Bett Norris

Merry Christmas and happy holiday season to everyone.

I hope you all are enjoying being with family and friends.

It is quiet this morning, a light rain is falling, and I imagine people enjoying scenes like this one from years past.

I am working on my new book, still reading, researching, thinking, making notes and tentative beginnings. Revisiting lots of questions that made me start this novel, like: what pushes a person to do something outside their normal range of comfort and confidence? What motivates them to engage in something that could be dangerous, knowing ill consequences will follow? How does one take that first step?

Even as I begin the first draft, I am waiting for the editing to begin on my second novel, What’s Best for Jane, which has received a release date now of October, 2010. This is exciting and welcome news. I am convinced that readers might not care about the reasons for the long delay between books, but the short explanation is, the book wasn’t ready when I first submitted it, and I was tasked to rewrite, which pushed it off Bywater’s schedule. Now it is back on, and I am relieved and pleased.

Writers are, in my opinion and experience, strange. While most everyone I know is gathering with family, opening gifts, sharing a holiday meal, enjoying time off from work, all that runs through my head is, I have three uninterrupted days in which to write.  I have quiet, I have a space, I have the prospect. It is the best gift I can think of.

I am so happy that Jill Malone’s new novel, Field Guide to Deception, received an excellent review and was selected as one of the top ten novels of 2009 by afterellen.com. This is a remarkable book. I greatly admire Malone’s work, and I see many accolades for Field Guide coming her way. She is one of the best new writers around.

Sandy Moore’s memoir, Beside Myself, seems to be selling well. This is a funny and touching look at her childhood, and people seem to be spreading the word about it.

Filled with photos and original drawings, this book makes a great gift for readers of all ages.

I am also excited about Cynn Chadwick’s next book, Angels and Manners. Idon’t know the release date yet, but it will be soon, I think. Ibelieve this may be her best work yet. A comment on the times we haveshared in this first decade of the new century, I can’t wait to read this one.

All these new books really get me excited and enthused about my own writing.  Ya’ll have a great holiday. I hope I’ve given you some good ideas for those gift cards. Remember to support your local and indepedent bookstores when you can.

I am constantly learning. I can’t speak for all writers, but for me, there is always something new that helps technique, craft, helps streamline the process. I steal learn from other writers all the time.  I got a reinforcement, a refresher, just this morning, about getting the first draft down on paper, from beginning to end, as quickly and completely as possible, because nothing is more painful than an unfinished, stops-halfway-through idea that dies right in front of you.

Once that solid foundation of beginning, middle, and end is in place, the real writing begins, at least for me.

So I am working, thinking, about the first draft right now. Usually, I start with the first scene, the one that I can’t get out of my head,and I write that fairly full, and polish it, and the rest of the first draft may not be as fully formed and complete, but the first scene or chapter is usually critical for me. Once I get that down, I can push ahead and finish the rough draft.

This time, though, my thoughts are scattered and I have tried to get that initial scene down, but I am unsatisfied with the result. So I wrote the final scene. I thought, what if the story ends not when Iimagined it would but some years later? How would my central character react to this event?

I wrote a conversation between two ladies having drinks in the living room, at night, after dinner, seated before a cozy fire. No descriptions, no transitional or internal thoughts, just dialogue.

It’s an experiment. Can I write the first draft with this target in mind? Can I write toward that final conversation?

I have no idea whether this conversation will fit, whether it will even be used, but it will serve a purpose. I will write toward it, like tunnelling, until I reach that point.

It’s bare bones. Only the words they say to each other. I often advise other writers to write one entire draft that contains only what is said and heard, only what is done. It not only speeds up the draft, it forces me to concentrate a lot of weight in dialogue alone, leaving out reactions, thoughts, descriptions, anything extraneous.

So here is that conversation, the point on te map I am trying to reach, which may or may not ever appear in the final draft.

“I should have died then. I should not be here to witness this. This is too much for a person like me.”

 “You personalize and dramatize everything. ‘This’ isn’t happening to you.”

“A man gets a flat tire on his drive to work. While he’s changingit, he is struck by a car. His ambulance gets struck by another vehicle on the way to the hospital. After he makes it to the office on crutches, he gets fired for being late by his boss. Accident piled upon accident, followed by tragic and unfair results that add to the cycleof bad things happening.”

“And you’re the innocent bystander both fascinated and abhorred by the tragedy. But nobody ran over you.”

“But I am about to be fired, for arriving late to the scene. Becaus ethis time I can’t be a bystander. I can’t watch this. I have to dosomething.”

“You’re joining the march?”

“I don’t know. You don’t think I’m capable of it, do you?”

“I think you’re capable of a great many things. I don’t believe you should punish yourself for not doing some things which you could have done. We all could have done more then we have, and maybe it wouldn’t have reached this present event. It can’t be stopped now, and it won’t be stopped. Throwing yourself onto the altar of disappointment in your lack of involvement won’t help anything now, not even your conscience.”

“I don’t feel as though I would be sacrificing myself, or salving my guilt. I simply need to do something. If everyone did something, each of us some little thing, it wouldn’t have reached this big thing, marching toward us now, and we can’t get out of the way.”

