Tag Archives: Wendy Welch

It’s a Nice Place to Visit….

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Since Little Bookstore‘s publication, many nice people from all sorts of interesting places have written via the blog or our bookstore’s Facebook page to say thoughtful, funny, sweet things about their experience of reading it. They tell us their own stories, comment on things that resonated with them, ask insightful questions.

Yesterday a woman sent me a sweet and slightly different note: I just read your book and your description of the disastrous trip to the used “bookstores” in Indiana and after checking the phone book am sure you were in my city! Please – you were in a rotten part of town – we have a wonderful Used Book Warehouse I think you would love!

Do all towns have such pleasant defenders? Betsy is right; I was in her town, and since we’re friends I can tell you that Evansville, Indiana was indeed the home of the infamous Fulton Avenue Books and Fuquay Avenue, chronicled in the “Booking Down the Road Trip” chapter of The Little Bookstore of Big Stone Gap.

What I didn’t know, but do now thanks to Betsy, is that nearby in Newburgh is a Middle Eastern cafe, an ethnic cookery style I love to sink my teeth into. So next time we’re passing that way, we intend to explore its delights. Thanks, Betsy!

But there is a funny continuation to this story. One of the things they teach you in Author 101 school (the three weeks between handing in your final edits and the pre-book events cranking up in earnest) is how to make and monitor an online presence: Facebook, blog, Twitter, Pinterest. I’m a natural at FB and love the blogosphere’s interaction; Twitter and Pinterest, I’m slowly figuring out. (All pointers gratefully accepted!)

The stats on my blog include a map of where people reading it are from, and what search terms they used to find it. About every three to four days, I find that someone has landed on my (if I do say so myself) cheerful little blog about a daily life full of colorful local characters, book browsers, kittens and sweetness, by searching “porn” “Fulton Avenue Books” “adult bookstores” or “Evansville.” (Sorry, Betsy!)

Can you imagine this person’s disappointment when up pops a pic of our latest kitty fosters (NO “kitty porn” jokes, thanks!) or the now-infamous photo of Jack from his birthday party? They may never recover….

But it does explain why my stats keep rising. ;] And I look forward to the Middle Eastern food.

IMG_3526jack birthday

Embrace the Jabberwock

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Beware the Jabberwock, my son! The jaws that bite, the claws that catch! –Lewis Carroll

Everyone finds it hard to make time to write. Sometimes squeezing “butt in seat” moments requires hiding from humanity.

Since publication of Little Bookstore last October–heck, since the February before–my agent Pamela, a diplomatic woman of great gentleness, has been dropping hints. “Working on anything?” She doesn’t push, she just … asks. Every once in awhile.

It’s very effective.

Lest poor Pam bear the brunt, I have WANTed to be writing again. A vague idea has swirled into semi-solid form, and the little pin prickles of desire, of inspiration–of guilt–have grown into claws that reach out to pull my butt back in the chair.

Those of you out there who write know what it’s like: toy with an idea, write a scene, think, daydream. Start to build. Force yourself into the chair and silence your internal critic’s voice: “This is stupid. This is crap.”

Beware the jaws that bite.

Then the half-formed beast of an idea’s claws reach out and pull you in, and you’re dropping social engagements to get another hour with your characters. You never want to leave that chair.

It’s not unlike being in love.

Last weekend I fled to a quiet place for two days of butt in chair and fingers on keyboard. It’s funny how writing begets writing in the same way that exercising exhausts you, then energizes you to exercise more. First your brain goes into a post-writing meltdown where you have nothing to say; every last spark of creativity gone, you curl into fetal position under a quilt. Lying in the dark, you start to think “what if he…” and you’re up again, fingers on keys, butt in chair.

And then you hit a bald patch, or the characters take over and drive you into a corner you can’t see a way out of, and you pout and fume and go back under the quilt, and a mental image comes to you, and up you get, and so it goes.

Perhaps it’s less love than lion taming. You don’t want to completely subdue the beast of an idea, but you can’t let it take over, either.  Partnership rather than dominance; you need it and it needs you.

I’m not sure the chair-quilt swing is a healthy lifestyle, but glory, it’s fun. When it’s going well. Or when it’s over. It’s fun the same way half-way through the marathon is fun (my running friends tell me) even though every step is pain. Sometimes it’s about the moment you’re in. Sometimes it’s about the goal you’re reaching.

But it’s always, always a thrill when those claws reach out and catch you, and you see in your mind’s eye what’s going to happen next, and you’re just waiting for the chance to put your butt in the chair and your fingers on the keyboard and hear the roar again.