Ally Bishop

When you pick up a book, we often know the plot from the outset? A new planet discovered, the main character and his crew are seen as invaders. War ensues. A pirate on the high seas kidnaps the virgin princess. Bodice ripping ensues. Dark night, glum private eye, beautiful woman walks in. Danger and intrigue ensue. And of course, the first person narrator lives to to the tale because, well, we’re reading it.

Does it occur to us that we read the same plots (according to one of the books on my shelf, there are only seven) over and over again? Or is it more important that they entertain? That the writing astounds? Do we care if it’s the same trite story and stock characters as long as it’s a really good trite story and engaging stock characters?

I walk a wide berth around romance whenever I write. I figure it comes down to two things: my own abject failure at love (until this last year), and my own abhorrence for the expected. Angry boy (or girl) meets lost boy (or girl), and you know they will end up together at the end of the story. There’s just a bit too much flattering physical description combined with a little bit of chemistry woven into the dialogue. The reader always knows.

Of course, I’m writing a story now that has, you guessed it, romance. It’s a subplot, not a major theme, but I’ve included the hot, brooding man and the confused, strong woman who’s just starting to realize he’s actually a pretty good guy. It’s so predictable. But again I wonder: is that a bad thing? Do we like that comforting familiarity? There’s plenty of action and blood…so does the foreshadowing of kindling affection ground the reader amid shifting plotlines?

Or am I overthinking all of this? As long as it’s well-written, solidly formed, who cares?

I kept saying, “I just don’t feel like myself.” More often than not, it was true. I woke up tired. My 5-6 hours of sleep might not seem like much to most folks, but for me, that is average. I’ve been sleeping 4-5 hours most of my life due to stomach issues at night. Unlike my ex-husband, most people know I’m depressed when I’m sleeping 8-10 hours every day. Nonetheless, this was different. The last few years, probably the last 3 or 4 specifically, I noticed I tire easily. Not from workouts or physical exertion, but from life. I attributed it to age. Hit the ol’ 30s, I’d tell myself. People scoffed, insisted this is hardly old. And I certainly hadn’t expected it to be this bad. I can fall asleep in nearly any position, have a hard time driving at night without fighting grogginess, and come 3 o’clock in the afternoon, I could lay my head down on my desk and snooze for an hour. Most days, it is an uphill battle not to. If you have ever fought to stay awake, you know how difficult it is. Most days, I’d get home and have a hard time pushing myself out of the car, much less crawl through making dinner, washing dishes and getting things done. By bedtime, I’d collapse. On top of everything, despite eating weight-loss calorie ranges, low-carb, AND ridiculously healthy, I gained 5 pounds. Falling asleep standing up — I can deal with that. Weight gain — my expanding ass hauls it to the doctor. (We are women: hear us roar — do not ask us for logic.)

I had a blood test that revealed that while my thyroid function is not bad, per se, it’s isn’t get either. The number was “over 2,” whatever that means, and I’m being retested. I hate pills, so the idea of living on thyroid medication is not high on my list. So I went to the health food store. If you live locally, Susan Kiskis manages at the Healthy Grocery in Camp Hill, PA, and she is a genius when it comes to yoga, well-being, and as it turns out, herbs. She helped me select a supplement. Kelp holds high marks as the best thing for thyroid health. In addition, my supplement contains Irish moss, eleuthero, gentian, fenugreek, and cayenne.  It’s a blend by Solaray called SP-26. I didn’t have much hope that it would work, but I was willing to give it a shot.

After a week, I tried to review if anything had changed. Outside of my stomach burning from the cayenne whenever I take the supplement, I couldn’t spy any great weight loss unfortunately. But then it occurred to me — I laid down watching a movie, and I didn’t fall asleep. I haven’t felt tired at 3 in the afternoon any day that week. I don’t want to collapse when I get home. I’ve done the dishes every night (almost). I have my life back. And I’m not talking placebo effect, either. Astonishing, right?

