Stay focused. Keep moving.

Sometimes I don't think people realize how much power and control they have over other human beings. Not physical power -- though that's a real component -- just the natural ability to manipulate.

I think some people do this unconsciously, even unintentionally. Last spring, Michael and I ran in a 10K. (That's 6.2 miles.) We trained for it, and we finished under our goal time of 70 minutes. At the time, I weighed 187 pounds, but I was working out religiously, and I'd lost 16 pounds since the beginning of the year. I was motivated! I was losing weight! I'd run a 10K, and done well!

But the morning after the 10K, my ankle hurt. A lot. Three days later, it still hurt, so I went to the doctor, and explained that maybe I had a strain or a sprain from the race.

He looked up at me over his glasses with this condescending look on his face, and said, "Now," little disdainful laugh, "did you train for this 10k?"

Talk about deflation.

Of course I said I had, and explained my fitness regimen. At the time I was going to the gym for 10 hours a week. He kind of rolled his eyes and gave me the drawn out, "Okaaaaaay."

It was devastating. To have a man, a doctor, for god's sake, talk down to me like I was some fat woman who didn't know how to step away from the Twinkies. No encouragement for trying to lose the weight. No comment about the fact that maybe I was overtraining and that was how I'd hurt my ankle. No, just condescension and disdain.

For months, those words pummeled my brain. I figuratively fell off the treadmill, and by the end of summer, I'd pretty much stopped going to the gym entirely. Last spring, I'd had people at work tell me I was inspiring them to join a gym, I'd had ladies at the gym telling them I was keeping them motivated because they were seeing my weight loss, and here this one fucking doctor pulled a thread that unraveled it all.

It wasn't his fault. That would be too easy, to blame him. I think that's part of the weight epidemic in America today -- we all want to blame someone else for our failures. It was my fault for not telling him to stick it, and getting back to my goals.

Not all careless comments are negatively influencing. Back when I was in my early 20's, I went to a doctor for a routine physical. I was very fit at the time, and I remember her throwing a careless comment my way while she was taking notes.

"Well, obviously you're in great physical shape."

Ten years later, that still sits with me, too.

And if I can stay focused and keep moving, one day a doctor is going to say those words again.

So You Think You Can Write

There are a lot of debates about whether writing can be learned. I think, to some extent, it can. But there's an inherent talent to being a good storyteller that can't be taught, and can't be learned. You can either do it, or you can't. If that spark is missing, it's not going to spontaneously appear. But a spark isn't all it takes.

Mike and I were talking about So You Think You Can Dance the other night, and saying how the audition shows and the "Vegas Week" episodes are just so much tighter, so much higher quality than the American Idol shows. I personally think it's because to be a dancer, you have to go through years and years of training. No one gets to Vegas week without having some talent and having paid their dues.

But on American Idol, anyone can open their mouth, sing a song, and make it to Hollywood. Sometimes those people even make it to the top 20. But on the dance show, everyone has already done the time. This is just another audition. You don't see many of the loud-mouthed, bleeped-out swearing, "I'll show them! I'll be famous one day!" people on So You Think You Can Dance. Hardly anyone on SYTYCD is expecting instant fame.

There is no such thing as "instant" fame.

Writing (and seeking publication) is kind of like trying out for American Idol. Everyone who can write a sentence thinks they can write a book. And just like on American Idol, people are furious when their talent -- clear only to them -- isn't seen by the rest of the world. It's the agents, with their stupid guidelines! It's the publishers, who won't accept un-agented queries!

Don't get me wrong. I'm not bashing people who don't make it to Hollywood Week. There are scads of talented people who don't make it to the top 20, who go back to work, hone their craft, and come back again.

But there are more untalented people who blame everyone else for their failures, or who spend years and years never learning anything, blaming the system.

Has anyone but me seen Center Stage? (Yes, I have horrible taste in movies.) There's a scene where an arrogant, mouthy dancer (played by Zoe Saldana, well before Avatar) is frustrated that the choreographer won't pay any attention to her, because, despite her talent, he doesn't want to put up with her attitude. One of the teachers pulls her aside and tells her that there will always be choreographers like him. She says that the bad dancers blame the choreographers. But the real dancers, when met with rejection, always go back to the barre.

I guess real writers go back to the page.

Everything happens for a reason

I'm not a religious person. Twelve years of Catholic school cured me of that. But I do believe that everything happens for a reason.

