Fathers and Daughters

A couple years ago, in the midst of trying to understand some strange things that were happening to people I loved very much, I wrote a story that I called “Opportunity.” It was about a father and his grown daughter muddling through a very complicated relationship. There was an element of magic to it as well, coming in the form of a family ability called the berk. To place a berk was to cast a spell on someone that could become either a blessing or a curse (yes, hello, recurring theme!).

To make a long story short (which, quite frankly, would be a miracle for me), “Opportunity” was not very good. The idea behind it was lovely if I do say so myself—a daughter, Mattie, struggling to understand her father through his last words to her, which were themselves a berk. And there were some wonderful scenes, but the whole thing . . . not so much. Fortunately, only about four people in the entire world ever read it, and at least one of them was me.

What I loved about the story was these little moments between the younger Mattie and her father, back when she was a child and a whole lifetime of history had not yet built up between them. He tucked her in for bed, kissed her good night, smoothed the covers back across her when she twisted and turned from a bad dream. There was love there, even when it was imperfect, even when it was rejected.

What made me ache as I wrote it—and still does—was the missed opportunities for showing love. Well-known therapist John Gottman calls these moments “bids for connection”—times when a person makes a tiny step toward deepening a relationship. A phone call, an email, a touch on the shoulder, a smile. So many opportunities, sometimes on a daily basis, to strengthen or tear down a relationship.

To write these characters who continually ignored or rejected or just barely reached out but then pulled back was heartbreaking. Not because of the characters themselves (well, okay, a little bit because of them, but I did try to remind myself that they weren’t actually real people) but because this experience is real. It happens to people every day, all the time. I have experienced it, and so have you I’m sure. Writing these people made me want to do better, to more fully give and receive those bids for love.

I have my own imperfect relationship with my father. We live across the country from each other, and I am not a person who keeps in touch with others very well, especially at a long distance (you can ask the minutes on my phone if you don’t believe me). He is a person who deals best in conversations initiated by the other individual. We are both sometimes too wrapped up in our own projects and feelings and ideas to listen very well to what the other one has to say. And even amid all that, I know there is love, however imperfect it might be.

Me and my awesome daddio.

Many of my best memories of childhood are silly moments with my dad. That time we were counting manhole covers as he drove me to school—and we both got so distracted by it that he nearly veered into the opposite lane of traffic (this actually was much funnier than it sounds). The way we ate exactly the same thing at the same fast food place for breakfast every morning for a while and I memorized the amount we would pay for it (I really wish I could still remember that number). The way he believed I could do anything (kind of a mixed blessing, really, but that’s a different story).

Days like Father’s Day and Mother’s Day are reminders to me. They are reminders of what I love about the people in my life, and reminders of where I’m not so perfect, and reminders that we love even the imperfect people—and they love us. They are opportunities to connect to those people. You might say they are berks, and we can find them a curse or a blessing.

In the spirit of that notion, I leave you with a brief conversation between the young Mattie and her father.

***

“How do you know if it worked?” Mattie once asked her father as he was tucking her into bed one night. This was when she still believed in the family magic.

“If what worked?”

“The berk. How do you know if the berk helped someone? When is it finished?”

“Ah, Mattie. That’s the thing about a berk. You really never know for sure. It always comes with a choice—you make it a blessing, or you make it a curse. You make that choice every day. Sometimes it’s hard. Sometimes you don’t know what to do or you feel lost. But when you choose the blessing . . . ” He smiled. “Ah, when you choose the blessing, that is beautiful.”

“It sounds tiring.”

He chuckled. “Sometimes it is.” He patted her arm and stood to leave. “I love you, Mattie. I hope you know that.”

“Yeah. I love you too. Good night, Daddy.”

“Good night.”

***

Happy Father’s Day to my father and my husband and my brothers and all the wonderful men in my life. I love you. Good night.