Okay, not really, but the changes are positive ones. I’ve been on the supplements for two weeks now, and I must say: the dragging gray cloud that lumbered over my head has dispersed. I feel like my old self again. I’ll get the results back on my thyroid next week: due to Celiac’s disease, there is a good chance I may have other autoimmune diseases that may affect my thyroid function. So it goes. But I will swear by seaweed. If you’ve been having any similar symptoms, I highly suggest a visit to your doctor…and a $10 bottle of this kelp blend. It can’t hurt, and getting your life back is so worth it.

I ready this article this morning, and my head nearly exploded. I’ve no idea who this woman is, but apparently, college educations should be handed to our future-bearing teens. In her article in today’s paper, cleverly titled, “College essays are getting ridiculous,” Anne Reeves laments the trials associated with getting into colleges. Apparently those pesky essays are just too hard. Instead of asking today’s teenager to report on his/her summer vacation, they ask questions like,

“Spanish poet Antonio Machado wrote, ‘Between living and dreaming there is a third thing. Guess it.’ Give us your guess.”

“According to Henry David Thoreau, ‘One is not born into the world to do everything, but to do something.’ What is your something?”

I know what you’re thinking: how dare they? Asking prospective students to, like, use their brain and employ their writing skills? Like, totally unfair, right?

“The college-admission process puts a ton of stress and pressure on 17- and 18-year-old kids. I’ve heard stories of students spending months writing their essays while also trying to juggle schoolwork, extracurricular activities and community volunteerism.”

Imagine, a $50,000 to $100,000+ investment in their futures, and they spend months answering an essay question. Where will the injustice end?

What really irritates me is that this is the American mindset as of late. We demand little of our children and give them trophies. We require next to nothing from our politicians, and they get reelected again and again. Our sport heroes can engage in illegal, destructive behaviors, and we cheer them on while handing them million(s) dollar contracts. When are we going to wake up and realize that we have become a culture that wants nothing more than a blindfold and lollipop?

College entrance requirements have become a joke, unless you are applying to Ivy League universities. Our local community college takes anyone. I think you’d have to actually get caught selling drugs in the cafeteria while peeing in the mashed potatoes to get them to consider NOT taking your money. Our financial aid requirements are nil. You’re breathing? No felonies? Here’s up to $150,000+ and as long as you don’t flunk out, they keep handing it out. Professors have students that can barely spell, much less write intelligently about a topic. And applying what they learn? Students are baffled when you assign something more than a book report. And let me just point out: this isn’t their fault. It’s the result of an educational system decaying, parents pushing them to do every sport and extracurricular activity out there for fear they might miss out on something, and a society that babies them.

Is your life easy? Mine sure as hell isn’t. I work, I have a side business, I take two classes, I work out. Having a life? Ha! When I can fit it in. And I don’t regret one second of it because I’m working towards something. Many folks have schedules like I do, AND have families on top of it. Challenging? I daresay they’d agree. So why on earth would we even suggest that getting into college be easy? When did we lose sight of the soul-deep joy that comes from hard work and a difficult job well done? When did effort become the anathema of the human experience?

We say we worry for our future, and we have good reason to. When parents like Anne Reeves are having hissy fits over college application essay questions being too hard on today’s kids, we should be downright petrified.

It provides a premise irresistible to a thriller reader: A CIA agent’s pregnant wife disappears right after she warns him to get out of the building moments before the building disintegrates from a bomb explosion.

I eagerly picked Jeff Abbott’s Adrenaline, glad to find a thriller that used the first person POV, and took off running from the first page with a character you could immediately engage. Not to mention, Abbott’s decision to give Sam Capra parkour skills grabbed my attention. This was going to be a fun ride.

