Where do your ideas come from?
What a splendid, stress-inducing question!
I do love this question as it shows the person is genuinely interested in my work and makes me feel impressive. Then I open my mouth and think, "You're about to sound very unintelligent." I fumble through some nonsense about atmosphere, eternal truths, and organic thought. As the Question Asker's eyes de-glaze they say, "Well, I can't wait to read it!" and we end the conversation.

Oceans and...

Honestly, I've never really thought about where my ideas come from. I thought they just came. Sometimes I force myself to come up with whatever happens next because it's time to write that scene and ideas are no longer allowed to hide. Sometimes I'm writing a scene and someone new walks in, someone I've never met before, but there they are, waltzing in all living and breathing right in the middle of my story. Mostly I listen to music and dream it up. As lovely as these examples are, none of them actually answer the question, where do your ideas come from?
But the other night I had a realization of sorts. I went to a party in Brush Prairie, WA(read: soggy farm land). When I was leaving the party I walked onto the porch and felt the night.
The rain had relented. The deep night sky peaked starless through white clouds and a cluster of mammoth pine trees reached out to me with long, piney fingers.
I descended the porch steps to the field-like lawn and tried to find the stars. When I moved my head the clouds seemed to seep across the sky, but when my head was still they sat still as well. As I stood in the cold, wet air nodding my head at the clouds, I heard a playful sound in the trees to my right. When I looked to the trees I was struck by how frightening pine trees are at night. Peering into the deep black bows I imagined what monsters might have found their perfect hiding place in their branches as the oddly childlike tune of the trickling rain drops held my scariest thoughts at bay.

...xmas trees always give me ideas. Always. 

Just then, I heard someone coming out of the house so I quickly took it all in again. The melody, the dark hiding places, the red-light-green-light clouds, the inky sky, and the wet, wide field. I'm saving you for later, I thought.  And they all sighed with relief because they made it. I cared that they existed and I put them down here. They will each live forever in words written and read.
I've known since I was a teenager that I see the world slightly differently. Things like oceans and Christmas trees are significant and it is very important that I pay them the attention they deserve.
I used to think my ideas Rolodex consisted mostly of nature, but it turns out I notice and save everything. Things like selfishness, judgement, tent cities, brothers-in-law, tiny hands, and cups of coffee so warm and comforting '"it's like drinking a blanket."
Which reminds me, I steal almost everything from you. That last line was not written by me, but said by another writer I know. Sometimes I take your words(with permission, of course) and sometimes I take you and mix you with my favorite parts of books: kindly monk figure(Brent Stahl), strong and reserved young woman(Tess Stern), young knight fighting for justice(the serious House Church Leader version of Matt Solschied), unaffected chick who could easily kill you(Annalise soon-to-be Southwood)  happy-go-lucky, take-on-the-world, true-to-the-end best friend(Brett McLean).
And that's where my ideas come from. Everywhere. But only if I'm paying attention.

A Lark of Sorrow

Of the days when you're just sad and there's no way to fix it.

Away in the peace of a deep green wood

I heard a lark sing the song that he could

Of love newly lost and unfortunate things

Comprised the tale that the lark could sing

Away! I cried, Be gone or be still!

Alas, moaned the lark, I am not yours to quell.

How to be Alone: A Lesson from a Pro

About four years ago, in what was the beginning of the most hopelessly lonely years of my life, my mom prayed, "God, Tori went off to Bible College and is in the very middle of your will, can't she at least have fun on a Friday night?" He said, "Bo, I want so much more for her than a fun Friday night." And this is what He meant.

Alone.
If there's one thing I have under my belt, it's how to be alone.
I've been alone in the darkened theater.
I've been alone in the sun and alone on the rainy beach.
I've been alone.
I need alone, too.

I write alone.
I write alone because the second someone says, "You should add purple scarecrows," purple scarecrows are off limits because they weren't my idea.
I write alone because it's easier to be honest when no one sees you do it.

I sleep alone.
I try very hard to only cry when I'm alone.
I worry alone.
I dance alone.
I dream alone.
I hang out alone. "Ashley liked your status." "Jake retweeted your tweet." "Hannah commented on your photo: #instalife"
Those are the worst alones. They remind you that you are alone.

