, my book exploded in my brain. The first three chapters rolled out with such clarity that I nearly cried for being in the car on my way to the festival instead of anywhere near my computer. Plot! Voice! Internal conflict!

Now, that's just the beginning. And I know the beginning can (and will) change, but it's momentum and the excitement I need to carry me through the sticky openings.

Of course, I'm going to get my Blood Magic edits ANY DAY NOW. At which point Book Two will go on hold. But at least I'll have a chunk of beginning to come back to between editing rounds.

Book brain!




* Gaga has nothing to do with my book... I just can't stop listening to her. Because dude. Did you see her performance at the MTV music awards? Google it. Srsly.

- Yesterday afternoon I did something I've never done before. I wrote the first chapter of Book Two (you know, that book that's the other half of "Blood Magic in a two-book deal"). Which means... I was writing words I was being paid to write. Ok, sure, so I won't actually see any money for Book Two for months. If not years. But STILL. I'm writing a contracted book. Which is really kind of freaky. Putting down that first line was stressful, even knowing that it could change a billion times.

So, here's to writing words I'm being paid to write. :)

- A couple of weeks ago, wyckedgood suggested in a chat that the Merry Fates draw Tarot cards some time for the common prompt we do once a month. I mentioned it to Brenna and Maggie, and they agreed, so voila! nataliesee drew three cards for us: The Devil, The King of Pentacles, and the Queen of Cups. My story went up yesterday, and I really like it. Which isn't always something I can say about the stories I write for merry_fates. This one is really a ME story. The best part is that I think I did it well: the feedback I'm getting suggests that readers got exactly what I was trying to say. Which REALLY doesn't always happen.

The Devils of Our Better Selves

- BAD ART: Tuesday night we went to see a local production of Macbeth. And I just have to say: if Macbeth is a crazy d-bag in act one, the tragedy doesn't work. The director sucked all the subtlety out of the play. Everyone was always yelling and carrying on, leaping about and staggering... it was awful. AWFUL. I mean, really, the "tomorrow and tomorrow" speech is ironic because of the meta-narrative, not because Macbeth is a crazy d-bag. Plus it's wildly insulting to make the Weird Sisters crazy gypsies. Also, Lady Macbeth is ambitious, not a crazy bitch with ZERO character consistency. If she's ranting and raving in act one... again, where's the tragedy in her ranting and raving in act five? AND it only works to make Macduff lose his cool so he can "feel like a man" if everybody else in the whole play hasn't been losing it ever five minutes. PS: Your sword shouldn't hang straight down between your legs and bounce around like a stiff, overlong third leg while you stagger around lamenting the loss of your pretty ones. If you know what I mean.

- GOOD ART: And speaking of subtle: Criminal Minds is the Best. Show. Ever. The character consistency from season to season! I love you.I love that you remember that Garcia counsels victims' families, even though it hasn't come up for two years. I love that you let Morgan be smart even when he's being dumb, and don't forget his massive character flaws! I love that on My Show, the team reacts differently to the same things, and the same way to different things. I loved when Hotch, Rossi, and Prentiss walked away from the final gunning-down, because their job was done and they wouldn't participate in that violent moment, but that Morgan HAD TO WATCH. I love Garcia telling Morgan she loves him, before reminding him that he's spiraling down a bad ethical path, and I love that Morgan can say he loves her back - and they don't mean sex, just... respect and friendship. Because they're grown ups.

To everyone who wants to learn to write subtly evolving, consistent characters: why aren't you watching this show?!?!

Plus, look how pretty they are! (I'll end on that shallow note. Heh.)

With the wig, I'm Sleeping Beauty/Princess Aurora:






Without it, I'm Ursula, the evil Sea Witch:

No, seriously.

It's August 7th, and Natalie and I are at home, chilling. I'm writing when the phone rings. I don't answer the phone, so she does... and brings it to me. "Here," she says, eyes gleaming.

I take it, wondering if it's my bank or something. But no. It's L'Agent. "Tessa? Hi, how are you?"

Me: "I'm good."

L'Agent: "You're about to be better."

We had an offer. A really good one. The kind that I could have accepted gleefully. But L'Agent says she's going to notify the other editors to drum up more interest and offers. That's when the word "auction" is first uttered.

