Month: May 2023 (Page 1 of 2)
A little while ago, my husband bought me two notebook covers for my spiral notebooks (which are my preferred type of writer’s notebook). One of the covers is made of leather and has a little loop for holding my pen. It’s beautiful, but I haven’t used it yet.
Instead, I started with the cloth one, made of green and yellow cloth and stamped with the words, “Make Dreams Happen,” on the front. I don’t know why I started with this one and not the other; I guess because I felt like the leather one was too “special” to start with (listen, my brain is weird and makes up weird rules, okay?).
I love my cloth notebook cover. Everyday, when I sit down to write in my notebook, I see that message and I remember why I’m writing: because it’s always been my dream to write stories and essays and books. The notebook is the “dream-making” machine, the place where I seed my dreams and help them grow.
When I see those words stamped on the cloth cover of my notebook, I remember what is possible within the notebook space. It almost feels like a secret pocket world that I can enter at will and in which no one else has access. I mean, that’s the allure of a private diary, right? But the notebook isn’t a diary in the classic sense where I’m recording my day-to-day activities and feelings about my day. It’s much more of a playground. A dreamscape.
I go to this dreamscape often. I really like the work-play I get to do there.
(Maybe I should just call it “play,” but I don’t think “work” needs be a dirty word, either. I grew up on the edge between working class and middle class, so work sometimes has a negative connotation for me. Work is what you do for money, to feed your family. It’s often not something you enjoy but something you must do. But work excised from money-making and Capitalism is not drudgery, nor is it a bad thing, nor is it something to be avoided. If it’s work-play or play-work, then I see it as akin to real leisure — not just relaxation — in that it helps us live the good life and contemplate more deeply what it means to be ourselves. Notebook writing is work-play in this sense. It IS play, but it’s play mixed with a kind of rigor that hues closely to what we’d associate with work. It’s the work of being more human, and in order for that work to bear fruit, it must be approached like play. Anyway, that’s what I mean.)
I write in my notebook as much as I can. It feels like I’m doing my main work in my notebook, and all the other projects — whether blogging, writing fiction, teaching, gaming — are just a network of limbs extending out from the notebook. The notebook is the heart, pumping blood to the various appendages.
I feel guilty writing in my notebook sometimes (especially on days when I write five or more pages), as if the “writing” I do inside the notebook is an elaborate form of procrastination. But what I have to remind myself of is that the notebook is the dream-field, and my scratches across its surface are the furrows that house the seeds. Without such planting, I won’t have stories or essays or other creations to share with the world.
It’s all happening under the surface, between the green and yellow cloth.
I check my email way too often. I don’t even really want to check it most of the time, but it’s just something *to do*, something to click on, something to tap on my phone. Most of the time it’s pointless. I mean, has anyone really emailed me between now and the five minutes prior when last I checked my inbox?
No. No, of course not.
But I check anyway. “Who knows?” my addicted brain always says. “It’s possible a new message came in.”
So I click and suddenly I’m not just checking email but surfing the internet in general, clickity click click clicking away.
Ugh.
I decided I need to commit to checking my email TWICE a day, once in the morning and once in the late afternoon, and beyond that, nothing more. But it’s not enough to quit doing something. I need to replace the itchy email urge with something better. Something that will make me *feel* way better than the yuck feeling I get from wasting the day checking email and surfing the web.
I thought doing something analog, something with my hands that wasn’t clicking a mouse or tapping a keyboard, might be the way to go, thus was born my idea of doing “The No-Surf Files,” aka a mini zine about whatever random thoughts are in my head when I’m trying to avoid the internet.
I did Issue #0 yesterday, and it was pretty fun and got me away from the computer. I have yet to do Issue #1 because I haven’t really been tempted to surf the internet aimlessly, and because I’m sticking pretty closely to my “check email twice a day” rule. I did check my email three times yesterday, but that’s only because I was trying to figure out the time for a school fundraiser event, and they hadn’t yet emailed the information to us. But besides that, I’ve kept myself off the email merry-go-round.
