HollyRobinson

Writer & Red Dirt Rambler

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Bestselling Author Anita Diamant Offers Surprising Advice on Writing–Just in Time for NaNoWriMo

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One recent rainy Sunday afternoon, I joined other members of the Newburyport Writers group to soak up the wisdom of Boston-based bestselling author Anita Diamant. Anita was introduced by historical novelist Anne Easter Smith.

Our group is made up of fiction and nonfiction writers at different stages of our careers, so it’s safe to say that we’re all in jaw-dropping awe of Anita, who moves through different writing genres with ease. She’s a novelist, journalist, essayist, and the author of five guidebooks to contemporary Jewish life.

Anita’s first novel, The Red Tent, was inspired by a few lines from Genesis, and tells the story of Dinah, the only daughter of Jacob and Leah. The Red Tent became an international bestseller thanks to reader recommendations, book groups, and support from independent bookstores, and went on to be honored by the Independent Booksellers Alliance.

My favorite novel of Anita’s is The Boston Girl, which begins when a granddaughter asks her grandmother, “How did you get to be the woman you are today?” I think that’s pretty much what we wanted to know when we came to hear Anita speak, and she didn’t disappoint.

The event was a fundraiser for #authorsagainstborderabuse, the inspired effort of another wonderful Boston-based writer, Jessica Keener, and although it lasted only two hours, Anita generously answered questions about her life and work. Our conversation ranged from how to get through writing a first draft to social activism.

Above all, Anita managed to shatter a lot of myths about writing and offered some solid advice just in time for those about to sign up for National Novel Writing Month (NaNoWriMo). Below, I’ve collected some snippets of her advice to keep you inspired.

You can order Anita’s books here. Anne’s new novel, This Son of York, tells the story of King Richard III and concludes her best-selling series, Wars of the Roses. The book will be published November 10, and you can order it here. If you want to check out Jessica Keener’s books, you’ll find them here.

On inspiration and writing a first draft:

“Writing is work, not magic. The first draft is murder. Sometimes it takes me seven times as long as the third and fourth drafts combined.”

On making the switch from journalism to fiction:

“When I turned forty, I needed a change, and thought I’d write a novel. One of my editors said the tools I’d learned as a journalist would help me write fiction. He was right. The biggest thing I took from journalism to fiction is the rigor of deadlines. The hardest thing to do is keep your butt in the chair.”

On writing groups:

“You can’t be an artist in a garret. Find a writing group that will cheer you on.”

On writing a synopsis:

“I don’t use a synopsis. I write the book in order. I work on the start of the book endlessly. Once I’ve got it right, I can keep going, but I go down a lot of dead ends.”

On historical fiction:

“For me, the research I include in the book has to feed the story.”

On how to persist when writing is difficult:

“I go for walks a lot. Ideas, and even phrases, materialize when I’m not struggling for solutions, when I’m outside and moving.”

On activism and writing:

“You can’t change the world by writing, but you can add to the conversation and hope it helps.”

How to Keep Going, Whether You’re Running or Writing

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I’m a new runner, as in, I ran my very first mile without stopping only three years ago. But I’m an experienced workhorse of a writer.

Recently, I realized that my two favorite activities have one key thing in common: I make progress only if I bend the rules.

With running, those rules cover the gamut from which shoes are “must haves” to how to stretch to avoid injury. Writers of all stripes dole out stern proclamations, too, like, “You must write every day,” “Always/Never Outline,” “Never/Always revise new work from the beginning as you go,” etc.

As it turns out, there’s no one perfect way to run, and there’s no single guaranteed path to writing a book. You have to be willing to experiment, and sometimes that means not only breaking the rules other people set, but your own, too.

Here’s an example. There are lots of training programs designed to help new runners improve their speed. Whenever I try to make myself do any of these speed drills, my immediate reaction is to rebel by grabbing a bag of M&Ms and a book. But, if I set out for a run through my favorite marsh at sunset or along a new back road where I might find wildflower gardens growing in the ditches, I’ll run my heart out, and I’ll find myself setting my own time goals and beating them. Scenery gets me going.

With writing, I’ve tried all of the usual tricks: set a certain word count goal, write at the same time every day, etc. The thing is, many of my best ideas come when I’m not actually writing, but when I “give up” and pull weeds out of the garden or walk the dog. I think better in motion.

Not long ago, for instance, I’d gone for a run in a new neighborhood. I drove there from my house, completed a five-mile loop, and circled back to the car. Suddenly, I experienced a meteor shower of ideas. I frantically searched the car for a pen and paper, desperate to write down these ideas before they evaporated, and came up only with the bill from a recent car repair and a lipstick. It didn’t matter. I captured enough words to use them later.