I pass through the weekend in a fit of paranoid bliss. Which I'm sure was interesting to watch. On Monday, I talk to L'Agent again and she updates me on the different places interested in maybe offering. All I really hear is "multiple houses" and that she's setting a deadline of Tuesday, August 18th at 5pm for all initial offers. She'll call me right after.

Me: "Um, I'm flying to England on that Thursday morning."

L'Agent: "Well..... we'll manage. Somehow."

Fast forward a week. A harrowing, impossible week. At the close, we have two really awesome offers, and the next step is me talking to the editors on the phone. L'Agent tries getting in contact with everyone to schedule a time, and by Wednesday night when Natalie and I were driving into KC with our dog to get him settled I didn't have anything nailed down. *stress*

But after some brief phone tag, L'Agent and I talk. I have a phone meeting the next morning at 8:30 with Editors #1, and at 9:30 with Editor #2.

And of course, I'm leaving my parents' house at 10am to drive to the airport for my international flight.

I barely sleep. Mom is up early to make blueberry waffles, which I can barely eat because I'm a bundle of anxiety. At 8:25 I retire upstairs for some privacy... only to realize my cell phone gets no reception.

*panic*

I end up outside in the driveway where I finally have three bars. It's a couple minutes after time, and I think I might puke. I've got my notebook and pen, my phone... and my parents dog wandering around. (I'm getting slightly nauseated just thinking about it again!)

The phone rings.

And wow, I have to say, it was amazing. We talked for about 40 minutes, and when I was done, my most clear thought was my career will be safe in their hands. What a happy place to end up! And I had 15 minutes to chill (ha!) before the next call.

I managed to find a more comfortable spot to sit and wait. I didn't manage to calm down before the second call came in. While I talked, Natalie started sneaking around taking pictures of me. Hiding behind the car and all that. This second conversation was only about 20 or 25 minutes. It felt even faster. When it was over, I had no coherent thoughts. Just *GLEE*

I went inside, almost passed out, babbled at my mom and Natalie, then called m_stiefvater to scream "GAHHH!"..... and we packed into the car and fled to the airport.

The amazing thing is that I knew what my decision was then. I knew. In my gut, which is terrifying to me, since I tend to put more emphasis on my rational self. It wasn't rational, it was all instinct and emotion and... it still felt so absolutely right.

But of course, it doesn't work that way in this kind of situation. From the Kansas City airport, I called L'Agent and told her about the phone calls. She was going to talk to the editors again, and keep doing what she does: negotiate. Hopefully I'd have internet in England and be able to communicate that way... if not, I could manage to find a way to call. This is a picture of me on the phone with her at the airport. Do you SEE the yellow bruising around my eyes? SO STRESSED.


You can probably imagine that it wasn't easy to relax into the airplane. I had no contact with L'Agent or internets for about 24 hours. It was harrowing. At least I had this whole other country to distract me.

I needed it, too, because the rest of the process dragged out for the whole week. More information kept coming in, L'Agent and I went back and forth every day, emailing about what I needed and what she wanted from the deal, all kinds of things that would have been so much easier to talk about on the phone... Meanwhile, I'm running around with Natalie, her sister and brother-in-law (now), my parents through , Cornwall, Glastonbury and Avebury... until finally everything was as final as it could be, and I had to pronounce the Final Decision.

It was Thursday, August 28th, and I was at a fancy wedding. Here's Natalie's post about the wedding itself.

The ceremony was at 4pm, and the first thing I did when it was over was accept the gin and tonic my Dad handed me. There were the usual wedding things: pictures, socializing, laughter. The reception began, and was lovely. There was champagne and wine, delicious food, speeches, and more laughter.

Then it was 9pm. I couldn't put it off any longer, so I went up to Natalie's Dad's room and begged to use his international cell phone. I called L'Agent.... and got her voicemail. I promised to call back in twenty minutes.

*panic*

But when I called back, she answered on the first ring, totally waiting for me. I was yelling, thanks to the pounding ABBA from the reception downstairs, possibly incoherent thanks to tiredness, alcohol, and stress... but L'Agent was fabulous, we chatted for a couple of minutes, solidifying everything.

The decision was made.

I went downstairs and danced my ass off.