When I was in my twenties, I saved up money for months to buy a video camera. I owned a horse and we were competing at second level dressage. I bought the video camera so I could record my training sessions and review them later, much like a football team reviews game footage. But one night, not a week after buying it, I forgot to bring the camera in the house when I got home.

So when I went to work the next day, the video camera was still in my car.

At the time, I was driving a huge 3/4 ton diesel pickup truck, but I was working in downtown Baltimore. Because my truck was a massive pile of steel, I was condemned to park in above ground parking lots. On the particular Friday that I happened to leave my video camera in the car, some enterprising thieves smashed my windows and took the camera.

(Years and years working in downtown Baltimore, and the only time my car was ever broken into was the day that my video camera was on the floor behind the driver's seat.)

I spent three hours waiting for the cops that hot August evening, and I spent much of my Saturday getting the windows replaced. I'd spent months saving money for a camera that was gone in less than a week.

You can imagine my devastation.

Now, at the time, I was working as a computer trainer for Legg Mason. I was one of the people you would call if you couldn't figure out how to number a column in Excel, or if you couldn't complete a mail merge in Microsoft Word. Sometimes Corporate Technology received calls from employees who thought something was broken, when it was really a training issue, and the tech guys would then transfer those calls down to us.

On Monday, this happened. A new guy in Corporate Tech called down and got my line. After I answered the phone with my usual greeting, including my name, he said, "Hey, Brigid." Then, in an attempt to be friendly before bringing his caller on the line, he said, "How was your weekend?"

I said, "Actually, it sucked." And, unbidden, I proceeded to launch into my tale about the video camera.

The poor guy. I imagine he was rolling his eyes on the other end of the line. Probably muttering to himself, "I'm never going to be friendly again..."

But he listened to my story, making all the appropriate sounds of empathy. When I was done, he said, "Well, that's really too bad. But I do have a caller on my back line who has a training question..."

D'oh!

Yes, I was embarrassed.

But we shared a laugh, and I remembered his name, the next time he called. He remembered my silly rant about the video camera. That event launched our friendship, and we knew each other by phone for months before we ever met in person.

He was a good guy, I could tell. Funny. Patient. Kind.

He still is.

That's why I married him.

And you know what? I don't miss that video camera one little bit.

Inspiration

One of my favorite bits of trivia that's tossed around about the Twilight series is that Stephenie Meyer started writing the novel after having a dream about a vampire and a girl sitting in a meadow talking. Sometimes this is mentioned with a sense of awe, as if the dream itself were some type of sign from the gods that her story needed to be told. Don't get me wrong -- it obviously did need to be told, to millions of people, including myself. I read Twilight at least three times during my maternity leave, and I loved it. But really, it was just a dream, of the same variety we all have, every single night. It was the execution of that inspiration that really mattered.

But it got me thinking about inspiration, and where my own characters came from.

Jack
Before I wrote A Wicked Little Rhythm, I'd written a novel about four vampire brothers living in the suburbs. I eventually put it on the shelf, but I'd planned to write a sequel. My misunderstood villain was going to be a rakish guy named Jack. Once I put the vampires away, Jack still insisted on having his own story. At the time, my husband had just gotten Rock Band (the PlayStation game) for Christmas. I scoffed at it, like I do most of his PlayStation games, but he eventually convinced me to play the drums.

I loved it.

Seriously. I can now play half the songs on Expert.

Now that I've typed that, I don't know if it's impressive or depressing.

But the point is, I thought a bitter, angsty-with-a-reason musician would be hot. Drums made him hotter. So I started thinking about musicians, and music, and trying to add a fantastic element led me to the Muses of Greek mythology. From there I looked at the twelve Olympian gods, and Jack was born.

Jack says a lot of things I wish I had the guts to say. If I were a man, I think I'd be a lot like Jack. He's quite possibly the easiest character to write.

Sarah
I knew I didn't want a kick-ass heroine. I'm more personally intrigued by women who can succeed in a man's world without throwing around a bunch of karate kicks and profanity. In the vampire brother's sequel, I was going to create a love interest for one of the vampires, and I was going to name her Sarah. She was going to be shy and hesitant, and in the first draft of A Wicked Little Rhythm, Sarah was almost tragically shy and introverted. I'm secretly shy and introverted (though I expertly hide it) so it took me a few drafts (and some expert advice from Bobbie) to find Sarah's fire.

Because of her shyness, I wanted to give Sarah a talent that was directly opposed to a woman who has spent her life under her mother's thumb. So I put a sword in her hand.