Sometimes the best ideas come when you least expect them.

If I had been sitting at my desk, adhering to word count or clock rules, I would have had my laptop and phone. But would I have had the ideas? Probably not. Instead, I might have gotten frustrated and resorted to YouTube videos.

Likewise, I recently was held hostage at the car dealer’s for three hours while they fixed various things on my car. They had tables and chairs set up outside, so I plopped myself down, intending to read, only to find myself watching the car salesmen troll the parking lot for potential customers. And, presto! I had the perfect details for a character I’m writing about in the current manuscript—even though that book is set in 1878.

My body needs discipline, but I will only continue exercising if I enjoy it. My mind, too, needs discipline if I’m actually going to finish anything I start writing. That means constantly finding sources of fresh inspiration. Even writing in a new cafe or choosing a different seat in the library is sometimes enough to jar me out of my routines and make my brain go in new directions.

My advice? Next time you’re feeling sluggish and don’t want to go to the gym, don’t go. Ride a bike instead, or take a dance class.

And, if you can’t think of anything new to write, or you’re stuck on a scene, just stop writing. Stand up from your desk and take a walk or watch a movie. You’ll be amazed by how much your brain can accomplish if you leave it alone for a while. Just make sure you have a lipstick and a scrap of paper handy if you forget your notebook.

P.S. I recently came across an interview with bestselling author Harlan Coben on Salon, where he talks about his need to drift from cafe to cafe because he can’t stand working in the same place. Have a look at the video for extra motivation from a guy who admits that, yeah, writing is still hard.

https://www.salon.com/2019/03/25/harlan-coben-on-why-even-bestselling-authors-get-those-self-loathing-writer-blues/

Write Like a Gardener. Garden Like a Writer.

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My arm is itching like crazy because I have a poison ivy rash shaped like Italy. At least it’s not as bad as a couple of years ago, when my arm swelled to the size of a Spanish ham and the rash reached my eyes; that time, I looked like the Elephant Man rushing to Urgent Care and begging for steroids.

The price of being a gardener can be high: rashes, bee stings, permanently cracked fingernails.

There is also a high cost to being a writer: butt spread, Carpal Tunnel Syndrome, a car with a hundred thousand miles on it because you’d rather work less and write more.

I never set out to become a writer or a gardener. Now that I’m both, I’m amazed by the similarities.

In college, I majored in biology because I was determined to be a doctor. I was derailed by a creative writing class my last semester of college, and ended up earning an MFA in creative writing. I was hooked on writing fiction the first time I tried writing a short story.

Likewise, I always swore I’d have a cement yard so I wouldn’t be a slave to mowing. I stumbled into gardening accidentally when we bought an old house that had been owned by the same couple for sixty years. During their last ten years here, this couple had let the yard go. I was shocked when I noticed a tree out back blooming with lush white flowers. (Later, I learned it was an ancient Rose of Sharon.) The tree was being choked by vines and I ended up rummaging around in the shed, where I found a rusty machete and hacked away the vines.

As I freed the tree, I discovered a gravel path by its roots and began digging that out, too. This path led to more, and the paths defined garden beds where a few scraggly flowers were blooming among the weeds. It was an ancient perennial garden.

Just as I became passionate about writing fiction because of that one accidental college course, I became equally dedicated to gardening because I accidentally discovered that path. Isn’t that the way life is, though? If we’re lucky, we lose our way along to whatever goals we’ve set, and discover something better.

Recently I finished writing a novel that really beat me up, just as gardening so often does. My antidote was the get outside and weed the garden–an endless but Zen sort of task. As the late, great Oliver Saks wrote in an essay that ran in The New York Times recently, “As a writer, I find gardens essential to the creative process.” Writing fiction calls to something deep in me, and I feel that same deep love of nature when I’m outside working the ground. I hope this will be my seventh novel to find a home with a publisher, but in some ways, it doesn’t matter. Writing this book, like gardening, was a process that fed my soul and gave me a new perspective on topics I’d been thinking about for years, just as gardening allows me to embrace the earth’s gifts in ways I couldn’t otherwise.

The best writers I know are like great gardeners, and vice versa. Here’s how:

1. Sometimes you have to be ruthless. Sure, I love lilies. But I don’t love them springing up in the middle of my paths or crowding out the Solomon’s Seal. If my lilies grow in the wrong places, I dig them up, just as sometimes I have to lose sentences or scenes I love.