Was it? Yes. Abbott wastes no time in his new novel. Action takes center stage for most of the book, moving between continents, characters, and danger faster than Sam can use his Spiderman-like abilities to descend a stack of freight. Characters enter the scene, never revealing their loyalties until the stunning denouement. It’s hard to putdown, with an ending that is bittersweet and insists you read the next installment.

Differentiating characters is what Abbott does best. Sam Capra draws you in with his easy sarcasm and conviction of his wife’s innocence. Both good guys and bad guys have well-developed histories, and Abbott carefully constructs their voices so the reader can easily remember who’s who.

What Adrenaline lacks in originality, it makes up for in rich settings with detailed descriptions welcoming the reader to London, Amsterdam, and Brooklyn. And Abbott didn’t short his details, either, cleverly pointing out simpler plans that Sam might execute throughout the narrative, but can’t due to technical advancements.

So what’s not to like?

What bothers me about this book is two-fold. First, it feels like a plot we’ve all read before. The main character loses something precious and wants revenge and/or to retrieve it. Main character is unable to, so in swoops another mysterious entity who needs his skills, has endless resources, and will help him get what he wants in exchange for his services. Plot complications, high-level security breeches, and international espionage abound. Perhaps realizing just how formulaic thrillers are is a shock to the system, but I found myself begging Abbott for something different, and getting disappointed at each turn. You can see the end coming before you reach the middle of the book.

Second: where, oh, where have the editors gone? Abbott uses the term “powered” as a fighting action verb repeatedly; I lost count after the sixth time. At times, the dialogue is stilted, hampered by unlikely information dumps. Several times I found myself thinking, he added that section after he wrote this, as awkward exposition interrupted the flow of his narrative. And someone please tell authors to use parenthetical comments sparingly. Clever on occasion, most of the time they are unnecessary and distract the reader, and Abbott’s attempts are no exception.

Is Adrenaline worth reading? If you like this style of book, absolutely. Sam Capra is engaging, if a bit foolish and unreliable as a narrator. The plot complicates as it skips across the pages, and plenty of fighting and shooting assure you won’t want to put this novel down.

I recently happened upon a situation that made me examine what truth really means. Not the definition. Most of us understand the difference between truth and lies. Rather, this made me come to terms with discovering the truth for myself, vetting information, and then making a decision that doesn’t make me popular with people I respect.

Oh yeah, good times.

Regardless, it pushed me to determine: what am I willing to do for truth? Let’s be brutally honest: it’s easier to sit back and let things pass by. Someone else can take up the fight. It doesn’t need to be me. This becomes particularly easy when someone else is already championing the cause. We sneak behind the scenes and employ our best imagination techniques to pretend that none of it exists. But truth has a funny way of weaseling deep inside, igniting an uncomfortable fire that for some of us, will not be denied.

The infamous Fox Mulder once said, “I don’t care how it sounded as long as it was the truth.” (Yes, I’m going with “X-Files” references. Deal.) I reached that point with this situation and it has left me more than a little disconcerted, and inevitably brought about a response of avoidance and redirection of animosity. It isn’t fun, pleasant or affirming. But truth is truth, even if we don’t like it very much.

I don’t know that there are right answers. Situations make their demands, and it’s up to each person to determine how they act. I don’t even know if you can figure out how you’ll respond until the circumstances demand your attention.

But turning away from truth means we curl up with a lie. I don’t know about you, but I just can’t do that.

I haven’t written in a week. I feel it. Something in my brain starts to die when I haven’t been creative. It sounds weird, but those of us who write and have (or currently) struggled with depression, anxiety, ADD, OCD, etc. know that niggling darkness that hovers over our consciousness. It’s as though our subconscious wages a doomed battle keep it at bay until we remember that we need to get back to what we are, what we do. Then it dissipates like a spring fog.

It’s been a year. Change, devastating and acute, clearing the way for new experience, bliss, dreams, fearful first steps. Would I change any of it? No. Would I like to go through it again? Nope. I’m good for a while.