Gus
Gus is one of my favorite characters. When I introduced him, I had no idea what his talents were going to be; I just needed a wingman for Jack. In the aforementioned Rock Band, Mike played a guitarist, whom he'd named Gus. Once I had a name, I still needed a talent. At the time, we were watching American Idol, the season when David Cook won.

Now I'm not going to lie. I thought David Cook was hot from day one. Still do. Hot. And that voice? Sexy. Hot. Have you heard that low sultry part in the Light On song? When he's saying, "Leave a light on when I'm gone...." I'd leave the whole frigging house on. Hell, I'd go turn on the dome light in the car.

I might need a minute here.

ANYway, I needed a talent for Gus. David Cook had a sexy voice, and wasn't breaking any mirrors. Then American Idol got to the silly episode when everyone has to say something embarrassing about themselves. David Cook said he was known for being a "word nerd." I almost fell off my couch. And that became Gus's talent.

Soren
Soren is another one of my favorite characters. I can't say too much about him without revealing spoilers, but I will say that I named him after the Prince's unflappable yet underappreciated assistant in The Prince and Me, one of those movies that didn't make a lot of money but made me swoon anyway.

And there you go. Rock Band, American Idol, and a crappy old Julia Stiles movie.

I suppose you could say I was inspired by pop culture.

It's no dream, but I'll take it.

Choices

When we're kids, we're taught to turn the other cheek, to take the road less traveled, to be the bigger person. It builds character, makes us a better human being. It helps us grow into a model citizen.

Make the right choice, our parents say. Healthy versus fast food. Thoughtful discussion versus profanity. Drug free versus substance abuse. Save versus spend.

After all, without challenge, there is no victory. Right?

I don't have a college degree, and for all I do and know at work, I still recognize that, deep down, I'm really just a knowledgeable secretary. I'm a smart person -- 1400 on my SATs. I walked away from a full scholarship to the University of Maryland. That was an easy choice at the time. My family was going through a great deal of difficulty, and college was just too much to deal with. But now, though I make a decent living, I'm still just a secretary.

I could go back to college. I could make the choice to sacrifice my writing, my time with my children, time with my husband. I could get a degree, lose this stigma of being "just" a secretary. On one hand, I think it's good to feel humbled sometimes, because it gives us motivation to work harder. Though maybe I'm just saying that to sound motivational. Maybe it really makes us want to burrow deeper.

It's easy to feel trapped by the choices we've made. But we're not trapped by our decisions. Every day is a choice. It doesn't seem like it, sometimes, because we're so strongly pulled to mother our children, to honor our husbands, to keep traveling the rut we've dug.

But that's still a choice.

And just because it's easier to keep traveling down our chosen paths doesn't mean it's wrong.

Better than

Those words are pretty exclusive, if you think about it. Really, any kind of comparison is an excuse to ignore the lesser.

I'm prettier than she is.

I'm smarter than he is.

I'm taller than he is.

I'm skinnier than she is.

It works the other way, too. You can dismiss yourself. I'm uglier than he is. I'm fatter. I'm dumber.

I used to teach riding lessons to kids, mostly teenagers. If there is one skill teenaged women have, it's comparing themselves to others. When riding horses, a lot of skills are pretty solidly objective. Can you sit the trot? Can you canter? Can you jump? How high?

Jumping is a popular skill for kids. It's so easy to quantify. It's easy to brag. It sounds impressive, and it's easy to visualize. If you can jump a course of fences at three feet, it's assumed you're a better rider than someone who can only accomplish the same course at 2'. If you can finish that course in 90 seconds, you're assumed to be a better rider than someone who took two minutes.

You're better than they are.

Dressage is a lot more subjective. It's the French word for training, but it's an entire riding discipline on its own. It's about feel. It's about nuance. Skill. Talent. It's tough to brag that you rode a balanced fifteen meter circle at the canter. It's hard to boast that your horse finally moved through his back and dropped onto the bit. It can't be quantified, and unless you ride horses, it's tough to visualize. Dressage is often compared to ballet, and it's an apt comparison. You don't have to be a dancer to appreciate a talented ballerina performing en pointe--nor to wince at the train wreck in a tutu.

Just like you don't have to be a writer to appreciate good writing--nor to recognize crap on a page.

There's a tendency to identify ourselves as "better than" someone else. It's human nature to want to be the best--I can't dispute that, and I won't even try. We're competitive animals. I thrive on challenge. I love to win.