2. You can’t weed (or edit) everything all at once. If you do that, you’ll give up for sure. Take it step by step.

3. Ask for help. Writers work in isolation, but we need writer colleagues to help us with everything from critiques to support when the rejections start arriving. Similarly, an older British friend of mine helped me identify the perennials I already had, and other gardener friends gave me great advice on what plants I needed to fill in gaps or, eventually, to create more perennial gardens from the ground up.

4. Enjoy the escape. For me, there is still nothing as challenging or rewarding as writing fiction—except, perhaps, for being outside for hours, my hands deep in the dirt as I transform my small plot of land and feel Nature exert its calming power throughout my life.

Women, Writing, and Guilt: How to Give Yourself Permission to Try

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I’m on the home stretch of revising my novel (again). Lately I’ve been having trouble focusing at home, partly because it’s too cold to hide in my barn office, so I’ve had to write in the living room, and partly because my husband is now working from home. Even when he’s quiet, I hear him thinking. As a friend said recently of her husband being at home, “It’s like having a Mylar balloon floating in the background.”

During one of my low points, I Googled writing retreats. Up popped a perfect place, an old house in a remote setting. Perfect for the kind of intense writing and revising that requires solitude.

  • A writer’s paradise

I emailed the owner to inquire about availability. Just one week, that’s all I wanted. The owner emailed back and said, yes, the house happened to be free during one of the weeks I could come, so I booked the house.

I was happy for maybe an hour. And then guilt came roaring in, nipping at my heels and yapping in my ears. You shouldn’t spend more time away from home. Your family needs you and you have work deadlines. Paid work! And you still haven’t cleaned out the closets you meant to clean out last year. Oh, and shouldn’t you be getting ready for your son’s graduation/daughter’s birthday/high school reunion?

I emailed the woman back and said sorry, I couldn’t come after all. Too much going on.

And then I fell into a slump. Spring is coming. If I don’t finish my novel soon, my agent won’t be able to submit it before the New York publishing world goes on summer hiatus.

Finally I phoned another writer-mom friend. “Is there ever a day when you don’t feel guilty?” I asked.

She just laughed. “No. There’s always someone I’ve let down, or something I’ve left undone.”

Every time I teach a writing class of any sort, I start by giving my students the first rule of writing: give yourself permission.

This is harder to do than it sounds. If you’re new at writing, you probably have trouble believing in yourself. If you’ve been writing for a while, but you’ve had trouble publishing a book, or you’ve been watching the publishing industry tank, it’s tough to think you should keep banging your head against that particular wall.

Never mind the time. How can you justify spending money on a writing retreat. Surely there’s something better to do with that money. An oil change for the car? A birthday gift for your husband? Shoes for your kid? Groceries?

Recently, I saw a documentary on Matisse, and was bemused to learn that he left his wife and children for long stretches to paint in a hotel by the sea, where he hired a woman and children to be his models. The paintings often present an idealized portrait of family life: a woman sitting in a chair, children playing board games. But it’s all fake. Matisse couldn’t paint at home with the chaos of family around. He had to leave.

Likewise, Hemingway wasn’t about to stay in that flat with his wife and baby in Paris, right? Off he went, frequenting cafes and getting tanked while he scrawled his pages.

Yet, women are seen as selfish, if not downright monstrous, if we leave our families so we can write. I know all of this, rationally. I’ve even written about the benefits of writing retreats. (I remembered this only when I Googled “Why go on a writing retreat” and my own damn article on Huffington Post popped up.)

    Still, I couldn’t give myself permission to go, so I did the next best thing: I called another writer-mom friend. “I need you to do something for me,” I said.

    “Sure,” she said. “What is it?”

    “Tell me to go on a writing retreat.”

    “Of course you should go on a writing retreat,” she said.

    And so I emailed the owner of the house again and booked it. Then, before I could change my mind, I mailed the check and committed to the plan.

    I couldn’t give myself permission. Luckily, I belong to a community of women writers who know that, sometimes, only solitude will let you finish a book, and that you are worthy of that solitary creative effort, no matter what the outcome.

    Why Is That Book Taking You So Long?

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    Recently, one of my writing students asked for advice on how she should structure her novel. “I already have fifty pages and I don’t know where it’s going,” she complained.

    “You only have fifty pages,” I said. “Of course you don’t know where it’s going.”

    I should know. I’ve been working on the same novel for almost three years. I’m only now finding a clear path forward after dumping one entire plot line, changing points of view, and creating an entirely new character who is essential to the book.