Set Thyself

The following excerpt is one of the last mini-tales I wrote for my Beauty and the Beast novel. I love the curious objects of power that so frequently pop up in the fairy tales. They’re so fun and exciting—seriously, who doesn’t wish they had a magic mirror or a bean on some serious growth hormones or a lie-detecting harp? But what I’ve been intrigued about the most lately is how those objects came into existence. Who made them, and how? And at what cost? That’s what one of my earlier stories was about (one that is not a part of this book but may be part of the loose sequel), and that’s what this one is about too. You’ve probably by now noticed an ongoing theme to these stories—the idea of blessings and curses going together. I think this is something true about human nature. We choose what we value, we choose where we focus, and in doing so we also choose whether what we are given is a gift or a curse. We choose how we react, and that makes the difference. But, to quote the Beast, “Enough philosophy. Now the story.” I hope you enjoy. 

***

“Beast,” I asked cautiously, casually fingering the soft fabric of my dress, “What do you think about the old magic? You’ve been around for a long time—”

He coughed, and I rolled my eyes.

“I mean, you tell stories about people from long ago,” I said indulgently. “You must have some thoughts about the old magic. Or perhaps some stories. . . ?”

“Hmm . . . ”

“Yes?”

“I do have one or two, but I should warn you. The stories about the old magic aren’t particularly friendly.”

“What do you mean? Everyone knows a few, and they seem just fine to me.”

“Oh, yes?” He chuckled warmly. “What stories do you know of the old magic?”

“Well, I know about the boots that would carry a man seven leagues in just one step.”

“Yes, that’s a fine story.” His voice was the kind you would use to humor a small child.

I glared. “And I know about the tablecloth that set itself with food for a banquet.”

“Indeed.”

I spoke faster, louder. “And the mirror that could show you the future or a distant place or tell you your heart’s desire.”

He said nothing, and I still felt he was indulging me.

“Or the carpet that could fly you anywhere you want to go.” I stopped suddenly. I had run out of stories I remembered.

The silence now was brooding, and I watched the shadows from the firelight play across my hands.

“Fine,” I said at last. “What’s wrong with those stories?”

“Nothing,” he said. “And yet . . . Did you ever wonder how all those magical objects were created?”

“I . . . ” I looked up, quirking my head to the side in thought. “No, I really never did.” I straightened in my chair. “Can you tell me?”

“I only know some of them. And as I said, they are not always pretty.”

He had told me dark tales before, though, and I wondered why he would warn me this time. I stared into the red, living light of the fire until I could see nothing else in the dimness surrounding me. “Tell me,” I said.

“You say you know about that tablecloth,” he began, “the one that always had food.”

“Yes,” I agreed.

“Do you know what it is to give up something you want?”

I huffed. “Of course I do. I lost my brothers, so much of my family—”

“Of course,” he interrupted. “But you did not give them up on purpose. You did not say to fate, ‘Please, take my brothers. I will give them away.’”

I thought for a moment. “I gave up my sisters and my father to come here,” I said more quietly.

“Yes. You did. So you do know something of sacrifice. And what you were really sacrificing was yourself to protect your family, so maybe you will relate better to this story than I had realized.” I could feel his eyes on me. “But you didn’t think you were giving up something of much value, did you?”

His words were not truly a question, but they stung, far too close to truth. I spoke through gritted teeth. “I asked for a story, not a philosophical discussion of my choices and worth.”

His voice softened. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to injure you. You made a hard choice and a worthy sacrifice. I wish, though, that you had not felt so meaningless personally. You certainly have not been meaningless to me.”

I looked away, blushing.

He grunted. “So, as I was saying, sacrifice. There is much I don’t understand about the old magic, things that no one ever understood really. But one thing is certain: the sacrifice. And rarely the sacrifice that you expect.”

I prodded. “So. . . . The tablecloth.”

He chuckled. “Fine. Enough philosophy. Now the story.”

#

Once upon a time there was a young farmer’s son. He had grown up during a time of great hardship, and many in the kingdom went hungry. His father’s crops had failed several times in a row, and they struggled. The young boy remembered many, many days without meals. He watched the fat slowly melt from his brothers and sisters, and he could do nothing to stop it.