“You’ve done enough, risked enough. You should feel absolved by having done what you could, when you could.”

“Branding myself a foolish, esoteric ninny by writing letters, sitting at home with my cat and my irascible mother’s constant haranguing, hardly measures up to a contribution. I’d have done better if I weren’t so scared.”

“You mother’s approbation wasn’t the only thing that cautioned you.Use a little common sense. A person must eat, and have a roof over her head.”

“I suppose so. Caution, self interest, common sense. I agree with my critics. I’ve read too many books.”

“Pull your chair closer to the fire and get warm. Walking along the highway in March weather is a cold prospect.”

“I can never tell when you’re being real or when you’re being sarcastic. I learned to drive in 1956, because I had to. I may as well put that hard-earned skill to use. I can ferry people back and forth,j ust like I did then, don’t you think?”

“You’ll get shot at. Some of these boys are good enough with guns to hit things even when they’re drunk, as I presume many of them are. Be very careful.”

“Do you mean that? You’re taking me seriously?”

“I’m giving you my heavy winter coat. Please keep in mind that it’s not bullet-proof.”

This has always been my very favorite time of year, this last part of November. The weather turns colder. Five things happen in the last two weeks of this month that make it special for me, as exciting as anticipating Christmas for a child. First comes my birthday, then two days later, my little sister’s birthday, then, the Alabama-Auburn football game, then Thanksgiving, and finally, my mother’s birthday.

That’s my sister Angie, to the right of our little mother in the photo.She was born on November 21, the day before President Kennedy was killed.  While the nation buried a president, my family laid to rest her twin,  who lived only a few minutes.

I’ve always imagined that my sister’s life has been affected in someway by the loss of that twin brother, that the presentiment of loss is something that she has carried with her.  This may be my fanciful, writerish imagination at work, but Angie has always made her way alone.  This November, especially, I want her to know that she is not alone.

Angie has always been a secret favorite of mine. I love her sense of humor. I love to hear her sing, something she routinely refuses to do, but I do love her voice. I love her fierce love for her children. I admire her for getting up every day and going to work.  I am proud of her strength, of her determination to keep on keeping on.

I write books about women with Angie’s kind of strength. They inspire me. They make me question myself. Do I have her kind of strength? Could I keep going, shouldering what she carries? I don’t know.

I do know that when I have needed help, Angie has helped me. I wish I could return the favor.

This November is double-edged, with sadness, because our family gatherings at Mother’s house are no more, but also with real joy, because I still have lots of memories of great times. Angie was a big part of going home to visit. My first question after I arrived at ourmother’s house was always, “Where’s Angie? Somebody call her at work and tell her to get over here.” The fun started when I could get us all together, laughing and teasing each other. Good times.

Happy birthday, Angie, Mom, and me.

It's bye week. No game. Time to rest up. Time to reflect. If I remember correctly, it's still a few weeks until the beginning of deer season. If they're smart, towns schedule their fall festivals during this off week. It's Halloween, and it's getting a little colder, and soon, Daylight Savings Time will end.

Last year, my team, the Alabama Crimson Tide, went 12-0 during the regular season, and was rated #1. The whole thing passed by in a blur. I didn't even watch the games. It brought back too many memories of sharing that experience with my mother, who loved Alabama football. I am glad that so far this season, the Tide has been able to repeat the effort, and this year, I am watching and enjoying the games again, only a little sad sometimes. Mama would have loved this team, so tough on defense, with a good running back, like the Bear Bryant teams of years ago. 

So I am a little nostalgic, maybe a little homesick. That makes me think of growing up, of my years at college, then the years I spent in Montgomery. Those memories lead me to think about my next project, a novel set in Montgomery during the decades leading up to the bus boycott.

But I am feeling that itch to begin writing the first draft. Have I done enough research yet? There are a couple of books still on my list to read, that I feel I really must have. But the urge is there, the need to put the first chapter on paper, to establish a clear tone, a base note that will stay in my ear and guide me through. I want to know what this new book will sound like. That is the dilemma, to contimue gathering facts around me like a huge pile of raked leaves, to toss them up in the air and see where thay land, or to cast off and begin fishing for that style and tone that will sustain me through the first draft.

Wow, did I just mix a bunch of metaphors, or what? That tells me that I really need to start writing, and soon.

The plan is to have the first draft completed by May, so that I can go to Montgomery and do some on the ground research, delve into archives, take photos, and just see with my own eyes the places I am writing about.

Read some more books, or begin to write?

  It is not often that authors from a publishing house get together. Women's Week in Provincetown each year makes that possible for the writers at Bywater Books, as we join together for joint book signings and panel discussions. This was my first time, and I had so much fun, and it was so energizing to get to talk and eat and play with the other writers, all of whom impress me. It's a good group, and we learned about upcoming releases, and shilled each other's works, and the camaraderie was worth a host of seminars.

I had breakfast with editor and publisher Kelly Smith, and shecouldn't stop talking about Cynn Chadwick's next book. And coming out very soon, like the first week of November, is Jill Malone's new book.