I pray alone.
I wait alone.
I grieve alone.
I sing alone. Loudly.
I clean alone.
I read alone.
I am the most myself alone.
I moved away from my family all on my own.

Still, I'm only lonely occasionally.
In those moments of lonesome, I call it what it is, smile, and move on.
That sounds like the sort of advice one would receive from someone who gives completely useless advice, but 90% of the battle is giving it a name.



Loneliness,
Fear,
Boredom,
Anger.
When I can't figure out what I'm feeling I say, "I'm in a Funk. It's just a Funk Day," and that usually does the trick.

True story.

All of this alone has taught me how to value loneliness.
It's highlighted my weakness and my strengths: Not great at building a bookshelf, super good at filling.
It's taught me to rely on my own spurring on of self confidence instead of the verbal or typed affirmation of others('cause I'm awesome, that's why).
It's taught me to value the church family I have now and the family that I will have someday.
Because let's be honest, we'd really rather not be alone.

In it's healthiest state, being alone hasn't taken me away from others so much as it has brought me to God.
God is always there.
He knows what I'm thinking and feeling even when I don't realize it, or won't admit it.
He dances and cries and even, on occasion, giggles like a little girl with me.

While I may be the most myself when I am alone, I am a better myself when I'm with Him.
I'm joyful, content, hopeful, compassionate, confident, and lighthearted.
And that is so much better than a fun Friday night.

6 Down 94 to Go: The many faces of Cowardice

Days Writing: 6

Goal: 6000 words

Words Written: 6042

Coward 

Writers, if you didn’t know, are notoriously neurotic. Our minds run wild and play very cruel games with us. My mind would be doing this to me no matter what my skill set were so it’s a good thing I got writing skillz so I have something to blame it on.
Writers have a particular and definable set of neurotic battles that play in our heads. This week I was hit full in the face with the battle of perfectionism.

     If I were going to pursue a career besides this one, I would be a psychologist so please excuse me as I get all deep and psychological, but I think we’ve mislabeled perfectionism. For the sake of clarity let’s at least get the names of the battles right.

 Coward    

  Perfectionism is when you can’t keep writing because your mind keeps screaming all of the fixing that needs to happen. You haven’t described the cook yet. Where is this sentence going? I thought that was happening in the second act. You’re spending too long on this scene. You’re going to fast through everything! One of my favorite quotes by author Anne Lamott happens to be about perfectionism, “Perfectionism is based on the obsessive belief that if you run carefully enough, hitting each stepping stone just right, you won’t have to die.” This is exactly what I thought. 
The level of completeness of my work had, in my mind, become directly tied to my survival. Also to my future.   I’m not in school, I have no degree, I’m not certain my Christian Humanities would have meant a whole lot anyway, this is it. I’ve decided I want to write and if I can’t do that, I’ve failed. But if my book is perfect now, if I plant clues and weave story lines and construct dialogue just right, each step of the way, then maybe I’m ok. Maybe I didn’t miss my chance.

Goose.

    This is ridiculous. I turned 22 this month, the idea that I could have missed my chance at living a successful and fulfilled life is preposterous and just a little arrogant. No, this is not perfectionism. This is cowardice. Market research gives me an excuse to read a lot of teen fantasy(knights, kings, dragons, and crap) and if there's one thing I've learned from those stories it's that you are no better than the thing that kills you. If you die brave and strong you will be remembered as brave and strong. If you die a coward, you were a coward. I can tell you right now, my momma didn't raise no cowards.  

     To hell with cowardice. Forward march! 

3 Down 97 to Go

Days Writing: 3

Goal: 3000 wds

Words Written: 3600

I don't have a lot to say about it today, except that these first few days have not been easy, but they are looking up. I'm finally figuring out what they mean when they say, "Don't take yourself too seriously." They mean(in a Jersey accent), "Who do you think you are, a god or something?! No. No one but a freakin' loon thinks they can sit down and write a masterpiece, ok? Honey, ya doin' fine, just get that crap out and we'll fix it latuh. And fuh the love of Guod, stay away from dialect."  

Roth the Cripple, a slimy fella.  