I already have several blank mini zines folded and ready to go, so now it’s just a matter of waiting for that icky internet urge to start itching, and voila! I will have my no-surf mini zines waiting for me to fill.
Seven years ago, I hadn’t yet started my career as an independent author. I was still finding my way as a writer, so I decided to write a NaNoWriMo novel based on my memories of childhood.
It wasn’t a memoir, though. I’m a fantasy author. I wanted there to be some magic in this story, so I had to make it fictional. My inspiration was Ray Bradbury and his beautiful ode to childhood, Dandelion Wine, a novel I hold dear to my heart.
So I invented Sarah Lewis, a ten-year-old from California who spends the summer with her grandparents in Michigan.
(“Sarah Lewis” by the way is an homage to two icons from my childhood: Sarah, the name of the lead character in Jim Henson’s Labyrinth, and Jenny Lewis, child star of the 80s and early 90s. I wished I could be them when I was a kid.)
I worked on the NaNoWriMo novel for awhile back in 2015, but then I set it aside and started work on my first published novel, The Thirteen Treasures of Britain. Treasures came out just after I had given birth to my second child (in 2016), and I was all set to start working on book two of the Merlin’s Last Magic series, when I found out I was pregnant again.
This third pregnancy threw me for a loop, and to take my mind off the mounting pressure to finish my Merlin series, I returned to my little side project.
Avalon Summer became my low-pressure respite from the demands of my day job, motherhood, and trying to write the next book in my fantasy series. When I was working on Avalon Summer, I could return to the days of my childhood: to the early 90s, to endless bike rides, to playing adventures in the woods. I would cue up my old R.E.M. albums and just write, remembering what it was like to be a kid again.
I worked on this book off-and-on for several years, just dipping into it when I needed a break from normal life.
But then about a year or so ago, something happened. I started to work on Avalon Summer A LOT. Maybe it was the pandemic, or maybe it was just the right time for it, but I became so caught up in Sarah’s story that my nice little side project became the main event. I started working on Avalon Summer all the time.
And then something else happened.
In the course of the story, Sarah finds a dusty old paperback called Gates to Illvelion. It contains some eerie parallels to her own life.
When I was writing about the paperback and its effect on Sarah, I realized I needed to make up some chapter titles, some characters, and some plot points for this non-existent book to fit into my narrative for Avalon Summer.
So I did.
And then I decided to write the entire book.
The result — Gates to Illvelion — is an homage of sorts to the pulpy genre fantasy of the 1970s. Inspired by writers such as Peter S. Beagle, Patricia McKillop, and Andre Norton, I wrote Gates to Illvelion as something ten-year-old Sarah would get immersed in and even disturbed by.
I wrote it under a pen name — A.R. Rathmann — and not to spoil things too much, but I decided to make the identity of A.R. Rathmann a plot point in Avalon Summer.
If this sounds a little confusing, well, it is.
I wrote a coming-of-age novel in which a young girl is obsessed with a fantasy book by a mysterious author, and then I went and wrote the fantasy book this young girl becomes obsessed with.
Because of the nature of these two projects, I decided to do a Kickstarter campaign that showcased the connection between these two books. Readers scrolling through Amazon wouldn’t know or understand that Gates to Illvelion is a new release pretending to be an old vintage paperback. And they certainly wouldn’t understand that Gates to Illvelion plays a role in the plot to another novel, Avalon Summer, a coming-of-age story about a girl spending the summer with her grandparents in Michigan.
These two books have a story behind their creation. The Kickstarter was my way of sharing that story.
But now the books are getting released to the general public on May 30, 2023, so I thought a blog post was in order to explain the connection between them. Buyers scrolling through Amazon still won’t know the connection between Gates to Illvelion and Avalon Summer, but I’m hoping word of mouth will provide some illumination.
Of course, each book can be read independently of the other. They aren’t connected except in a meta, self-referential way.