The moral of the story: if you want your book to go to auction, plan to be out of the country. The universe likes it better that way.

"Tessa Gratton's debut BLOOD MAGIC, about two teens who meet in a cemetery and plunge into a dangerous world of dark magic, first love, and the deadly secrets that hide in blood, to Suzy Capozzi at Random House Children's, at auction, in a very good deal, in a two-book deal, for publication in summer 2011, by Laura Rennert of Andrea Brown Literary Agency (world)."

SEE?

( Publishers Weekly screencap behind here! )


That's me and my official book deal, right there in Publishers Weekly!

Later there will be links, and I will tell you the harrowing story of my auction (which ended WHILE I WAS AT A WEDDING IN ENGLAND. But for now, WOO!

These are the actual directions we used to find Cromlech Bodowyr on the Isle of Anglesey on our fifth and final day in Wales:

"West on A4080 through Brynsiencyn. After steep bend to left, take the first right. Continue to crossroads and go through. 1/2 mile to where the grass grows in the road. Just past some kennels is a lay by with a metal gate."

The truly amazing thing is that we found it.



Both of us were laughing the whole time once we got onto the island and veered off onto the small roads. At least we had a map, and it was a small island so eventually we'd find the ocean and be able to follow it around back to the bridge if we got totally lost. Plus, I have a rocking sense of direction and very rarely lose North on my internal compass.

( Nothing to worry about, right? )

A Prose Poem in Tweets:

tessagratton: ....my kitchen was just on fire.

tessagratton: Please don't go off, Mr. Smoke Alarm. The fire's gone, I swear.

tessagratton: I walked into the kitchen to the sound of my tea pot boiling. Smoke puffed around like some oil was burning off the stove.

tessagratton: Orange tongues of flame grasped at the tea kettle. I stood there for about 5 seconds just staring, thinking... "is...that...FIRE?"

tessagratton: It was, indeed, fire.

tessagratton: Next thought, "I should... do something."

tessagratton: I had no clue what started the fire. So no water. Instead I grabbed a tea towel, lifted up the kettle and batted out the flames.

tessagratton: Like they do in the movies.

tessagratton: Everyone survived, including tea pot and tea towel. Goblin the cat is tearing up from the smoke. All windows open, fan on.

tessagratton: I think I'll have a diet coke instead of tea this evening.

I was minding my own business, skimming LJ, when I saw a post from another writer mentioning that today is the ten year anniversary of finishing her first novel.

*blink*

It's mine, too! Not to the day - I've actually missed that by a few months, and I don't even know the exact date. But I do know that I finished my first complete novel sometime in May 1999. It was almost 200,000 words and, despite being about a half-faerie sorceress who steals other people's eyeballs in order to see for herself, was remarkably autobiographical.

I revised it, wrote a query letter, and sent it out into the world for instant fame and success. Got a few very nice responses along the lines of "dark and sexy, but not for me" (to which I shall be forever grateful). I wrote a sequel and part of the final book of the trilogy... and then got sucked into college life and thinking I was going to be a political activist or something. I didn't finish another novel until after graduate school when I realized I still didn't want to do anything as much as I wanted to write. Then, beginning in 2005, I stepped onto this path with every ounce of willpower I could find.

And I've made it, by most standards. Ten years after finishing that first novel I've not only finished a half-dozen more, but I'm working with an amazing agent and have things going on that are so awesome I can't talk about them. Like, real, professional secrets that I couldn't have properly imagined when I finished that first book, Shadow Kin my senior year of high school.

But that isn't how I know I'm a writer.

When I was little, my mom signed me up for piano lessons. It was important to her that her kids learn to play an instrument, and she thought the piano was a great stepping off place. My lessons weren't just about playing music; they included theory and history. But I hated it. Every moment of it. (In retrospect, I'm so glad I was forced to do it - not only did it work my brain differently and teach me another language, but it helped me learn to love music and to appreciate people who can make it. Thanks, Mom!)

Sitting down to practice every day after school was the worst. My own little hell. I tried to like it better by getting sheet music for songs I liked (I had the whole score for "The Little Mermaid"), but it didn't really help. Even though I had a desire to be good at music, I didn't practice. It was pure suffering. I felt uncoordinated and dumb when I couldn't get something correct, and the triumphs of memorizing a great piece and performing it at a recital (as in that picture) didn't last into the next day when I'd have to sit on the bench and sweat for the next piece.