Thank you, experienced Jersey author in my head, that actually makes me feel a lot better. And it's true. The more I write, but more I'm realizing it doesn't really matter how much your first draft sucks, just get it on paper and you can fix it later. 

On a happy note, one of my favorite characters just showed up. His name is Roth, cause I'm basing him on a character played by Tim Roth. Obviously I'm real good at naming stuff. 

1 Down, 99 to Go

This is the roof that I slept on in Haiti  and that inspired the roof
 from which Elynna watches the stars. 

Well folks, we have survived the first melee. It's possible that choosing to write page 1 of the first chapter during my very first writing session was a bad idea.
     The first part of your book is just so dang important. It's where you introduce your character, the world they live in, the people they live with, what makes them special, what their deepest desires are, and what needs to change. That's quite a shopping list.
     As a reader, it's all about writing style and story style. The way an author starts their book is very, very important to me. If the they introduce me to their story in a way that's overly dramatic and/or too on the nose, I'm out. "Rebekah Alvarez didn't know she was a spy. Didn't know that is, until this afternoon when her life, and maybe the entire world, would change forever!" No thank you.
     I have such high standards for the opening chapter and such high respect for authors who do them well, that it was rather nerve wracking to write my own. Also, there's a lot to do. All of the things I listed up there have to be communicated because the first chapter is your spring board from which every other thing springs. With out a properly constructed spring board, your story is just gonna flop.

Elynna lives in Southern Settlement, a city I imagine looks something like
a dry, desert version of Carrefour, Haiti.

Nevertheless, that's where I started. I edited as I went and spent a little less than four hours and 1200 words introducing my girl, giving a taste of her personality, background, and current status quo(Frodo in the Shire) and finally, setting up her emotional and physical goals(i.e. Will Frodo destroy the ring?).  It all happens very quickly, and I'm certain I'll go back and add a whole slew of interactions to communicate what the country is like, but for now it works alright. I'd like to get her to the inciting incident(Frodo is given the ring which sets him on his quest) at the end of chapter 1, so I think I'm on track.

Yesterday I wrote my first thousand words! Here's the first bit:
    Elynna wouldn’t say that she was owned by Joss, she was just severely and irrevocably indebted to him. On really rough nights she would remind herself of her at least technical freedom to keep from sinking into a black hole of bitterness. Bitterness would only make her angrier at an unchanging truth: She was trapped. There was no getting away from it. How, you may ask, does a 17-year-old girl rack up an insurmountable amount of debt? By making it to year 9.

If she hadn’t, she’d be debt free. Dead, yes, but free. If she’d only stopped while she was ahead, she’d have no soul crushing reality that her life would never be more than Indentured Tavern Girl. But she had been younger then and overcoming the natural instinct to cling to life is difficult at any age; at nine it’s almost impossible. She hadn’t know what future awaited her and was still naive enough to think that it would be good and fair and livable. “Silly girl.”

So, what does this make you think about our leading lady? What do you think about her past? Her point of view? Her demeanor? 

0 Down, 100 to Go

     This blog used to be something else. It was called Today's Writing Is...and it may return to that 101 days from now, but for now it is tasked with both giving an account of, and keeping me accountable to, writing 1000 words each day and thus finishing my first draft in the next 100 days.

Tess Stern serves as the inspiration for my story's heroine, Elynna. Who wouldn't want to watch her save a kingdom?

     I cannot guarantee it will be interesting. I cannot guarantee the book won't suck. Also, I cannot guarantee your safety(I always wanted to say that). I have simply come to the place where I have planned all I can and just can't stall anymore.Yikes!
     Here's to diving into the deep end.

V.A. Stern

Today's Writing is: Christmas Carrots

Baby carrots? No, the most delicious carrots I've ever seen!

  I remember when I was little and the days seemed so much longer and shorter and brighter than these days do now. I remember flowers and clouds and vivid green grass. And I remember carrots.
    When I was very young my mom had a garden by the house in which she grew tomatoes. One summer she let my older sister and I pick what we wanted to grow and I picked carrots. I was little enough that the idea that I had grown them made perfect sense; though I am positive that I dug once in the dirt and never watered them. I was probably three.
     A few weeks ago, I helped my lil' 2's and 3's in the church Christmas program. Wearing giant paper snowflakes around their necks like those disgusting Victorian collars--and looking adorable--they sheepishly walked, shuffled, and nudged their way onto the stage with the help, prodding, and herding of myself and two other adults. They stood there rocking back and forth and twinkling their fingers until they were herded off stage to receive excessive and jubilant congratulations from their adoring public.
     Now, being about that age, they believed every word of praise. They were the best snowflakes ever. They had done a great job. And just like that: Christmas Carrots.