But time passed, and another year came. That year the rain fell enough to quench the earth’s thirst but never enough to drown it. The sun beat gently upon the crops, and they burst out of the soil. That year there was plenty, and the next year and the next, until the days of hunger were forgotten.

But not for the boy. He had grown into a man by now and had settled down with a family of his own. He was a farmer like his father, producing enough to support his family, but little more.

And he remembered. He remembered those days of wasting away, of the hollowness in his sisters’ eyes. He looked on his own children now, his toddler with chubby rolls of baby fat still clinging to him, his older daughter with the sweet dimples in her cheeks. He could not allow them to ever suffer what his brothers and sisters had suffered. He thought on it day and night until the thought consumed him.

Now, this man had power. Not unusual in those days to have it, but many could not—or would not—wield it. But he would. He asked his wife to sew him a fine tablecloth, covered with images of glorious foods. Just to look on it would make your mouth water. When she was finished, the man cast a spell—no, Isabel, I don’t know exactly how he did it—

I grimaced and pretended I had not meant to ask.

—A spell to keep his family from ever going hungry.

Whenever they needed food, all they had to do was unfold the cloth and say, “Tablecloth, set thyself.” Food in great abundance, great quality, foods of all sorts would appear on the tablecloth. Enough to feed all who sat before it.

It was wonderful thing, a marvel! Amazing to behold, and a great gift to the family—though I suspect they had to be very careful to hide it from thieves. The man’s family always had plenty, and he slept well knowing that they would never see starvation.

“But what of the sacrifice?” I interrupted.

“What of the sacrifice, indeed,” he said.

The man’s family was safe, it is true. But the man himself, ah, that is another matter. He sat down before the tablecloth with the others, delighted to partake of the fine meal before him. But when he brought a turnip to his lips, it tasted of garbage, rot. He tried a fluffy, warm roll. The same. Roast lamb, steamed carrots, a beautiful, juicy chunk of roast beef. All torture to his tongue. He could eat, but it was a difficult enterprise, fraught with disgust and displeasure.

The man knew, somehow, that if he were to destroy the tablecloth, he would receive back to him all he had lost. But he did not do it. The years passed, and he ate only what was required to barely sustain life. The gaunt hollowness he kept from his children fell upon him instead. And the only enjoyment he received from food was the expressions on the face of his wife and children as they ate it.

For him, it was enough.

Conference Recap (finally!)

You may have noticed it’s been a tad bit longer than a day since I last posted my daily review of the conference. Ah, well. Now for a few more highlights:

Publication primer: A published author (Mette Ivie Harrison; see below), five aspiring authors (including me), the first ten pages of all our books, and six hours to discuss those pages. Good times.

Slush pile panel: The first pages of about a dozen novels (including my current project) were read before a panel of agents and editors. After each one, they discussed what they liked/didn’t like and whether they would read on. The response for my piece was very positive.

First chapter contest: Alas, I did not place. But I will say that my first chapter now is much better than it was then, I think. Also, the people who did place certainly deserved it.

Classes and workshops: Lots of great stuff. Probably the two most influential for me (aside from the primer) were Hannah Bowman’s class on story structure and pacing and Howard Tayler’s class on practice. The story structure class made me look more carefully at individual scenes as well as the overall story arc of my books. The practice class (aside from being really funny) reminded me to view writing as a skill that can and should be, well, practiced.

People: One of the great things about attending this conference was the chance to interact with this amazing group of people. They were by turns kind, funny, enthusiastic, encouraging, smart, thought-provoking, and insightful. A few of them were even all of these things at the same time. I bought quite a few of their books, but even that didn’t seem like enough. I wanted more more more! I also got most of them signed in a mass book signing. So fantastic! Over the next eternity or two, I will be posting reviews of some of those books here, but for now I’ll just post up a quick recap of some of these lovely people. So here they are, in almost no particular order…

Mette Ivie Harrison: I was terrified to meet this woman. From her website, she is clearly confident, smart, in awesome shape (she’s a nationally ranked triathlete), and just someone who knows who she is. For a woman who struggles to decide between Mexican and Indian for dinner tonight, that was daunting. Add to this the fact that she writes retold fairy tales and fairy tale-esque stories (in a way that is at once alien and intimate—but more on this in another post) and that she would be reading the beginning of my novel. It was a little nerve-wracking.