Clearly, I was not a piano player. Nor ever meant to be.

This is what makes me a writer: I love to practice.

In fact, practicing might be the best part. When I get to start something new, to brainstorm all over the place, fling ideas down, toy with style and tone. Experimentation! It's liberating and a thrill every time.

Even when I'm angsting about the process or whining that my patterns are binding and I want to break out - I love it. Even when I'm sick to my stomach from the stress of waiting to hear back from an agent or editor - I love it. Even when I can't sleep at night because I had a great idea that won't quit racing through my imagination - I love it. When I delete and rewrite and delete and rewrite and delete again - I love it.

Because what I'm doing is practicing. Getting better. Improving myself with every word of concentrated effort.

Before merry_fates existed, I wrote short stories every month and posted them in my own journal. For my own edification. To share my work. To entertain. To practice. And that was one of the main tenets when Maggie, Brenna and I decided to form our group: writing a short story every week would be enforced practicing. It would be so hard, challenging, and some days would feel impossible, but all three of us were incredibly excited about it. Because we love to practice.

Just like every relationship, mine with my writing is full of ups and downs. Bliss and awkward silences. But I love it. Even when I hate it, I love it.

That paradox right there is what makes me a writer.

On Monday after all our castle adventures, we got back to Betws-y-Coed and ordered an official "tea for two" for our dinner.

Let me just say, it was HUGE. Just look at the layers!

Cream tea, pie, cakes, egg salad sandwiches (yes, with cucumbers in them), cookies... it was endless.

And way too much for us.

We bloated ourselves up anyway, though, and boxed up the rest. (Which was interesting, because clearly the server was surprised we wanted a box. She had to ask where they were and go hunting.)

Back at the B&B, the power was still out. This distressed me because I was supposed to be posting my fiction for merry_fates, which I'd been organized enough to write weeks earlier before we left Kansas. Maggie and Brenna had a copy in case I couldn't, but it was frustrating none the less!

However, Gwawr brought us a bottle of red wine to make up for the inconvenience and let us know they'd told her the power would be back by 9. So Natalie and I settled in and took turns taking long, hot baths by torchlight. With wine.

It was kind of awesome. :D

And the power did eventually come back on so I got my story posted.












( Pics of B&B and driving through Welsh mountains! )

In honor of Banned Books Week, John Green on his book being banned.




Favorite line: "Shut up and stop condescending to teenagers... When they read Animal Farm do they run out to farms in order to kill all the pigs before they become communist autocrats?"

Is it any wonder I have an internet crush on this guy? Check him out on his website.

If you aren't reading brennayovanoff you really should be. Not only because she's my crit partner and has a book coming out, but because she writes amazing things like this.

It's part of a blog series she's writing about what it was like for her in high school, after being homeschooled until age 16, and how it's influenced her life and writing.

The Monday fun started Sunday night, around 830pm, when the power in the B&B went out. It was rainy and there was a little bit of lightning, but nothing to constitute power outages that we could tell. We never heard any thunder, and the wind was minimal.

When we woke up Monday, it was still out. However, we got our hot breakfast, because Gwawr our hostess, is awesome and has a stove that never turns off. It's gas, and I can't remember what it's called (Natalie?), but I had my melted Welsh cheese and toast with roasted tomato, and Natalie had her veggie big breakfast thing. And despite the rain we got in the car and headed for Caernarfon.

That pic to the right is us at Caernarfon castle, and remember that the power was out so there was no hair dryer or much in the way of light to get dressed. Don't judge us by our hair.

I wish I had the pictures of our drive, but they're haven't been uploaded to Flickr yet. Suffice it to say, we drove through a mountain pass with misty rain and fog so thick we were taking it on faith alone that the road ahead didn't just end, sending us careening over the cliff edge to a flaming Welsh death. There will definitely be a Massive Driving and Other Travels post next week.

However, we were lucky in that nobody else was out. Monday was a bank holiday, and apparently nobody in the UK gets out the door before 9 like we do. We were at Caernarfon by 10, and practically had the castle to ourselves. Which was nice, because it was effing HUGE.
( More pictures and fun back here! )

A man was metal detecting in his friend's farm field in July when he discovered a huge pile of buried treasure. No. Kidding.

