|
|
My Blog
|
Posted on Monday, May 20, 2013 8:42 AM
Whatever your art, never be afraid to ask others in the field for their help. Those who are put-off by this matter about one-millionth as much as those who will reach deep insides themselves and provide a hand-up. |
|
|
Margo Christie: Posted on Thursday, May 16, 2013 12:02 PM
Dear Social Media: Wow! Has it really been nearly a year since I've written. I must admit I've missed you., contentious as our relationship has been. See, I'm a product of the pre-technology 1970s, when communication was face-to-face and you had be be standing still , connected to a "land line" to make a telephone call. You, on the other hand -- streamlined as a 1960 T-bird like you are -- you stand ever-ready to embrace whatever's new and improved. For you, typewriters are outdated relics. I grew up with one; typed my college terms papers on it. Oh, the dried-up bottles of White-Out I've seen come and go! Now I must admit feeling a little inadequate at first, faced day-to-day with your eager anticipation. Perhaps that's why I went astray. Yet, self-proclaimed nostalgia-maven that I am, I have to admit I've begun to see your merits. It is through you that I've gained an audience -- a meagre one to be sure, but hey, beggars can't be choosers. Novice that I was to your eager young ways, I had things to learn, expectations to adjust. And here's where the old adage of "Can't teach an old dog..." couldn't be less true: I had to go away and age a little, come back with something to say. I had to realize that being connected on Twitter and Facebook didn't mean anyone was listening. So now I'm back, better than ever, ready to tweet, post, like, comment, and opine away! Yours Forever-more, Margo Christie, 21st Century Writer |
|
|
Margo Christie: Posted on Thursday, July 26, 2012 8:09 AM
Today's Creative Quote comes from renouwned American dancer and choreographer Martha Graham: There is a vitality, a life force, an energy, a quickening, that is translated through you into action, and because there is only one you in all of time, this expression is unique. And if you block it, it will never exist through any other medium and will be lost.
This reinforces in me that my experiences are unique and worth sharing with those who have ears to hear of them! |
|
|
Margo Christie: Posted on Sunday, July 08, 2012 9:26 AM
Ah, the nurturing quality of a summer rain. When I was a child, my sister and I would don our bathing suits to tramp around in a rain strorm, our sopping hair slapping our backs as we splashed barefoot through ankle-deep puddles. We’d toss our heads back to gaze skyward at the unrelenting downpour, letting fat drops pelt our hot, dirty faces. Perhaps because we were raised by dysfunctional, alcoholic parents, no one told us this wasn't okay, not even with the threat of lightening strikes. Today, I remember this as one of the freeing experiences of youth in the lush Baltimore suburb where I grew up. Those were the days before adolescence, before my self-image got kidnapped by teen magazines that warned against going around in public looking like a drenched sheep dog. Yesterday it rained buckets in the Denver area. Indeed, it appeared to be raining buckets already to the south and west, as my fiancé and I gazed at the horizon from our home near Old Town Arvada. I wanted to go for a walk. Like Henry David Thoreau, who described his immediate environment as so full of nuance and surprise as to render travelling elsewhere unnecessary, I like to get to know my surroundings. John, on the other hand, is a bit more reserved. An amateur weather man, he prides himself on being able to read the horizon. After 9 years as his partner, I should know his predictions are nearly always accurate. But I persisted and he lovingly obliged, changing into practical shoes, locating his umbrella to embark on a walk through Old Town with me. By the time we reached Grandview Avenue, a high point from which the dark, foreboding horizon was especially visible, a light rain had begun to fall. He announced he was turning back. Again, maybe it is due to my dysfunctional childhood, but I rarely let weather – or anything – deter me from doing what I yearn to do. Telling him I’d meet him back at the house, I pressed on, flipping open my 1960s vintage umbrella as I proceeded across the Grandview Avenue Bridge to the other side of Wadsworth Bypass. There, the houses are Victorian and irrigation water is provided via a drainage ditch that runs along the sidewalk. There, every home has a small pump house somewhere in the yard and the gurgle and trickle of water is pleasantly ever-present. It’s a beautiful old neighborhood, country-like and reminiscent of a simpler time, the time in which I grew up, perhaps. By the time I reached Marshall Street, my usual turning-around point, I was in the midst of a torrential storm. Sheets of rain blew sideways, pelting my chest and abdomen, soaking