What I discovered is that she is all of those things—confident, smart, self-assured—but that she is also generous, no-nonsense, encouraging, and a person who genuinely wants to help. She was even a little like the therapist that I once wanted to be (back when I thought I wanted to be a therapist… many eons ago): willing to call people (including me) on their baggage and give new metaphors and meanings to that baggage. And hey, writing really is a form of therapy sometimes.

Her latest novel, TheRose Throne, just came out. It was lovely and intriguing, and I look forward to reading the sequel (and again, more about that in a future post). She also just released Ironmom, which is nonfiction and sounds fascinating.

C. Michelle Jeffries, who I only spoke to for about ten minutes one afternoon but whose next idea involves fairy crafts and things for younger children. It sounds so fun. I have to go rummage through my business card pile to find the website so I can link it here.

Ali Cross: I got to sit with Ali at lunch, and she was delightful. Among other things, she told me about the contest that the Authors Incognito group (an online group of authors who have attended the conference) hold every year for rejections. The person with the most rejections in every year wins. One year’s winner got 188! Way to go! Ali was also funny and energetic and full of useful information, which I learned some of when I went to her class on indie publishing (see below under RaShelle Workman). She also runs a business helping indie publishers. Ali also took pity on me when I raised my hand like a lunatic fangirl to win a free copy of one of her books. Never read her writing, but I’m looking forward to reading it soon.

RaShelle Workman: Along with Ali above, RaShelle Workman cotaught the class on indie publishing. It was chock full of awesomeness and made the idea of indie publishing seem a little more approachable. It was also fascinating to see some of the numbers on how you can make more money in indie publishing. I mean, a lot more. It’s not that I’m dying to be a millionaire (and if I were, I probably shouldn’t be going into writing), but let’s be honest and admit that making at least a little money at writing would be nice. RaShelle talked about writing like a small business, and she and Ali were very helpful and informative about how they did that. (Note: I am not planning on indie publishing at this juncture, but it’s good to have some meaningful thoughts on the subject.)

Howard Tayler: Along with being funny and bald, Howard Tayler is smart in a know-how-to-make-good-decisions-for-my-craft sort of way. An overarching sense that I got from almost all of the published, working authors at this conference was that writing is work. It doesn’t magically appear. Sure, there’s the creative process and being an artiste and all that jazz. But at the heart of it is sitting down and taking the time to work, whether you want to or not. This is an excellent reminder for when the words don’t flow the way you want them to. And Howard taught about how to work smart, not just hard.

Hannah Bowman, who gave the wonderful presentation about story structure (which I will never be able to think of again without seeing a backwards Nike symbol in my brain).

Michelle Witte, an agent I only got to hear from briefly during the slush pile panel, but who gave some great advice on both my pages and some of the others. It made me wish I could have heard from her more. She liked my first page (hooray!) and also commented on two vague moments that I really did need to fix. Oh, also, I laughed when she said that she was sick of heroines with auburn hair and green eyes. Fortunately, my heroine has just plain brown hair and dark brown eyes (modeled after my daughter’s eyes—gorgeous!). So that’s a relief. :)

Angie Schilaty: One of the many lovely unpublished folk I met at the conference. She was so fun to talk to, and I’m looking forward to exchanging some pages and determining if we could start forming an online writing critique group. Again, I’ll have to dig through my business cards to find her email address. And I hope I spelled her name right! (I really would check these things, except that I’m on vacation and therefore away from all my useful conference-related papers.)

