For Writers: The Ultimate Reward

What do you picture when you dream about your book’s success? Do you envision readers stopping you in the grocery store with stars in their eyes? Getting on Oprah? Seeing your book in the front window of your local Borders?

Or maybe you dream of your book riding at the top of the NY Times bestseller’s list for months at a time? How about dining with Dean Koontz and his dog, Trixie? Of course, this repast would be followed by a glowing, personal endorsement of your works by Trixie, and if you’re lucky, maybe Mr. Koontz himself.

Am I close?

Are you being honest?

Over the years I’ve pictured several of these dazzling dreams happening to me. Including a multi-million dollar movie deal in which Harrison Ford plays Gus LeGarde. And of course, the world would fall in love with the LeGarde family and beg for more each year.

I imagined quitting my engineering job, staying home to write, making enough money to pay down the debt and take care of long needed repairs, like the twenty-six windows that shake and rattle every time the wind blows.

I envisioned copies of my books in everyone’s home library. Worldwide, mind you. Not just in the States.

Lots of dreams. Big dreams. And all revolved around the traditional definition of success.

Recognition. Adulation. Confirmation that my work is valued. And enough money to take care of a small country.

A few weeks ago something happened that changed all that.

Judy, one of my lunchtime walking partners, had been canceling walks and working through lunch to make extra time to care for her elderly mother. We all admired her, watching as she shopped for her mom, took her to numerous doctors’ appointments, and tended to her increasing needs with fortitude and devotion. She was one of five siblings, but took the bulk of the responsibility on her shoulders.

The cancellations increased in frequency, and it seemed we’d never see our friend on the walking trails again. We worried when her mother was admitted to the hospital. Up and down, her progress seemed to change like the December wind that skittered across the parking lots at work.

Judy was absent a few days, then a few more. Something felt wrong.

Then came the dreaded email. The subject line always seems to say the same thing. “Sad News.” Judy’s mom had passed away, released from her earthly bonds and finally free to float among the angels.

When Judy returned to work a week later, she shared stories about her mother’s final days. One of them surprised me greatly, and fundamentally changed my definition of success.

Judy read to her mother during her final stay in the hospital. For hours on end. She happened to have my second book, Upstaged, handy and began to read to her during her responsive times. Sometimes her mother would just lie there with her eyes closed, and Judy didn’t know if she was listening. Frequently, she’d ask, “Do you want me to continue reading, Mom?” Her mother would respond. A nod or a short word.

“Yes.”

A nurse perched behind Judy and became involved in the story, too. So Judy would continue reading aloud, giving comfort to her mother and providing a little armchair escapism to her nurse. Solace came from the tentative loving voice of her daughter, close and warm. And she was reading my words.

It floored me.

In a flash, I realized if one woman could be comforted on her deathbed by my books – I’d already reached the definitive pinnacle of success.

You’ll never know how your stories will affect the world. Not until it happens. So keep writing and imagine the best. Not the money, not the fame, not the ability to quit that day job. Imagine affecting one solitary soul in their final moments on this earth, and you’ll have pictured… the ultimate reward.

A mom and child, in Judy's mother's memory.

Connecting

Every night when I settle into my pillow, a strange thing happens. Just as I close my eyes and allow my brain to float… to drift… to slow down, dreams from the previous night flash before my mind’s eye. Bits and pieces of vivid scenes flit and dissolve into sensations, movement, colors, buildings, and people. A sense of place evolves, and it is always the locale of the dream that occurred the night before.

What’s going on here? I rarely think of the dreams during the day, but when it happens, it’s like a light bulb clicks on in my head and I remember it, often in its entirety.

For example, on Monday night the most powerful dream of the evening involved me running around Salzburg. That’s right, I took off for Austria in my pajamas and wandered cobblestone streets, passed high-spired churches, and drooled over delicacies in bakery windows. There was a sense of urgency that went with this dream, a searching for … something or someone. Maybe it was an apple strudel or Berliner (jelly donut). I can’t remember. But the scenes, streets, buildings, all came back as soon as my head hit the pillow the next night. In seconds. Maybe milliseconds.