my clothes. Lightening strikes lit up the sky, and I have to admit I worried a bit about that lightening-rod of a two-inch metal tip at the top of my umbrella. But I didn’t collapse it. Trusty old vestige of a time when products were built to last, that umbrella never once turned inside-out, even when the wind blew sheets of rain under it and across my face. My hair, except for the very ends of it, remained completely dry for the entire walk. My shoes were an entirely different matter. After five minutes or so of downpour, there were rivers of water running down the streets and sidewalks. Like the child of 40-some years ago – bare feet slapping across wet pavement and splashing in puddles – I trudged through those rivers, joy-filled and laughing. Like getting baptized, I was reconnecting with a lost, primal me, the Artist-Child of Julia Cameron’s creativity-provoking self-help books. According to Cameron, most of us have a creative inner child, a child who was taught early-on that painting, drawing, writing, and other creative pursuits are the impractical pastimes of air-headed dreamers. That child is playful but bruised; and needs to be teased out of hiding. “Silly,” “irresponsible” behavior like tramping around in a rain storm is one way to reach that child. Walking back through Old Town, I watched people dash from their cars to bars and restaurants, heads huddled against the downpour. I passed a beauty salon, where all activity seemed to cease as stylists gathered at the window, doubtlessly glad they were dry inside. Nearing our house, I passed an apartment balcony, where a young woman sat Buddha-like beyond the open sliding door, gazing outward at the passing storm. She smiled at me and I smiled back, a connection that seemed based on a primal understanding of the nurturing quality of rain. |
|
|
Margo Christie: Posted on Wednesday, June 27, 2012 12:51 PM
As some of my non-writer friends have asked when my book would be available, I've decided to put together this summary of the publication process, as I know it. First, let me touch on the difference between traditional publishing and self-publishing. Traditional publishing means dealing with a major publishing house. Random House, Penguin and Harper-Collins are the three biggies that come to my mind. They all have smaller subsidiaries -- "Imprints," as they're called in the literary world, these little guys tend to work with niche fiction and debut authors, whereas the main imprint tends to sticks with proven winners in mainstream fiction. Thus, if I -- a nobody in the fiction world at this point -- were to get accepted by one of the biggies, it would likely be with one of the smaller imprints. But I'm jumping way ahead of myself. First, I have to land an agent. In today's competitive literary market, where editorial staffs are stretched thin and the "real" money is in best-sellers, editors at the major houses generally won't waste a blink on an un-agented manuscript. For that matter, agents usually won't blink at manuscripts that didn't come to them via referral from someone in the field -- a published writer, for example. The importance of networking in this biz cannot, therefore, be underestimated. So now it is time to sing the praises of Twitter. Is the band rehearsed and ready? Unlike Facebook, where you get slapped on the wrist for trying to "friend" people you don't already know, on Twitter you can follow anyone. It is then their choice to follow you back. In the writing world, where so many are striving for so few chances at getting noticed, it is rare that a writer won't follow another writer back. This has been true for about 90% of the writers I follow. Voilá! After a mere three months of tweeting, I have a Twitter following! And if one of my followers happens to be a published author who's visited my website, read my excerptsand likes what she sees? Well, maybe the sky truly is the limit. Now on to self-publication: There are many avenues for self-publishing these days. As a matter of fact, many of these avenues have been around for generations. Without further research, I can think of at least one self-published writer who became a legend in his time -- Baltimore denizen and father of the short story, Edgar Allen Poe. That's not chicken liver, folks! Self-published writers are in good company, indeed. That said, writers who self-publish and see success from it have what is known in the biz as a "platform;" that is, a following. Many of them teach. In a community college writing course I took a few years ago, the instructor used 2 of her self-published novels as teaching material. The end result? All 20-some of her students had to buy her novels. I thought that was a rather cheap way of getting sales but perhaps she had more than a few books gathering dust in her garage. And there are other ways. California-based romance writer Katherine Owen boasts sales of 8,000 copies of 3 novels in the past