It's easier to be brave,or stupid, in groups. Groups in costume.

     I think it's important to believe with destructive naivete the encouragement you are given. Unlike those kids and three-year-old me, I have known people who could never, ever take a compliment well. A coworker of mine was once told by our boss that he enunciated well. He told me, "That's not a compliment. That just means he thought I was boring."
     Honestly, I'm not always great at this but I do try to quiet my inner critic enough to hear the legitimate praise others give me. It's very easy for self-doubt to masquerade as self-protection or the Whoa-There-Meter. Getting too big headed--Whoa There! Acting too rashly--Whoa There! Not believing yourself to be the utter failure that you really are--Whoa There! See? Sometimes the voice that tells you not to order that at-home massage from craigslist is also the voice the crushes your self-worth into itching powder. It may also crush you into not much of anything.
     If I told those kids that they were disorganized and boring, they would have never participated in another church program again. They would not want to try new things and, worst of all, they would believe failure to be a cardinal sin(also their parents would have stoned me). None of these things is healthy(particularly the stoning of young women). Few of these things are even true at all(hopefully the stoning of young women).
     I think that when trying new things or doing things you love, it is good to view yourself as a two-year-old. You grew those carrots all by yourself, you were the greatest snowflake ever, and everything you do wrong only makes you cuter. Personally, this kind of confidence helps me to step out, to not take myself too seriously, and to be more willing to be coached and corrected.
     Mostly I really like to think I'm awesome. That was a joke...kind of. I also think you're awesome. That's not a joke...kind of. I doubt the other people read my blog.
  

Today's Writing is: A Thank You Note in Disguise

"Illusions, Michael!" --Gob Bluth

When I sit down to write there are usually a few things I need. I used to think these things were as simple as coffee, iPod, pen and paper. But this is like when I thought Third Day was the best artist I'd ever heard and I just hadn't met Mumford and Sons yet. Recently, however, the fates have given me some well-timed little marvels. In fact, if coffee, iPod, and paper is like "Live out Loud,"  then these lil' guys are like "White Blank Page." Here they are:

     Marvel I) A red mug with a chalkboard speech bubble and two white chalk pieces. This mug was given to me by my pastors Pete and Tamar and it is perfection. Each morning I get up, fill it with coffee, and get ready. By the time I get in my car it's half empty and sitting snug in my cup holder; where it gets polished off by the time I get on camera. Then, at some point during or after the work day, Red and I go to a cafe where he's filled again with coffee and watches me write. Finally, we go home, get washed, and rest up for tomorrow morning. Red is now an essential part of my ability to quite myself enough to write. I see him as my own little VeggieTales friend who sits there supporting me adorably. 

Ya, that's cork board. Jealous? 

     Marvel II) A beautiful notebook designed and created just for me by my remarkable Aunt Cheryl. As it happens, I write all of my first drafts the old fashioned way, with pen and paper. I have just recently starting work on my first novel and having a place that is safe and clean and warm to put all of my precious characters, plots and tragedies is priceless. My secret hope is that the spirits of the muses that help Aunt Cheryl create such lovely cards may have taken up residence in these pages and will make my words equally lovely. A girl can hope.

     My highest accolades to Aunt Cher for making for me a notebook containing beauty, simplicity, functionality, inspiration, and class. Spot on. (Additional aunt accolades for delicious food, inviting me to Easter dinner every year, mothering my best friend and cousin, Taylor, and being fearlessly creative.)

     The thing I love most about these two gifts is that they come from my family and from my church family and it's just nice to have them close now that I'm doing something which requires bravery and the taking of risks.

     A giant thank you to Pete, Tamar, Aunt Cher, and Mom--who gave me the book for Christmas. I'll save you all a dedication somewhere in the future.:) 

Happy New Year, 

Miss Victoria Stern