It's Anglo-Saxon, probably from the 7th century. When the area (Staffordshire) was part of the Kingdom of Mercia. There are so far at least 1,345 different items!

DUDE. I know this is seriously nerdy of me, but I'm practically dancing in my seat. Initial reactions are that although this is a buried hoard instead of a funereal burial, it could be as important a find as the Sutton Hoo burial ship. Or the discovery of the Book of Kells. It is such a rich find that they suspect it belonged to the king. It could have been spoils from a single great battle, or the treasure built up over a lifetime by a particularly successful war leader.

*bounce*

Go look at all the pictures!

***EDIT*** BETTER PICTURES!!! via the awesomesauce Saundra Mitchell. RAWK. ***EDIT***

Some of the collection's highlights:

SWORD HILT FITTINGS: At least 84 pommel caps and 71 sword hilt collars have been identified so far. They would have adorned a sword or seax (short sword or knife). Their elaborate and expensive decoration - many are made of gold and inlaid with garnets - suggests the weapons were once the property of the highest echelons of nobility.

HELMETS: Experts are piecing together what they believe are parts from several splendidly decorated helmets, including what appears to be a cheek-piece with a frieze of running animals. It has a relatively low gold content and has been specially alloyed, probably to make it more functional and able to withstand blows. There are also fragments of silver edging and reeded strips that may have been helmet fittings and an animal figurine that was possibly the crest of a helmet.

BIBLICAL INSCRIPTIONS: A strip of gold bearing a biblical inscription in Latin is one of the most significant and controversial finds. One expert believes that the style of lettering indicates it is from the seventh or early eighth centuries, while another dates it to the eighth or ninth centuries. The warlike inscription, mis-spelt in places, is thought to be from the Book of Numbers, Chapter 10 verse 35. The translation reads: 'Rise up, o Lord, and may thy enemies be dispersed and those who hate thee be driven from thy face.'

FOLDED CROSSES: The largest of two or three crosses in the hoard may have been an altar or processional cross. It has been folded, possibly to make it fit into a small space prior to burial. The apparent lack of respect shown to this Christian symbol may point to the hoard being buried by pagans.

Day two in Wales. It was a Sunday, and raining. We met Adam outside his B&B at 9:30am. He'd checked out and had his backpack with him which we stored in the truck as we drove 5 interminable miles to Castle Dolwyddelan.

Let me take a moment to explain miles in the middle of Wales. What would take 5 minutes on a highway in Kansas takes about 30 minutes there, thanks to a) rain and thick fog, b) twisty mountain roads a mere fifteen feet across, and c) other cars driving 20 mph faster than us despite the fact that Natalie's got the actual speed limit down by now.

Despite the constant spitting rain, we get out of the car in the tiny car park off the highway and trek to the farm that serves as the gateway to the castle. It's a working farm, and they just happen to have a little doorway where they'll take your money and send you up the sheep trail.

It was muddy and wet and smelled like, well, wool and sheep poo. As we climbed the slick path, sheep baa-ed at us and watched us from about a foot away. They were everywhere, and right next to us. The lack of fence was new (though I remember sheep all over the battlefield at Culloden, too, so it isn't a rare thing). The castle itself is a Welsh one, built in the 12th century and the legendary birthplace of Llywellan the Great, who was actually born in the nearby town. It's a cool, crumbling, old looking rectangular keep.

( More back here! )

Best conversation from this weekend at the Ren Fest. (Paraphrased to the best of my abilities.)


Scene: Mistress Azure (me) and Madame Red (rougewench)are strolling down the lane in the late afternoon. They are approached by a regular patron, dressed in a very nice blue velvet captain's coat.