six months, mostly through e-book sales on Amazon. Most self-published e-books go for $2.99, leaving the author with a $2.00 profit. Pretty paltry, you might think. I did. Said so, in fact. Then another writer friend pointed out that once the publisher, the agent and everyone else with a hand in the traditional publishing pot gets their cut, the writer is left with the same $2.00. So self-publishing is an option. For now, though, I continue to build my Twitter following while sending out query letters and exercising great levels of patience with the agent-finding process. On that note, I received my first personalized rejection letter today. From a well-established N.Y. literary agency, it stated that while my work wasn't right for their agency at this time, they hoped I'd keep writing and take heart in the fact that there are agents out there who'd be interested. This might not sound like much, but it's a ray of hope in a world where, usually, when there's no interest, there's no reply. Period. And, as ABNA 2011 winner Gregory Hill advised, the minute you get a drop of encouragement, start writing your next novel. Perhaps this is that drop. Cheers, Margo |
|
|
Posted on Friday, June 22, 2012 8:06 AM
Today's Creativity-Inspiring Quote comes from Mae West -- Hollywood's Original Bad Girl. Awesome for daring to be bad in a time when women were expected to be virtuous. "Whenever I have to choose between 2 evils, I always like to try the one I haven't tried before." - Mae West
Be yourself! This one inspires me to be choose "evil" whenever "evil" fits the bill! |
|
|
Margo Christie: Posted on Sunday, June 17, 2012 9:01 PM
I’ll Know I’ve Made it as a Writer When . . .. . . I finish a whole manuscript. . . . I learn how to rewrite that whole manuscript. . . . I get five/ten/fifteen/one hundred/etc rejection letters from real-life agents. . . . I knuckle down and rewrite the book again. And again. And again. Etc. . . . I get a request for the whole manuscript from a real-life agent. The above is taken from the blog of Australian Sci-Fi writer Justine Larbalestier, whose list includes more than 40 criteria -- many of them hilarious, most of them poignant, all of them a bitter bite of reality. As I read them for the first time, my reaction was to wonder why I keep at this writing game. It's fiercely competitive; overly-dependent on who you know and your ability to network. The profit margin is so iffy agents and editors are highly-unwilling to take chances on unknowns. Add to that the fact that fewer and fewer people reads novels anymore, especially novels of the type that I write. I write literary fiction. In a nutshell, that means character- rather than plot-driven. That's not to say there's not a plot. There is, of course. Characters have to get from point A (problem/crisis) to point B (resolution) somehow, and that somehow is the plot -- the series of events that move the character along. The difference between literary novels and the more mainstream genres is that literary novels are heavy on character development. In other words, character growth and struggle are the plot. There's no crime to solve; no mystery to unravel; no fantastic, futuristic device to drive the action forward. There's a sympathetic character we can identify with. This character wants something very badly; is often in a moral or psychological quandary over what they want and how to get it. We want what they want because we like them; and the plot lies in how they change and grow as a result of getting or not getting what they want. Literary novels are among the least popular these days. In this high-tech age where questions are answered with the click of a mouse, readers want immediate action. They don't want to get to know characters; don't want to bear witness to their uncomfortable wriggle out of a dilemna. So why not write crime thrillers or murder mysteries, you might ask. I'd likely improve my chances at getting to the fifth criteria on Justine's list -- getting a request for a full manuscript from a real-life agent. The answer is that I do what I do because I love it. I write literary fiction because I love to read literary fiction. I have more interest in what makes people tick than in how to solve crimes or build time machines. In short, I'm intrigued by what French writer André Malraux called "The Human Condition." Asking me to write fantasy or mystery would be like asking James Brown to record the greatest hits of The Carpenters. I love a novel that makes me cry when its characters cry; leap for joy when they triumph. I love the sense of fellow-feeling I get reading about something I've felt or experienced. I love knowing characters so well I feel I've lost my best friend when the novel ends. I love giving this to my potential readers (if, indeed, I ever get any!). I love symbolism. Real life is full of it and, when used to good effect by a literary masters like Scott Fitzgerald and