    It’s a mystery to me how books get written at all. I’ve written and published many novels and, as a ghostwriter, even more works of nonfiction, but every single time, it’s a fresh puzzle.

    You ask yourself, “What’s wrong with me? Why is this book taking so long?”

    I’ve asked that question many times, usually after a friend says, “Wait. Are you still working on that same book you told me about last year?”

    Every now and then, I find solace in an unexpected place—usually in a book I’m reading. Right now, for instance, I’m reveling in Late in the Day, a novel by the remarkable Tessa Hadley. Take a look at this sentence from the very first page:

    “A gang of parakeets zipped across from the park, and the purple-brown darkness of the copper beech next door fumed against the turquoise sky, swallowing the last light.”

    As I read this sentence, I hear the parakeets chattering as they swoop out of the park. The description of the copper beach creating a “purple-brown darkness” is exactly right, if you’ve ever seen a beech tree at dusk. Then there’s that “turquoise sky.” It’s the perfect way to describe that pale blue-green you get sometimes as the sun lowers, and I love the idea of a beech tree that “fumed” against it. (The word is the past tense of “fume,” which can mean “angry” or “vapor.”)

    Then we get to that last phrase: “swallowing the last light.” That phrase is beautiful all by itself, but the image is even more spectacular when you realize it also serves as foreshadowing: by the next page, we learn that someone important to the characters in the book has died.

    Hadley, as gifted as she is, probably didn’t come up with that sentence right away. How many tries did it take, I wonder, before she put together those phrases so perfectly?

    We live in a world where we can order everything from shoes to motor oil instantly. We binge on an entire television series in one weekend—a series that probably took years to make. Many of us feel compelled to write as quickly as we do everything else. If we’re traditionally published, we worry that the world will forget us if we go more than a year before publishing our next books. If we’re self-published, we worry that our readers won’t find us at all until we fill up an entire virtual book shelf.

    But what is the point of writing a novel? What if, for you, writing isn’t just about the story you tell, but how you tell it? What if, to you, the sentences matter, all by themselves?

    Then you can’t rush the process. All you can do is play with the words in your head and heart, moving them around until you have chosen exactly the right words and put them in an order that makes them shine. The process can be agonizing.

    When you’re finished, though, the payoff is worth it. That sentence will gleam on the page like a rare jewel.

    Give it all you’ve got. Don’t hold anything back. And don’t let anyone say that you’re taking too long.

    10 Ways to Blow Up Your Wobbly Book and Put It Back Together Again

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    Congratulations to everyone who took part in NaNoWriMo! Whether you made it to the finish line or not, we probably all have this in common after National Novel Writing Month: we have wobbly manuscripts.

    In fact, I have a wobbly manuscript, and I even didn’t participate in NaNoWriMo. This particular Jenga game between my book and me has gone on for three years now. I hope the next revision will be the last, but I can’t focus on the end game. Right now I’m playing around with thigs like which characters should live or die, and what to do with the second half of the book now that I’ve removed an entire point of view.

    That’s the thing about being a writer. You don’t just have to “murder your darlings,” as Sir Arthur Quiller-Couch once said (and as countless writers have paraphrased since, because what we do best is steal lines). Sometimes you have to murder the whole town and burn down the houses, too. The secret to being a decent writer is to become a ruthless editor of your own work.

    See all of those pretty books lined up on your shelves? They were not born that way. Every page inside those gorgeous covers was most likely tweaked, played with, cried over, and rewritten entirely before that page made it into the final manuscript.

    So how, exactly, do you murder your darlings after creating them with such love and excitement? Here are 10 strategies to try:

    1. Put the book away for at least two weeks. It’s impossible to see your work objectively when you’re in the heat of creation. Give the manuscript time to cool off. Go work on something else, or take up tennis. Then come back to it.
    2. Jump ahead in the story. One of the most common problems with early drafts is that the story takes too long to get going. Shorten your runway.
    3. Ditch the research. If you’re writing historical fiction, as I am at the moment, take out as much of the research as you can—it’s probably clogging the story. Put back only what’s necessary.
    4. Play with point of view. If you chose third person, rewrite the first 50 pages in first person and see what it does for the emotions on the page. If your draft is in first person, try the story in third to see what a broader perspective does for your narrative arc and descriptions.
    5. Delete flashbacks. Set them aside in a file and then see if you can work in the backstory in another way—in little pieces scattered throughout the book, perhaps, or even worked into the dialogue. Only put in flashbacks that are crucial to the main plot line.
    6. Check images. Are you using off-the-shelf metaphors, or are they original? Are the images you’re using too much for the story, so that your reader will be distracted by the language?
    7. Do a scan for adverbs and adjectives. Use only what you need, and try to make them fresh.
    8. Outline your plot. Review each scene to see if it contributes to the story. If not, jettison it into a separate file and see how the book reads without it.
    9. Find Beta readers to critique your manuscript. Don’t rely on your best friend. Find other writers to swap manuscripts with, and then see if there is a consensus of opinion on what needs to be revised.
    10. Start with #1 and repeat.