Pirate: Ladies!
Madame: *kicks him*
Pirate: I mean, strumpets!
Madame: Dirty pirate. Lovely new coat.
Azure: *sighs with boredom*
Pirate: I'm a privateer now!
Madame/Azure: Oooooo. More money to spend
PiratePrivateer: Aye! I've been collecting gold! I scurvied a ship!
Madame: *blink*
Azure: *blink*
PiratePrivateer: Arrgh!
Azure: *leans in and bats eyes* Did you steal all their oranges?
Madame: *snerk*
PiratePrivateer: *looks dumb* ARGH! Aye, I stole many things! ARGH!
Madame/Azure: *walk away, try not to roll eyes*

I just realized it's been over a month since my last post that was remotely writing related. There are reasons for that (like having been in England) but sheesh! Looking at my recent blog you'd never know I r a ritr.

It just so happens that I'm reading a nonfiction book now that I didn't think was remotely research. It's called How We Decide by Jonah Lehrer. My Dad gave me this book recently (he gave it to all his kids and probably random strangers on the street. He really liked it. For good reason).

Lehrer is (basically) talking about the human brain, and how it works to make decisions. He uses modern neurobiology and occasionally psychology to map out this theory he has that we rely heavily on our emotions to decide. That Plato (and subsequent years and years of Western philosophy) was totally off the mark by suggesting that the rational brain needs to control the emotional/animal brain. And, most importantly, that we should be glad for our emotions, for our "gut reactions," and for those intuitive warnings we get from our brains but can't quite understand logically. The animal brain, after all, has been evolving for millions of years, while the so-called rational brain is relatively new from an evolutionary standpoint, and perhaps has not had the benefit of so much time to hone its abilities. (The divide between rational and emotional brain is totally false, too, which I know and Lehrer knows, but it's a good metaphor for these purposes. And anyway, Plato started it - as he started SO MANY things).

I'm fascinated by my brain, and my imagination, and how it all works to help me do all the things it takes to eventually create a novel. I didn't think this book would inform my creativity as much as it already has, and I'm only about a hundred pages in.

One of the experiments Lehrer uses spoke directly to one of the most mysterious things I've noticed when it comes to writing a novel.

The experiment:

Four stacks of cards are put in front of the subject. Each card has a direction, like in Monopoly, such as "lose $50" or "gain $25." Two of the decks have more negative cards and the other two have more positive cards. The subject is given $2000 and told to begin drawing cards, and play to get the most money at the end that they can.

After about 50 draws, the subject usually knows which decks they prefer to draw from, and after about 80 draws, they can explain why.

But after only 10 draws the subjects hands begin to sweat and other subtle emotional indicators every time they read for one of the negative piles. They're nervous.

In other words, after a mere 10 draws they feel something is "wrong" with those two decks, and it takes until 50 before they consciously realize it, and then again until 80 before their rational brain can explain why.

And subjects with brain damage resulting in the inability to feel emotions never figure out the difference in the decks at all!

What does this have to do with writing?

Last Wednesday, I had to write a short story for merry_fates. I started three different stories before I began the one that I eventually finished. And each time, after a paragraph, or a sentence, or in the last case, 600 words, I felt like something was wrong. I didn't know what. There were no obvious flaws. They simply weren't working. I could feel it. So I scrapped and began again.

This happens when writing novels even more. It's this sick feeling in my stomach that says, you're doing something wrong. There are a lot of ways to work with this, and usually they revolve around going back and trying to find a way for my rational brain to catch up with my emotional brain. Not only is it ok for me to listen to that intuition telling me to follow a certain character arc, or to stop immediately with that plot point that clearly isn't right - I HAVE to listen if I want to find the right story and the right path of my novel.

But here's the real lesson: it takes practice. My emotional brain didn't evolve to know how to feel out the way to the perfect novel. If that were the case, anybody could do it. I had to write novels over and over again, and I had to write 75 short stories in the past 18 months in order to set up patterns for my emotions to LEARN FROM.

It's like this. Dopamine, the neurotransmitter largely responsible for communicating what we think of a emotions, causes sea-sickness. It's because dopamine "expects" hard ground. So when suddenly it's confronted with tossing seas underfoot, it freaks out. Eventually, it gets used to the motions and learns to "expect" it, which is why sea-sickness is usually temporary.

When I wrote my first novel, my dopamine didn't know what I was doing. When I wrote my second novel, it still didn't know much. By my third, there was a pattern being established. With my fourth, and the rewrite of my third, my dopamine was learning (and so was my rational brain, but in a different way). By my fifth I was getting better, and by my sixth I could see all the critiques I was getting as I got them. I suspected what was wrong when I was done. I occasionally knew badness as it was happening, even. My sixth is the one that finally landed me some professional success.

