The Bright Side of Life

I met an elderly woman at the pool yesterday.  My wife was swimming laps and I was reading Inheritance by Christopher Paolini.  The lady commented that it was a very big book I was reading—and it was.  I don’t usually feel too chatty when I’m reading (or writing for that matter), but for some reason I felt like talking to her.  Something about her told me that she had a story to tell, one that was real, unlike the world of dragons and magicians that I was in the middle of.  My wife could tell you that I generally prefer fictional stories—which is why I read and write YA and children’s fiction—but today I was happy to listen to this lady’s story.

She was at the pool because her seven-year-old grandson was swimming.  I could see him in the pool, splashing around, climbing out, jumping back in, asking for his grandma to “Watch me!  Watch me!”  And she did, with a lot of happiness and a hint of sadness in her expression.  The happiness was for him; I later found out the sadness was for him too. 

For some reason she felt compelled to tell me that her grandson lived with her—that she looked after him.  I didn’t want to pry, so I only commented about how active he was, but she plowed on anyway.  “His mom died,” the lady said.  “His father—my son—is an alcoholic.  So I look after him.”  She was a bit misty-eyed as she said it, but I didn’t think it was because of her loss, or her struggles, but because of the boy’s. 

She was a kind old woman, patient and loving, protective of her grandson—watchful.  Tragedy had struck, yes, and that boy had a hard life—she had a hard life.  But when I saw her face light up as she talked about what her grandson was learning in school and the different things they would do together, I saw a strength inside of her that was simply majestic. 

Perhaps this lady dipped into the realm of negativity sometimes, slipping into darkness and depression—I don’t know.  But I felt like overall she was able to focus on the bright side of life, the side where no matter what the hardships are you’re able to focus on the good in your life.

I want to live on the bright side of life.  I want the books I write to help my readers live on the bright side of life.  If I can brighten one person’s day today through my writing, or even just talking to them, then I can be satisfied when I close my eyes to sleep.

Here’s to the bright side.

What Makes Someone a Writer?

I’ve done quite a few interviews lately, and one question that keeps coming up is When did I first consider myself to be a writer?  I’ve heard a lot of different perspectives on that very question.  I read somewhere that you have to write a million words before you can really call yourself a writer.  I’m sure over my lifetime I’ve written well over a million words—through papers for school, essays, and now business reports at work—but the person that made this bold statement meant one million words while writing novels.  Hmm, by that measure I don’t quite stack up yet.  In fact, I’m only half a writer at the moment, perhaps all plot and no character development, or maybe all idea and no flow.  I dunno.  It might just mean I do everything half as well as I should.  If they had trading cards for authors, here’s what my stats would look like on the back of my card:

Angel Evolution- 72,000

Demon Evolution- 65,000

Archangel Evolution- 69,000

Unpublished YA Paranormal- 91,000

4 Unpublished Children’s Books- 151,000

Unpublished YA Dystopian- 88,000

TOTAL WORDS- 536,000

I suppose 536,000 words isn’t too bad for 16 months, but at the same time, it’s scary to think that I’ve spent all that time and effort and I’m still only half a writer.  I’m at least a year away from hitting the one million words mark.  But I don’t think being a writer is based on word count.

Or is being a writer based on how many books you sell?  Some magic number—a thousand books?  Or perhaps it takes a million books—a NY Times bestseller.  I’m hoping to hit a thousand books sold soon, but as for the NY Times thing, not likely, at least not in the near future.  Perhaps I’ll save that for next year ;).  But I don’t think being a writer is based on book sales either. 

It might just be a state of mind, like I think I’m a writer so I am.  You know, a Zen thing.  All meditation and no perspiration.  But I think it’s more than that, too.

So do I measure up?  I hit the Zen writing theory—I definitely want to be a writer.  But I miss on word count and book sales, at least at this point in my short career.

And yet I consider myself to be a writer.  In fact, I started thinking of myself as a writer before I even finished my first book.  For me it was simply desire plus effort.  If I wanted to be a writer, and I put in the effort to be one (ie writing every single day, no matter what), then I could call myself a writer. 

I hope one day to write my millionth word, find my name on a best seller list (even if it’s most books sold in some obscure place with a population of 65 people), but in the meantime, I’m still a writer, and I’ll keep on writing. 

As always, happy reading!

Why Kids are Awesome

Although I primarily write for the young-adult space, I have just finished the 4^th book in a children’s series (for kids ages 7-10), which is currently being reviewed by a large children’s book publisher.  So what’s the reason I decided to write a children’s series?  Simple.  Because kids are awesome.  Let me tell you why I think that.

Kids have amazing imaginations.  You can put kids from all over the world in any place, whether it be a shopping center, a park, or the middle of the desert, and they’ll find a way to have fun.  Give them a few sticks or just a rock and they’ll make up some sort of a game, or act out a fantasy world of knights and dragons.

Adele and I recently had the pleasure of having our friends stay with us.  They have two young children, one three years old and the other just a baby.  While walking along the beach, we stopped at a little park, so the three-year-old could play on the slide, the merry-go-round, and the net.  She quickly grew bored of those tangible entertainments, and instead turned to her imagination to serve the four of us from her little beachside café.  We could make any request and she would whip it up for us—but only if it was on the menu.  From smoothies, to hot fries, to hot dogs, she provided us with tasty (if invisible) food and drinks.  In her three-year-old mind, the food was very real.  It was a true joy to watch.

I’ve also recently had the pleasure of having my children’s book manuscripts sent home with a work colleague so his kids could read them.  I was delighted to hear the feedback a few weeks later.  His daughter loved my books and she was inspired to write a few of her own.  Every so often my friend brings me a new book she has written (and illustrated) so I can read it.  To be frank, they are inspiring.  Her books are so cute, so creative, and show how truly extraordinary childrens’ minds really are.  I photocopy the books and take them home with me.  I also send her my feedback on a Post-it.  My friend says she’s always so excited to get it. 

I’ve always loved kids and we tend to gravitate towards each other.  My mom calls me the Pied Piper sometimes because kids tend to get along so well with me.  I think it’s just because I pay attention to them.  You know, give them a chance to talk about what’s on their mind, what’s important to them. 

There are so many other distractions in the world today that it is a lot harder to get kids to sit down and read a book.  What with i-everything nowadays, kids have so much entertainment right at their fingertips.  I commend authors like JK Rowling whose Harry Potter series excited, delighted, and entertained an entire generation of kids. 

While I hope to write many YA books over my career, I would love to be known as a great children’s author, too.  If I could bring kids the same excitement and joy that I got when I read books like the Hardy Boys or The Hobbit growing up, then I would feel truly happy.