And I’ve kept the pen name “A.R. Rathmann” separate from my “Jennifer M. Baldwin” identity. A.R. Rathmann is listed as a separate author on the retailer websites and on Goodreads. Perhaps this isn’t the best tactic marketing-wise, but it’s how I wanted to do things.
Summer is almost here, and so are Avalon Summer and Gates to Illvelion. I hope you’ll want to sit on the handlebars and come along for the ride.
I haven’t blogged for a few days, failing (you might say) in my attempt to blog every day. I set the challenge, and I fell short, and thus I failed.
Or…
Maybe I can never fail. Maybe the old cliche is right, and the only way to fail is to give up. Missing a few days blogging last week is nothing compared to giving up right now. And I don’t want to give up. I want to keep blogging. I want to try and post something every day.
I know I’ll fall short at some point. But that’s not the point of all this. The real point is to keep going.
I’ve been here before with my writing. I’ve gone through stretches where my fears and my perfectionism made it hard for me to write ten words, let alone a thousand. I went through periods where I could only write when I had the “perfect time” to write (what a joke I was playing on myself then), and I went through periods where I thought the reason I couldn’t write was because my life had conspired against me to rob me of my inspiration or my time or my energy (this was also a joke, but not one I played on myself… it turns out the joke came from others, from gurus with “advice,” which was that in order to write, one had to write a certain amount of words each day, and every day, and if one didn’t meet these quotas, one wasn’t a “real” writer… boy, did that put too much pressure on what was supposed to be something fun!).
But each time, whether I did it to myself or believed what others said was true, I never gave up. Not completely. I still kept writing, even after long stretches of not-writing. It would have been a lot easier to stop writing, when I felt so much like a failure, only it wouldn’t have been easier. Not really. Because, for whatever crazy reason, I really, really, really need to write. I need to put my thoughts and ideas and stories into written words, and if I don’t do that, I get cranky. I get all bent and sharp-edged. If I go too long without writing, I get angry. Out of sorts. I never realized that my compulsion to write was tangled up in my emotions and sense of self, until I started noticing how I felt on days when I wrote and how I felt on days when I didn’t. Kinda like the difference between days when you exercise and eat well versus the days when you don’t.
It’s the same with blogging (which, obviously, is a kind of writing). If I don’t write down my ideas and work through my thoughts as I write, I feel off. I feel strange. Not myself. All bottled up, and at the same time kind of fuzzy, like my very self is going out of focus on an old TV set.
So, I can’t give it up. Even if the internet melted down tomorrow (which… maybe not a bad thing…?), I would still write down my thoughts and put them out there for others to see. I might make more zines, I guess. (Which, come to think of it, is probably something I should do anyway.)
But regardless of the delivery system, I would still want to write stuff and show it to people. Not because I think what I have to say is so great or important, but simply because I feel good when I write, and I feel good trying to connect with other people through my writing. Why do any of us make stuff and share it with others? Because it’s fun and makes us feel good.
Missing a few days in my “daily blogging” challenge doesn’t change anything. I haven’t failed. I’m still “blogging every day” because I’m here right now, typing these words and posting them, and I’ll keep “blogging every day” no matter how many future days I miss. Failure only happens if I give up. And I’m not going to.
Today, it finally felt like a real spring.
We had a false spring — a false summer, really — in the middle of April, when the temperatures got up into the 80s, but after that it was cold, colder than normal, and snowy too, a few days.
Now, it’s finally warm enough to go out with only a sweater or light jacket, warm enough to feel the breeze against your cheek and it feels good, not biting or cruel.
I went for a walk, my usual route down the main road near our house, and the smell of freshly cut grass and wet earth and lots of running stream water was everywhere. And I listened to Van Morrison’s Astral Weeks and got ideas for a couple of stories, one a new idea, the other a wrinkle to add to an idea from last week.
Spring is the best walking weather (maybe autumn is tied with it too) because it’s usually never too hot, and the coolness is bearable with the right jacket and accessories. And everything is coming alive, so for me, story ideas seem to come alive too. I just hope we get a few more weeks of real spring before summer’s heat descends and makes afternoon walks too scorching.