But finding that "better than" limit, it's easy to settle. Really easy.

Too easy.

Writing, like dressage, is tough to quantify. I remember reading on the Absolute Write message boards that you needed to get ten "full manuscript" requests to land an agent, as if there were some magical query formula. I certainly didn't get ten full requests. I didn't get five.

I didn't even get two.

That doesn't make me a better writer than people who don't have an agent, and I'd be stupid--and ignorant--to think it did. There's an incredible amount of talent out there, still looking for agents. One of my bosses said today, "Luck is when preparation meets opportunity." I wrote a good book and sent a query on the right day. My book isn't necessarily better than anyone else's. My book is the best one I knew how to write.

My next book is going to be better.

But when we identify ourselves as better than someone else, we close the door on learning from that person. Once we're on that pedestal, who wants to look down? But there's a lot of talent among our peers. Maybe that writer who we dismissed for horrible dialogue can write the most amazing settings. Maybe the person whose characters might as well be floating heads in a whitewashed room can write some killer dialogue. Bad kissing scenes might be trumped by heart-racing tension.

Human nature dictates that we look forward, look up, climb higher. No matter what level we are, from the mega-bestseller to the fledgling writer--if we forget to acknowledge the skills of those around us, if we compare and dismiss, we're missing an opportunity.

If you get used to being "better than," you turn off your ability to simply get better.

Then, in no time at all, someone gets better than you.

Vivid

To be a writer, you have to have a vivid imagination.

You have to have a lot of other things too, not the least of which is a supportive significant other -- if you can find one to put up with you at all. Also, an unending supply of coffee, a life outside of writing, a penchant for watching people and appreciating nuance, and some comprehension of the human psyche. Knowing how to string a sentence together doesn't hurt, along with a basic fundamental grasp of grammar and spelling.

Hmm. Maybe an inherent avoidance of the redundant, like "basic fundamental."

Anyway, first, imagination. And a vivid one at that.

But this imagination thing is a double edged sword.

I recently read something from a guy named Dan, who's very talented but isn't yet published. There was mention of something horrifying being done to a woman. The writing was quick, the mention brief, and the scene off camera, but the moment is still sitting with me. I'm horrified by the mere implication in that scene. I can feel the cut of the knife, the vulnerability and fear of the situation. The writing put the scene in my mind, but my imagination carried it that much farther.

A coworker once told me about something she'd heard about in a movie, something about a woman being raped with a hot curling iron. That summons so many horrific images that I have a hard time blocking it out of my mind once I remember her telling me about it. I can smell the burnt flesh, I can feel the pain.

There was a local news story a few years ago about a woman who was driving a pickup truck and she hit a baby stroller. She wasn't going very fast, and the impact didn't kill the child. But the woman didn't stop, despite knowing she'd hit something, despite seeing people trying to flag her down and make her stop. She drove on for a couple miles until she rounded a turn and the stroller went flying.

That killed the child.

I cried about this story for weeks. I would wake up sobbing. I don't know the family, I didn't even see pictures of the little boy. But I could imagine the entire scene. I could feel the irritation and vindication of the woman driving, because she was angry that a pedestrian with a stroller had crossed against the light. I could feel the anguish of the parents. I could feel the guilt of the grandmother, who had made one poor decision. I could feel the horror of the police officer who found the mangled little boy.

A good friend and another very talented as-yet-unpublished writer (Bobbie Goettler, here's your shoutout) once told me that when you have children, all kids become your children. That's very true. And I recognize I feel that pain because I am a mother. Perhaps Dan's scene is so evocative because I am a woman.

But my imagination always carries it much farther than it needs to go.

Dan Savage (okay, this guy is published) once talked about inheriting a worst-case-scenario outlook on life from his mother. He said that it prevented anything bad from truly happening, because the worst thing that could happen had already occurred in his mind. That rang a bell with me, because I'm the same way. Yesterday, my son almost got his hand caught in an elevator door. I jerked him out of the way in time, but as I was yanking the stroller back, I could see his fingers trapped, ripped from his knuckles because I was jerking him away at the same time as the elevator was pinning his tiny digits. If I call my mother and she doesn't answer the phone, I'm convinced she's had a stroke, or fell down the stairs and broke her hip. If my husband doesn't email me from work, I always check The Washington Post to see if there were any accidents on the DC Beltway.

He says this makes me a freak.

I say this vivid imagination is what makes me a writer.