Janette Rallison, who writes some of my favorite excruciatingly embarrassing fluffy young adult romances. I have cringed my way through multiple scenes in almost every one of her books—cringing in a sympathetic way, I mean, for those poor characters who are living these embarrassing lives. Probably my all-time favorite is the performance of Westside Story in Fame, Glory, and Other Things on My To-DoList. I never really loved Westside Story (the music is great, but it’s Romeo and Juliet, so… no), but I would pay good money to see this particular performance. But that was a sidetrack. What I meant to say was that I got to have a fangirl moment of getting her book signed and acting like a ditzy teenager in the presence of a movie star. At least it wasn’t as bad as that time I met Shannon Hale and said (brilliantly), “You’re Shannon Hale!” with my mouth hanging open stupidly.

Julie Wright: This woman had to have been in drama at some point. Her presentation about fantasy writing was energetic and funny and filled with life and a sense of comedy that not all authors have (certainly not me, at this point, as I drag you into word 1500 of this exceptionally long blog post). Plus, she has awesome hair. After her presentation, I immediately felt the need to go buy one of her books just to stay near her awesomeness for a little longer. I probably would have offered to have sleepovers and braid her hair and talk about boys we had crushes on too, but that seemed a little overboard.

Anyway, later I got to talk fairy tales with her and Betsy Schow (see below), and I found that she was just as delightful in person as in presentation. She was gracious and interesting and totally an author you want to meet. She gave me some excellent advice too (I love all these authors who are so willing to share their smarts!). I’m looking forward to reading her book soon. It’s on the stack….

Betsy Schow was like the funny, quirky, awesome pixie best friend every girl should have. She just radiated glowy, dryly humorous energy. She and Julie Wright were sitting next to each other at the author signing, and it couldn’t have been better for me. I first learned about Betsy through a site where I entered a personal essay into a contest, and then I suddenly got to meet and chat with her. What a nifty world we live in! Betsy and her book, Finished Being Fat, were featured on Good Morning, America! a while back, so doesn’t that just make us all feel cool? Aside from her overall brilliance and charm and good advice, I love her philosophy of finishing things. Sigh. That is part of why I am finally getting around to finishing this blog post, despite its lack of charm and its horrendous length.

Christy and Devon Dorrity, a husband/wife duo who took an incredible amount of time to talk to me about indie publishing and the pros/cons. Christy’s first book is out soon, and Devon did the graphic design for its shiny cover, including the photography and everything. Neat! They gave some excellent advice about conferences as well, and Devon wrote a great tribute to Howard Tayler’s bald head earlier in the day. These were people who were genuinely excited about their craft and excited about sharing their knowledge and experience with others.

Looking over this list, you might think that I am exaggerating. Not everyone could possibly have been as charming and funny and marvelous as I’m making them out to be here. You would be wrong. Not only were they this lovely, some of them were even more so. And I’m certain I’ve missed some who really deserve to be mentioned, like LaChelle Hansen in my publication primer class, whose book I really hope I get to read someday. Or that one guy whose name I can’t remember now who really wanted to hear my pitch and gave me some feedback on shortening it. Or my sister K-onna Mason, who let me sleep on her couch and eat her food. Honestly, I never knew there could be such a concentrated group of lovely people in one place at one time. I’m sure there were curmudgeons, but I didn’t run into them (well, not many). Tragically, however, I have run out of adjectives to appropriately describe all of these people, and that’s why you’re getting the same adjectives over and over. Oh, also because at the rate I’ve been going with this post, if I try to edit it nicely it will be another month or two before I finish.

So there you have it. To sum up: Good, exhausting, fun, educational, invigorating, motivational. Shiny (not unlike Howard Tayler).

Day Two: The Not-So-Play-by-Play

And now for something even less informative!

9:33 p.m. My brain is mush. Mushy mush. Like you cooked the oatmeal then stepped on it in a big vat like grapes except that it’s not grapes it’s oatmeal and so it probably doesn’t actually make it more mushy but it sure does make your toes feel mushy. Like that.

In other news, today was fabulous. I met a bunch of wonderful people, got some good advice and some incredible encouragement, got a whole slew of books signed by some of the aforesaid wonderful people, and ate some cheesecake. I will hopefully share more in the future, but for now I feel I should probably just end by mentioning something about mush