    Why Keep Writing?

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    It’s easy to give up on your writing. Whether you’re working on a novel, a memoir, a short story, or an article, writing is hard. Not shoveling-horse-stalls difficult, but hard in a way that can do your head in. There are blank pages and screens to duel with every day. Words that refuse to be wrangled into decent sentences. Query letters and book proposals that never catch an editor’s eye. People who say, “Are you still writing?” or “When’s your next book coming out?”

    Maybe hardest of all, there are the novels and memoirs we pour sweat into day after day, for two or five or twelve years, only to have the publishing world reject them.

    Which, of course, is easy to hear as the whole world shouting, “You’re not good enough!”

    “I’m giving up fiction writing for good,” I said to a good friend recently, after a particularly painful rejection letter on a novel my agent is shopping around.

    “I think that’s very wise,” she said. “I mean, why shouldn’t we binge on Netflix at night like everybody else? Besides, you’ve already published lots of novels.”

    “Exactly my point,” I said. Then I hung up and cried.

    She’s right, of course. I have already published lots of books. Many are novels. I am also blessed in other ways, with a lovely home, thriving children, a loving husband, and satisfying paid work as a nonfiction writer. Why, then, did I feel so despondent? So what if I quit writing novels? It wasn’t like publishing any novel had made a giant difference in my life. I still drive an old car and have a mortgage. My energy would be better spent hustling up more paid nonfiction gigs.

    More time went by. I collected more rejections. I reminded myself that it didn’t matter. Having your novel rejected definitely qualifies as a First World Problem, right? There are people starving or being beaten every day. The political scene has gone bonkers. The Ebola virus is breaking out again in Africa. Climate change is here to stay. I have friends grieving over dead parents. Friends who are recovering from heart attacks, strokes, and cancer. My life is a cakewalk. Certainly, there are bigger things to feel depressed about than some stupid unpublished manuscript.

    And yet I was, to the point where I gave up on writing fiction. I couldn’t bear the idea of starting a new book only to fail again.

    “What’s wrong?” asked another friend as we took a walk and I told her I’d been depressed.

    “I’ve given up writing fiction,” I said. “It’s pointless.”

    This friend very kindly did not point out how unattractive it is for a woman to whine about something this lame. Instead, she said, “Okay, but tell me something. Isn’t it making you feel worse, not to write?”

    It kind of was, I had to admit.

    “The thing you love doing more than anything else in the world is writing fiction,” she went on. “So aren’t you robbing yourself of joy by quitting?”

    Oh yeah. Joy. “It’s not so joyful if you can’t sell what you write,” I grumbled.

    She laughed. “I’m a poet, remember? Do not talk to me about money.”

    A few days later, I stopped in a bookstore and, on impulse, picked up an issue of Creative Nonfiction magazine. At home, I began reading the editor’s letter, “What’s the Story?” by Lee Gutkind, and was stopped by a particular passage near the end:

    That’s what writers do: we start over. For a writer, every day is a new day with a new beginning. Even if we are writing an essay or a book chapter we have been working on for days or months—or years!–we face our notebook or keyboard not really knowing what is going to happen to our work next. We may think and hope that we know, but we really don’t—at least until we are deep into the story. Even then, we are invariably surprised.

    I set the magazine down and poured myself a cup of tea, pondering this “aha!” moment. Now I knew why I had been feeling so sad: because, without writing, it’s more difficult for me to start over every day and be surprised. That very morning, I started a new novel.

    Sure, I hope my writing will be published, and that it will find readers. But, even if it doesn’t, I’m still in it for the surprises that lie ahead.

    And the joy, too.

    Shipwrecked in Margaritaville

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    My friend Scott is Canadian. This gives him a secret power: he’s nice. It is therefore impossible to refuse him, because it would be like having a slapdown with a kitten. So, when Scott asked if my husband and I would go with him to a Jimmy Buffett concert at Fenway, of course we said yes.

    I’d heard of Jimmy Buffett. It’s pretty hard to grow up in the U.S. without knowing some of the words to “Margaritaville,” Buffett’s trademark anthem. But I’d never had any desire to see the guy–I’m more of a World Music fan—and I had no idea what to expect.