Toni Morrison, it's pure genius. I like a novel that reminds us where we've been and gives us a glimpse, perhaps a foreboding, of where we're headed. I don't want anything as quick and tidy as the unraveling of a crime. I want to know why we do what we do, even when the insights are ugly. When I hit my mark without even trying; when a passage or a chapter that kept me awake countless nights finally comes together, there's nothing better than this writing game. When I get to know my characters so well they seem to write themselves, the feeling is better than any high I tried in my sorely mis-spent youth. That's what keeps me going when, despite finishing surprisingly well in the 2012 ABNA, despite the stellar reviews I now can use in my pitch, I haven't yet gotten to Justine's #5. On that note, I'd like compose my own list of writing criteria. You know you're a writer when you keep slogging away at novel #2 even though novel #1 has yet to get much notice. You know you're a writer when writing is the first thing you do every morning, 7 days a week. You know you're a writer when every time you encounter a unique individual or situation, you think "There's a story there." You know you're a writer when the thought that your novel may never see the light of day wells you up with tears. And finally, you know you're a writer when you've written a novel-length manuscript complete with deep, compelling characters and a believable plot; when, despite the fact it never got edited by anyone but yourself, it finished in the top 1% of a major novel contest. More to come! Cheers and Peace, Margo
|
|
|
Margo Christie: Posted on Saturday, June 16, 2012 11:55 AM
Nostalgia: Sweet Remembrance or Pain of an Unhealed Wound? If nostalgia is, like Don Draper of the AMC series Mad Men says, “The pain of an unhealed wound,” why does it feel like a warm, fuzzy trip down memory lane? Perhaps the answer lies in a Psychology Today article, in which the author asserts that people reminisce as a way of reaching for pleasant memories when dissatisfied with their present lives. (Marina Krakovsky, “Nostalgia: Sweet Remembrance,” May 2006). If that is the case then nostalgia is both – the pain and the cure for it. The early ‘60s-set Mad Men gives us both. Beneath its veneer of glamour lies an ugly reality: The 60s was an era of blatant inequality, in the workplace and at home. Peggy Olson, Draper’s ad agency protégé, works harder and has better ideas than her male counterparts. Yet she’s paid less and asked to locate drinking glasses during a staff meeting. Women on the side are par-for-the-course for married-man Draper; yet wife Betty is admonished, somewhat violently, for harmlessly flirting. And let us not forget the institutional racism of the pre-Civil Rights 60s. The black elevator operator seems innately to know his place and never gives an opinion; and the Drapers’ maid, Carla – a grown woman with a family and concerns of her own – is labeled their “girl” and expected to drop everything to fill the crisis-level needs of their destructive lifestyle. Yet if people reminisce as a way of reaching for pleasant memories, then it follows that the unpleasant are what we choose to forget. In the words of Charlotte Wilder, we watch Mad Men for a glimpse at how much "simpler, cleaner, better" life was when "women wore aprons and men came home on the 5:40 train." (Wilder, Huff Post, June 17, 2012). MadMen gives us "simpler, cleaner, better" in spades. Men wear tailored suits, accessorized with cufflinks. They don hats out-of-doors and never fail to remove them in the presence of ladies. Indeed, one episode shows boss-man Draper reproaching his younger counterparts for failing to do so in an elevator. Ladies wear fitted dresses – oh-so glamorous and attractive are they to the men, who seem never to miss an opportunity to notice them. In short, everyone in Mad Men is physically attractive and aware of the fact. When compared with pajama pants and bedroom slippers worn as street attire, lingerie worn atop a blouse rather than under it, it seems easy to prefer the former. And who can’t see the value of an article of clothing being remembered for its quality, not its ubiquitous corporate logo? My novel, These Days, deals with both aspects of nostalgia, as well. My heroine, Becky Shelling, dreams of a long-gone time. It’s a dream she inherited from her father, an under-employed jazz musician who hearkens to a pre-jukebox era when “every hole-in-the-wall bar had a band.” Though he dotes on Becky, much of Ernie Shelling's time with his daughter is spent in collective escapism. They watch old movies, listen to old music, and visit showgirl Teri the Canary who, like them, hearkens to a better time. But it’s the ‘70s not the ‘40s. Bars that don’t rely on jukeboxes for entertainment feature DJs spinning Disco tunes. Thus, what Ernie really yearns for is a second chance, a return of opportunity. Like George Valentín