On Tuesday, I dreamed of my father. He passed nine years ago, and although you might think it odd, I consider these dreams “visits” with him. They are always pleasant, full of conversation, validation, and affection. In this dream, he was teaching me how to filet a fish. Dad was a great fisherman. I guess in Heaven cleaning a fish isn’t quite as gross as in real life. This fish had no stinky innards and its flesh was flakey and white, as if already grilled to perfection with lemon and plenty of butter.

On Wednesday, similar images returned before I moved on to new dreams. I saw Dad, the fish, and then swirled into a new adventure.

Is there a scratch pad memory in our brains that keeps an imprint there from the night before? The Dream RAM, or something? Maybe that’s it.

Some of my best dreams – mostly the ones involving skiing on gorgeous fluffy snowy hills – come back as well, months or years later. Now, see, it’s extra cool because I don’t downhill ski (I’m a wimp), but I do cross-country. Merged in these dreams are the thrilling sensations of sledding down a hill with the freedom of being upright on skis. With no fear, of course, and no falls. It’s bliss.

Then there are the recurring dreams. Like the one where I can’t find my locker in school, or my class schedule has disappeared and I panic.

How long has it been since I’ve wandered the academic hallways?

Decades.

The flying dream also recurs frequently. I cherish that one. Willing myself from my earthly bonds, I lift up, higher and higher, until with arms spread I soar across the skies. Sigh. It’s the best one of all.

These connections, from night to night, as well as the connections with loved ones lost, are not dissimilar to another sensation that hits me daily.

When I’m writing a novel, I need to be in a certain zone, immersed fully in the story and in my character’s mind before I can move on to the next chapter. I write a chapter a day, in good times, and each night before I begin the next chapter I need to review the work from the day before to get into that zone. I ease into it, with anti-noise headphones doing their thing, relaxed in my comfy leather chair with my dog beside me. It’s connecting, it’s establishing the ground plane, and it’s essential. The feeling is not unlike that dreamy quality of just-before-you-sleep drowsiness. There’s a bit of a dreamlike quality to writing. After all, it’s all happening through pictures in your head. Right?

Is it close to the subliminal? Do writers tap near their subconscious when they create? Is it like this for an artist or musician?

I wouldn’t be surprised.

The layers of our lives are complex. Those deep-seated pockets of the subconscious, where fears from childhood fester, are not impossible to breach with focused therapy. The middle ground – the place where we dream – floats beneath consciousness and above fundamental memories, wafting like clouds waiting to descend. They’re all connected.

The next time you lay down to dream – notice what happens. Can you connect the events to the night before? To a commercial you saw on TV? A dialog you read in a book? A fervent desire? Think about it.

And remember, we’re all connected. Whether through God, oxygen, atoms, the net, or something more ethereal and lovely. We're all connected.

******

Last week it was almost 70 degrees; today the temps plunged. Here's a pic of me doing the lunch walk today. Brrrrrr.....

Happy sigh. The Green Marble series has found a home. Sam and Rachel Moore will debut in the founding book of the series with Twilight Times Books under the Paladin Timeless Imprint. Ebook to be released October, 2007; Print version to follow. We may end up changing the title, so for those who have read it, start submitting names!

That's the best news I've had in a while. And for those of you who are still waiting for the next LeGarde Mystery, Mazurka - there is yet hope! Twilight Times Books as asked to take a look at it. ;o)

My agent, Joan West, will begin pitching Firesong: an unholy grave. This is the fourth book in the LeGarde series, although it may end up coming out as the "first" with a new publisher. Heard of prequels? That might work! LOL.




I also had a splendid evening at the Dansville Library last Saturday afternoon for their Winter in the Village Festival. Read to folks from Tremolo: cry of the loon and had wonderful discussions. Thanks to all who attended and a special thanks to Terry Dearing, librarian.



- Aaron

I was challenged to write a chapter in a book project at bookhitch. com that will donate all proceeds to literacy charities. After reading the first chapter of the "Community Project," and trying to maintain style and characterization, etc., I did it! It ended up being a blast - especially given the fact that we are able to choose genre and take twists and turns into whatever avenue strikes our fancy. Nine writers entered - my entry is number eight.

It's all for a good cause, so if you'd like to take a stroll over there and vote for you favorite, please do! And consider writing the next chapter yourself. It's great fun!

www.bookhitch.com