    Scott drove down from Quebec prepared with appropriate concert attire for all of us: giant Hawaiian shirts and, for himself, a hat with an actual stuffed parrot on it.

    “Are you sure this looks okay?” my husband asked, modeling his shirt for me.

    He looked like a cruise ship refugee. “Scott’s Canadian, honey,” I reminded him. “We have to do whatever he says.”

    In my case, the Hawaiian shirt hung down to my knees, so I thought I could beg off looking like a Parrothead, which is what you call a Buffett groupie. But Scott had thoughtfully brought a backup: my very own Margaritaville t-shirt. I dug a bird purse out of somewhere deep in my closet and off we went.

    Apparently the highlight of Parrothead life is tailgating, but since tailgating isn’t permitted at Fenway Park, Scott suggested that we pre-game at one of the bars offering a Jimmy Buffett party before the show. “Really?” I said. “They do that?”

    They do. We ended up at The Summer Shack, which had gone all-out with blow-up tropical accessories like parrots and palm trees, and offered special deals on—what else?–margaritas and cheeseburgers. There was even a Jimmy Buffett imitator. The place was packed with people in Hawaiian shirts and leis; the guy next to me at the bar cheerfully confessed that this was his ninth Parrothead experience.

    The music didn’t stop when we left the Shack, either. Walking to Fenway with small herds of other people in Hawaiian shirts, grass skirts, and coconut bras—yes, even the men–we were passed by dozens of pedicabs blaring Buffett tunes as fit college kids pedaled Parrotheads to the concert, many of them hefty from too many cheeseburgers in paradise.

    Fenway Park was solidly booked. We were funneled up the stairs to our seats with all of the other Parrotheads, many of whom were guys in their twenties and thirties—Buffett must play big in frat houses and at spring break parties—and I began noticing shark hats as a feisty alternative to parrot hats, though I had no idea why. The Fenway crowd was warmed up by the always energetic, entertaining Peter Wolf and the Midnight Travelers, and then it was time for “Sweet Caroline” and the crowd shouting “So good! So good!”

    Finally, Buffett took the stage with his Coral Reefer Band. The crowd went wild, with beach balls and blow-up sharks and parrots being tossed around as the backdrop screens showed beach scenes with guys surfing, hula girls, hammocks, and sailboats. Buffett appeared, barefoot and in shorts, and my first thought was that he looked a lot like my dad, with his monk’s fringe of white hair. My second thought was, “Wow. Nice tan.”

    The meaning of the shark hats became clear halfway through the night, when Buffett played “Fins,” a song I’d never heard, and one that has lyrics that probably wouldn’t fly in this #MeToo day and age. The crowd didn’t care. They embraced the opportunity to joyfully dance like sharks, putting their outstretched arms over their heads and clasping their hands in a move we do in yoga, though less vigorously.

    In fact, the crowd embraced everything: Buffett’s songs, his dad jokes, his cheesy backdrops of sailboats and beaches. It was like being at an adult Disney park, a separate, candy-colored universe where everyone just wants to hang out on the beach and eat cheeseburgers, get drunk, and screw after finding that long lost shaker of salt. Buffett himself is like Disney, with his own $550 million empire of restaurants, merchandise, retirement condos, and now a Broadway show.

    I should have hated the concert. I am not a wannabe beach bum. But, as we walked back to the car from Fenway with our nice Canadian, I felt oddly peaceful in the humid dark. It was almost as if I’d spent the day at the beach.

    Where the Red Dirt Roads Have Led Me: Celebrating a 25-Year Love Affair with Prince Edward Island

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    Just a week ago today, my new puppy, Merlin, and I were rambling down another one of Prince Edward Island’s red dirt roads with my good friend and fellow writer, Toby Neal. This particular road is a favorite of mine, because it takes us through fields of blueberry bushes and deposits us at a path to the beach.

    It’s a particularly fragrant path, one that tunnels through wild rose bushes and Queen Anne’s Lace, lupins and boneset before arriving at the base of a steep dune. Up and over the dune we go, and then we arrive at what I call “Sea Glass beach,” because of the quantity and colors of sea glass you can collect here. Toby and I walk along the water while Merlin dashes in and out of the waves. As we walk, we keep our heads down, talking and poking through stones to find the bits of color. I’m so relaxed that my jaw actually feels heavy.

     

    We’ve had a lot of meditative beach walks on this trip, Toby and I, as well as the excitement of the Rollo Bay Fiddle Festival, dinners and teas with friends, and an evening caleigh just down the road. All of this has helped us dive into our new books during long hours of morning writing.