in the Oscar-winning film The Artist, he longs for a time when technology had not yet destroyed his livelihood. For 14-year old Becky, who doesn’t yet know the meaning of nostalgia, all this hearkening gives the impression that the world her father yearns for is possible. When Ernie disappears, this vision becomes all the more desired for its inaccessibility. Left with step-mom Arlene and step-sister Abbie – both of whom live according to present-day, struggle-ridden realities – Becky becomes mired in the illusion that it is only through reconnection with her father that she’ll realize her dreams. Enter Lenny Moss. Smooth, charismatic and handsome like Becky’s dad, Lenny longs for a long-gone time, too. Yet Lenny is more than just a misplaced dreamer. He’s a powerful real-estate mogul; practical and in tune to the speculative opportunities of the city's crumbling core. His nostalgia is limited to a time when men ruled and women knew their place, and he’s only too willing to keep Becky in hers. Yet, though Becky’s nostalgia has led her to a nightmare rather than a dream, it’s safe to assume she wouldn’t have fared so well without it. It helped her cope with the pain of her father’s desertion, giving her pleasant memories without which she might easily have become a melancholy drunk like George Valentín, or an egomaniacal sex-addict like Don Draper. In his 5th smash season on Mad Men, Draper continues to barrel down a self-destructive path; and Valentín, though able to remake himself as a tap dancer, is pushed to the brink of suicide first. |
|
|
Posted on Friday, June 15, 2012 6:27 AM
As I work through The Artist's Way by Julia Cameron, I'm moved by the many quotes sprinkled throughout her pages, all of them geared toward inspiring expression of one's unique creativity. Thus I've decided to periodically post creativity-inspiring quotes on my blog. Moved as I've always been by jazz music, I'll start with one by incomparable, always-creative pianist, band-leader and composer, Duke Ellington: "I merely took the energy it takes to pout and wrote some blues."
Hope you find this moves you to turn your troubles into inspiration. As his enormous body of work testifies, Duke surely did!
|
|
|
Margo Christie: Posted on Sunday, June 10, 2012 9:21 PM
In researching literary agents who might – just maybe, with a sprinkling of luck and the oh-so-right pitch – be interested in representing These Days, I’ve come across loads of helpful information, all seemingly geared toward pulling me away from writing. I’m told to social network, to build a platform, to blog and tweet and meet people face-to-Facebook. I’m told to understand my market, to include in my query a bulleted list of potential readers. Ah, for the good old days when a writer was expected to just write! When agents and editors and publicists (provided by the publishers) did the rest! That said I must resign myself to living in the present, 1940s Pin-up though I am. I work for a living – 40 hours a week, and not in an ivory tower of academia where my superiors have an innate understanding of my need for a creative life. I’m a union transit operator. My superiors don’t have the remotest understanding of my need for a life, period, much less a creative one. So what’s a working-girl writer to do? How does she find time to write and social network with a meager 3 hours each morning allotted to both? Like a blogger I recently read on Writer’sDigest.com, I’ve found that “passive-aggressive e-mailing puts me off my game.” In other words, when I spend too much time reading and responding to posts by others, all with the intent of building a network, I find I no longer have the desire to write. Boiled down, that means I’ve lost my reason for wanting to network in the first place. When I originally set out to build a platform from which to market These Days, I figured I could allot 30 minutes of my three writing hours to internet tasks. I’d blast off e-mail queries and tap out snappy little replies to blogs and tweets I found interesting, all with the intent of building a network. How quickly I found 30 minutes could turn into 3 hours! Maybe it’s a right brain/left brain thing – with one side adept at creativity while the other is adept at marketing – but I find it all-but-impossible to switch gears within the same 3 hours. Thus, I’ve decided to devote a few weeks to platform-building while my second novel stews in my brain. Like my Twitter friend, writer Charles Kelly, I find that if I carry my novel and my characters around in my head – that is, if I think their thoughts and feel their feelings as I go through my daily routine – they end up doing much of the writing themselves. I did this with These Days, and after-the-fact had the observation that I had no idea how some of the most brilliant passages got written. Thankfully, I have a job that doesn’t require much thought! ‘Til next week! Margo, the Working-Girl Writer |
|
|
|
|