Writing has always been my panacea. It’s pulled me through spousal abuse, sexual abuse, mental illness, emotional trauma, and deadened emotions. Words on the page sing to my soul like a siren beckoning, and when I read my creation, I realize I am home. This is where I belong. Amid consonants and vowels, similes and paraphrases, images and swirling thoughts, all coalescing to form expression. Story. Character. Me.

It’s a new year, and while that signifies little in the grand scheme of the world (assuming the Mayans were smoking something when they wrote their calendar), this year it takes on a slight sheen. Fresh with promise. Resistant to its charms, stubborn as I am, I can’t help thinking that just maybe, something new and intriguing lies ahead. As long as I keep coming home…

As writers, it is easy to get lost in the dream of being a writer. Sure we are writers because we pound keyboards and concoct stories. But to be “a writer,” or better yet, an author, is as bittersweet a dream as you can imagine. It’s not like other crafts where if you work hard enough, you will achieve master craftsman. On some level, being a writer is a combination of talent (usually), karma, perseverance, and plain ol’ good luck. So we imagine what it might be like, salivate over the hope that it really is as good as it gets. But what happens when you lose sight of joy?

For a writer, the joy is in the process. At least, that is how it should be and almost always how it starts out. Crafting a story, laying out the plot turns and stomach twists, casting characters and figuring out how to make them real in the mind of your audience. It’s heady stuff, this god-like power we wield over our own imaginary worlds. Despite the loneliness of solitude, I’d be hard-pressed to say I’ve ever felt alone — certainly not with the likes of Eddie Keen by my side, Fallon at my back, and Gabe leading the way (for those who don’t know me, those are a few of my characters in my stories). They keep me company, beg me for a few more minutes throughout the week so they can show me their world, guide me through their challenges — and help me forget my own for a little while.

But what happens when the dream of being a writer wrings out the last ounce of pleasure in writing? How do you pull lose of its sticky clutches and instead return to the bliss that originally led you to believe you’d like to do this writing thing? I’ve had to ask myself this several times this past month. And my pondering made me realize that it is my unfinished manuscript and soon to commence “new project” that have kept me going each day. And strangely enough, despite the doldrums of my life lately, my creativity is still strong and my desire to give a smack-down to my keyboard rears its head daily. All is not lost. And the reward…

The reward is tonight, I had a conversation with Ruby. She’s part of the new project, and she’ll shortly be joining Gabe and Fallon on their journey through intrigue and danger as I put Eddie out on vacation to rest up after her harrowing case of deadly church members and secret pasts. But Ruby wanted a few minutes of her own to show me what she is made of. To show me the hell of her world, the steely strength she’s gained through rotten turns in life, and the person she secretly wants to be. Ruby is pretty damn awesome. And I get to hang out with her. And that’s pretty damn awesome, too.

That my friends, is getting lost in the process. Or maybe just talking to yourself in different voices. Which could indicate a serious form of mental illness….Either way, I’ll take getting lost in the process with any of my characters, over fretting over the dream. The dream isn’t going anywhere. But I am.

I took some time off from my rewrites of my manuscript BLOOD IN GILEAD to finish up my analytical paper and reading for my semester. Now that they are complete (I still have a bit of polishing to do on the paper, but it can wait a few weeks), I can return to my beloved manuscript. I say “beloved” with some level of irony as for a long time I truly hated this story. It wasn’t what I originally wanted to write. I’ve never written mystery, and since I was paying Wilkes University for the privilege of having a mentor, I figured, why not write something new? Yeah. Who thought that was a good idea? Oh. Me.

Regardless, I spent a year hating my story, then sort of liking it, then hating it again. And then I fell in love with Eddie Keen. Edwina Keen is my protagonist, and honestly, she’s one of my favorite people. It helps that I created her. I guess that must be how God feels about some of his work. (Admit it, even you don’t like all of your kids/relatives sometimes.) But she’s cool, braver than me, a bit whinier (I think), and full of sass. She’s also got a weakness for bad guys, and a screwed up past. What’s not to love?