    It’s a different rhythm for me here on the island than I used to have, way back when I first started coming to PEI twenty-five years ago as a newly divorced mom with two young children. I couldn’t afford to rent a vacation cottage on Martha’s Vineyard or Cape Cod, or even in Maine. Then, one morning, I read a classified ad by someone renting “a dreamy seaside cottage in Anne’s Land” for $300 a week. (Anne, of course, is Anne of Green Gables, the plucky orphan in the books by Lucy Maud Montgomery.)

     

    Even I could afford that. So I called my friend, the poet Emily Ferrara—another single mom—and the two of us drove up to PEI in a rented van with our four young children. You could only get here by ferry, before they put in the Confederation Bridge—eight miles of miracle engineering—and so it took us nearly fifteen hours. We arrived at midnight, and I drove on my first red dirt road by moonlight to a small cottage, unlocked the door, and fell into bed.

    The next morning, I woke to fiddle music. I went to the window and saw that my first red dirt road had led me to Rustico Bay. Great blue herons stood like sentries along the edge of the water, and the white church across the Bay had a steeple striped in red like a barber pole. The fiddle festival was at the church, and away we went to glory in the music.

    That was the start of my love affair with the island. Eventually I invited another of my best friends, the writer Susan Straight, to come with me. She flew to Boston from California, and together we caravanned up to PEI with our children to rent side-by-side cottages. After spending several more summers together on PEI, Susan bought a house on the island. By then, I had married my second husband and introduced him to PEI. The two of us bought a cottage after our fifth child was born, and then sold that and bought a year-round farmhouse, because we realized that we wanted to be able to come to the island all year long.

     

    “What’s so special about it?” friends have asked, and I’m hard-pressed to describe the appeal. I’ve been to magnificent cities and beaches and hiking trails around the world, from Nepal to New Zealand to Spain, yet I always want to return to PEI, where there are homemade biscuits with every meal, fish and chips for dinner, an East Coast music scene that redefines Celtic fiddling and traditional music, a hundred different varieties of potatoes or more, people who still have time to stop and chat, and long red dirt roads leading to a different paradise every time you ramble.

     

    Our turn-of-the-century blue clapboard farmhouse is a quirky place—one of our son’s friends once said, “What is this, Little House on the Prairie?” because of the three shingled barns and the view of sheep grazing below and the potato fields across the street, and because of the quirky kitchen, which has five doors but neither dishwasher nor washing machine. The tall windows have to be propped open with sticks, and every room upstairs has a different floral wallpaper pattern. Oh, and the shower ceiling is low enough that I barely fit, and I’m only 5’4”.

     

    But the woodwork is all original, including the gorgeous floors, and I love how the newel post is worn smooth from so many hands reaching for it over the years. A few days after arriving here, I always feel like the steady breezes of the Canadian Maritimes have whisked away all of the usual worries I carry around back home, and the writing always comes more easily here.

     

    “It’s a pilgrimage for you, isn’t it?” Toby said, and I suppose it is, now.

    There is always a moment, during that long, long drive to Prince Edward Island through the pine trees of Maine and beneath the wide open skies of New Brunswick, where I think, “This is too far. Why do we have this house? I ought to just sell it. This is stupid.”

    Then I cross the Confederation Bridge and there’s the island, with its red cliffs and verdant fields and Victorian farmhouses, and those red dirt roads that lead to the light sparkling silver and pewter and blue and deep purple on the sea, and I take a deep breath and know I’m where I was meant to be.

    Meet Bestselling Author Maddie Dawson, Whose Writing Tips Might Surprise You

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    (Peter Casolino-New Haven Register) Guilford author Sandi Kahn Shelton, who also writes under the pen name of Maddie Dawson. 3/31/14

    Within days of publishing her newest novel, Matchmaking for Beginners, author Maddie Dawson hit sales numbers most writers only dream about. I’m always happy to see other writers do well–we all know how tough it is out there–but I’m especially happy in this instance, because Maddie is one of my dearest friends. There couldn’t be a funnier, nicer, more generous woman on the planet, and she’s one of my go-to Mom Writer Pals when I need to celebrate something or be talked off the ledge after an epic fail. Here, she tells us about her novel and gives some savvy writing advice.  

    Q. First of all, congratulations on hitting stratospheric bestseller status with Matchmaking for Beginners! You know how much I loved the book. How did you hatch this unusual plot?