And now, as I try to write my seventh, I am occasionally slammed to a halt by that intuition that knows, even when I don't, why something is wrong. I can logically say "but this will lead here, and that will lead there, and it will be good." But my emotions tell me "yes, that's true, but if you do that, it won't be GREAT. If you want it great, keep looking."

Creative writing is a balance. Emotion and reason. If it's all one or the other, it will fail. With every new effort, there is new learning. That's how you go from apprentice to journeyman to master.

By making mistakes so that your dopamine can learn from them.

That's Sean, me, and Travis. All Grattons, can you see it in our chins? And how we all get a tad pink-cheeked when drinking 20 year Jameson?

It's really the sense of humor that binds us together, though.

Sean's two years younger than me, and having just finished medical school, he's now a resident (or, Dr. Minion, I think I'll call him). He's married to an awesome lady (who I've known longer than he has, nyah nyah) and they both live and work in Georgetown. Cuz they're just that cool.

Travis is seven years younger than me, and having just graduated from college, he's working in a private practice to build up medical experience before he, too, goes to med school. Travis is one of those guys who walks into a room of strangers and walks out of a room of friends.

I've always been lucky with them. We likeeach other. We're friends. I enjoy doing things with them.

Once I gave Sean my dark purple nail polish. When he was 14 and going through his Trent Resnor/Marilyn Manson phase. We played Barbie and G.I. Joe together; played together all the time, really. Escape from the Orphanage in the backyard, and made movies with the boys down the street. I remember the time I played Robin Hood and we dressed him up like Maid Marian because we thought it was hilarious. We read a lot of the same books, and although we learn different things, we're always learning. Sean knows exactly who he is.

I introduced Travis to theater, and how to put on theater make-up, dance the waltz, and kiss a girl's hand. All my friends in high school thought he was adorable. He could go head-to-head with my best movie-loving friends on random Hollywood trivia, and loves to rant about a bad movie as much as I do. It's best when we disagree and can argue harder than anyone until it's time for dinner. When he went to college he joined a fraternity, despite my whole family being appalled. I asked him why, and he said "Because neither you or Sean did." Travis is unaccountably brave.

My baby brothers are, in other words, total awesomesauce. Even if one lives so far away and the other drinks Nati Light.

Med Student Kills Intruder with Samurai Sword.

YES.

Oh, yes.

Link from m_stiefvater, who knows what I love.

Because my abilities to transition are sadly lacking this week:

- Dude. Thanks to the month of August, I am so off my game it took me 7 hours yesterday to write a short story for merry_fates. We had "hellhounds" as our common prompt, and I went through the Cwn Annwn, Cerberus, Garmr, and finally back to the Wild Hunt and Thomas All by 3:30pm. I haven't had such a frustrating writing day in ages. But my story went up just before 5pm: Thomas and the Queen of Dogs. I managed to kind of like it this morning! Whew!

- I got notice from the university library that I must return two of their books. Apparently there is, in fact, a time limit for how long you can have books out. I think I've had these for two or two-and-a-half years. :D Thanks to the renew button and the fact that nobody else wants Beowulf's Wealhtheow and the Valkyrie Tradition by Helen Damico or Myth and Religion of the North; the Religion of Ancient Scandinavia. by Gabriel Turville-Petre. Yes, I did read them, and was keeping them for notes! One day I will find them in the flesh (so to speak) and make them MINE.

- Criminal Minds Season 4 arrived on Tuesday! Woo! The new season starts next Wednesday, so we are cramming them in whenever possible to see if we can rewatch all of season 4 before 5 starts. :D Fun times! (But reminds us of the Agent Watch 09 when I was so stressed we blew up the air mattress so I could just doze all night to the sounds of seasons 1-3. Hehe.) We may have gotten up at 6am two days in a row to watch an episode before work instead of exercising. Yes, we watched them all as they aired, so we've seen them before. What? Shut up! It's not a sickness! We could quit any time. I swear.

Check out the hoodie nataliesee's dad's girlfriend sent me.


Can you read backwards? Heh. It says AUTHORS RULE!

And yes, we totally do.