Returning to my manuscript has had me slobbering all weekend. I needed a few days to clear the ol’ gray matter and prepare for reentry. But tonight is the night to start it up again. Except that when I sat down to write, I realized that I don’t remember what I’ve written. Or rather, I don’t remember which edition of this story is which. I’ve rewritten it twice, and I’m about midway through on my third go-round. And quite a bit has changed each time. So now I have to go back through read all the stuff I’ve already written in an attempt to familiarize myself with MY OWN STORY!? :sigh: Please tell me other writers go through this, too, and I’m not the only hair-brained idiot among us?

The high point: Eddie is as funny and real as I remember her, and I’m proud to have cultivated such a great character.

Who else has been through a similar experience? Comments away!

In a writer’s discussion group that I’m a part of, the question came up about how oxymorons and contradictions play into the creative process. When you examine how it applies to story creation, it takes on paramount meaning.

As writers, we build stories. Sometimes based on real life, other times based on our overactive imaginations. Regardless of the source, we weave symmetry and asymmetry, confusion and clarity, abstract and reality. The outcome we hope will entertain the masses. Or at least, a few of our diligent fans. But if they could only see the first draft. That sodden, boring document of listless characters and half-baked plots. Settings that gasp for air and dialogue that would bore an IRS auditor.

That is why we writers then engage in the process of rewriting. Dreaded or loved, it’s necessary. And thank the gods as often our first draft morphs into a final production that we could have never seen in those first few paragraphs. As we rewrite, we add tension, increase motivations, change circumstances to draw out the last ounce of our characters’ staying power. We deliver harsher blows, tougher news, and better love-making as we add nuance and gait to each line.

But here’s the question: why is it that we don’t do all this in the first draft? Why do we need so many revisions and internal arguments before we can see the necessary changes? The explanation goes that we are so caught up in establishing the story, of getting the outline of it on paper, of creating the world and characters within it, that we have to get some distance from it before we can read back through it and find our errors. I would postulate that it’s more than that, though. I suggest that our lives, while full of highs and lows, are rarely the life-and-death struggles of our books. That often what we write is real life with its tepid, occasionally sorrow-filled, sporadically delirious with joy moments. And let’s face it: no one wants to read real life. As any memoirist worth their salt can tell you, you have to doll up the facts to make them palatable.

What say you? Why do you think those all-important second, third, fourth, ad nauseam drafts are necessary? Why do you think we can’t see the intensity of conflicts and contradictions when we write the first time around?

I spent this morning with the most amazing group of people. We are all writers. We all started out as strangers — strangers make the best friends, don’t they? — in our MFA program at Wilkes University nearly two years ago. I can hardly believe I have only know these incredible people for two years. Instead, it feels like a friendship gleaned over many years of life.

Writing can be incredibly lonely. We tend to be antisocial, our minds focused on the next plot point or new idea. We cultivate stories out of tragedies and are often poor friends and mates to those who do not understand us. The activity itself requires isolation, though I’ve learned the art of sharing it with others. Four hours spent at a coffee shop, earbuds plugged, and no conversation forges bonds of friendship that seem a bit haywire to the observer. But for writers, long stretches of silence in another writer’s company, creating your own masterpiece, is connecting at the deepest level. Of course, conversation usually ensues. Fleshing out characters, figuring out snags in the plot, and general industry gossip weave their way into a dialogue that  sounds like a foreign language.

I often hear about writers who spend most of their time alone. They do not understand what it means to connect in these ways. I’m fortunate enough to have discovered a different element of the writing experience. Spending nearly six hours in the presence of incredibly talented people buoys my spirit, soothes my soul, and reenergizes my word-smithing energy. It’s like sipping a can of Red Bull for several hours, without the nasty aftertaste. And now, with my batteries recharged, I’m ready to start my new…er, I mean, finish my rewrite.