    A. Matchmaking for Beginners arrived in my head in bits and pieces, the way a lot of novels do. (I’ve never had one glide in, plant itself in the center of my brain, and then cooperate while I unpacked its contents, have you?) My novels give me little drabs and dribbles of information, letting me go on writing for quite some time in the wrong direction before some character clears her throat and suddenly decides to release another tidbit or two that (usually) changes the whole story. I could be mistaken for a maniac when I’m starting a new novel: staring vacantly into space and then leaping up to scribble notes on the backs of envelopes and receipts; veering my car to the side of the road when my main character decides to tell me some startling news that I’m sure I won’t remember if I don’t write it down that moment; and (my husband’s personal favorite), jumping out of bed at 2:37 a.m., grabbing for paper and pen.

    With Matchmaking, all I knew at first was that I was sick of listening to the news, and I wanted to write a story about love and its infinite possibilities. I didn’t want it to be a romance novel in the classic sense—but I wanted a protagonist who was unusual and wise and who could perform a bit of magic. And then I was off. Blix, age 85, showed up in my head, and she told me she had all kinds of matchmaking projects going on—most of them going rather badly, by her own estimation—and since she was dying, she wanted to do one more amazing connection before she went. And that’s where Marnie came in—Marnie who was engaged to Blix’s grandnephew, a lout named Noah. From the moment they met, Blix was working on getting Marnie to recognize her true love, an introvert who had turned his back on life. These two kept me entertained by each telling parts of the story, competing for my attention, and weaving a tale that came out in bits and pieces. They were exhausting (see above: 2:37 a.m.) but by the time I was writing the words, “The End,” their story had also cheered me up and made me smile.

    Q. You’ve been a journalist for most of your writing career as well as a novelist. How does your journalistic experience influence your fiction, or vice versa? Which do you prefer writing and why?

    A. Journalism and I have a funny relationship. It knows it was my second career choice (after novel-writing seemed like it wasn’t going to yield steady paychecks for a while, if ever.) I minored in it in college during my senior year, and then, upon graduation, found myself suddenly the editor of a hometown weekly paper attending town meetings and writing about sewer bonds. I was stunned to discover that I actually cared about such things. I became passionate about town meetings! I urged my friends to start hanging out at Planning and Zoning Commission meetings—there was fun and drama to be soaked up there, fascinating characters and plot twists! I wrote feature stories about people who were passionate about something they were doing. I learned the discipline of writing on deadline and of making each word count. I also started writing a humor column about family life that ran for ten years in The New Haven Register.

    Still, journalism had one big strike against it, to my thinking. Everything that happens in journalism has one strict caveat: it has to be true. (I know–unbelievably limiting.) So to keep myself happy, I was always working on a novel on the side. By the time my first novel was published, seventeen years after I’d started it (ahem), I had made friends with journalism, and it no longer felt like the stepchild of my writing world. But I love fiction more. I love it with a passion that knows no bounds. Journalism is the safe older aunt, with the writing proceeding in a nice, orderly progression and no wild surprises. Journalism, it must be said, does not wake me up in the middle of the night out of excitement.

    Q. In teaching writing classes, what are the three most important pieces of advice you hope your students will absorb?

    A. After writing (and sometimes instead of writing, if a novel is giving me fits), I love teaching best. I teach writing workshops, and my favorite moments are when someone discovers the power of storytelling—seeing and feeling the reaction that their own words can evoke in others. After all, that is why we write, isn’t it? And in workshops, that feedback brings almost instant gratification. I have a few pieces of advice that over the years I give to the writers who gather around my dining room table.

    The first is: be yourself. The best pieces show a kind of vulnerability and willingness to tell the truth, even if you’re just writing a humor piece about last night’s dinner table. Tell the emotional truth in everything you write, and we’ll follow you anywhere.

    The second piece of advice: There is no substitute for actual, you know, sitting down and writing. Planning isn’t writing, researching isn’t writing, and talking about your book certainly isn’t writing. You have to put your butt in the chair and really do it or it won’t get done. Here’s another startling piece of news, that I have to learn again and again, even after so many years: the more time you put in to writing something, the more words you’ll accumulate. It’s startling, I know.

    Third (and most important): Don’t think you’re going to be able to write the final draft first. Being a writer requires that you get over the fact that you are going to write badly, (sometimes very badly) and that first drafts suck, and that you will re-read what you’ve written and want to go seek employment cleaning out sewer lines. Take comfort in the knowledge that all writers have to deal with the fact of the Horrible First Draft, and that things only get better when you’ve rehashed the same material many, many times. Many. You wouldn’t believe how many. Tell yourself you’re in no hurry, and that this is where the fun is. Learn to love revision.

     

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