Then, there is Mari SanGiovanni's next book, which promises to be as hilarious as her first.

I also got to eavesdrop as Marcia Finical discussed her next book withpublisher Marianne K. Martin, and with Kelly Smith, the FG.

I was so excited about all this news, that I barely thought about my own next book, What's Best for Jane. The editing process will begin soon, and I'm not nervous about it at all.

Much. A little. I have complete confidence that What's Best for Jane is brilliant.

Marianne Martin is working on her next book, a sequel of sorts to the wonderful Under the Witness Tree. It focuses on the character of Nessie Tinker.

A lot of big, important books are on the way. Bywater is establishing its reputation as a company that seeks out great new writers, and they have found some through their annual fiction contest.They are finding and publishing quality fiction. I am happy to be a part of that group, even if I am a tiny bit intimidated by all of my fellow Bywater authors. Not much. A little.

The plans are to have four of these major events each year for Bywater authors, with the new releases scheduled around them. If we have as much fun at all of them as we did in P Town, you can count me in.

Sometimes, it begins with an image in my head, sometimes, it starts with stumbling across an old photo, like this one.

I lived in Montgomery for 13 years, and worked in a state building behind the capitol. No one can resist being struck by the juxtaposition of so many interconnected and disparate reminders of Alabama's past, and her role in history. Being surrounded by the physical emblems, the buildings, historic markers, monuments, forces one to confront, or at least contemplate that past, so at odds that it seems there were two paths, two states, two histories, and indeed, there were. Two peoples.

For some unknown reason, this old photo of what Dexter Avenue looked like in 1906, right about the time the dastardly state constitution wasrewritten, the one that had such an impact on Alabama for the rest ofthe century, and still affects it today, this photo churned up emotionsand feelings. I returned to look at it often, letting the feelings swirl and coalesce. I started looking at other photos, and I got some books on Montgomery and started reading. This place began to resonate, to hum, and I could feel a shimmer, a vibration of excitement, as I read and studied old pictures of what Montgomery looked like years ago.

The feelings got mixed up with my strained relationship with my home state. I love it, the places and its people, my relatives, and it will always be home to me.

At the same time, I am torn with exasperation, frustration, anger,guilt, shame, and real pride at some of the things my state has done,some things it has accomplished. I used to moan and wail that the only time Alabama ever made national news, it was bad news. That is simply not true, though. In accepting that Alabama is the starting place for some horrible things, I have to acknowledge that it is also thebeginning and ending of some very good things, some accomplishments that helped shape the direction of the nation.

So the research began, with that photo and some very mixed feelings that I wanted to examine, if not resolve. Do I have a right to claim personal pride in the good things? Do I get to share in the legacy? Or should I stand aside, and let all the sense of achievement go to those who walked the walk, who were there? Does the color of my skin bar me from sharing the good?

Alabama is not the only southern state to have this dichotomy, the multiple personality disorder that is our history, but the case can be made that it was the epicenter of much of the good, and much of thebad, all the contrasting things that make southern history so tortured and fractured. We have gold stars embedded in marble, we have monuments and memorials that attest to our service on the highway to a moreperfect union.

If the color of my skin doesn't disqualify me from looking at this history and claiming part of it, does the fact that I am a woman shut me out? History is still, by and large, written by men, about men's accomplishments. So where does my female image fit in Alabama?s twisted route to where we are today?

I found some excellent books that examine those things, fascinating reading, urgent stories that also made me think. What do I have to add,as a novelist, a writer of fiction? How do I speak of all that I am feeling and thinking, in a way that encompasses everything I've learned?

I find a story, a simple story of one person, that I want to examine and explore. I think I have found it, and indeed, not just the story of one woman, but three.

I also found a bookstore, one located in Montgomery, a wonderful source for books about Alabama and Alabamians, that has been of inestimable value. http://capitolbook.blogspot.com/

Emails back and forth to Cheryl Upchurch, the owner, with her husband, of Capitol Book & News on Fairview Avenue. Please drop by if you're ever in Montgomery. "Cheryl, I can't find this book anywhere, it may be out of print, can you help?" Cheryl writes back, having contacted the author, to tell me yes, or no, or she can get it, should she order and ship it? She recommends other books that might help. She waits until my payday. "Cheryl, I need to know more about Mary Stanton, the author of From Selma to Sorrow, and all I can find is about another Mary Stanton who apparently writes YA fantasy. Can you help me find the right Mary?"

And this is how it begins. A burning desire to see, really see, in my head, these women and their lives and the story I need to tell, because it will be my story too. And while it burns in my gut, while I feel it tingling, itching, forming, shaping, moving from the back to the forefront of my consciousness, that is when it is born, and lives. While it burns.

I thought you might enjoy seeing the house that inspired the one in Miss McGhee. Built around 1903, this three-story Victorian is now on the market. Five bedrooms, three bathrooms, two kitchens, back yard big enough for your own football field.

It saddens me. The more things change, the sadder I get.  Miss Mcleod, my high school English teacher, passed away earlier this summer. She left her imprint on generations of students. That's something, isn't it?

I stepped on a dead lizard this morning. It was in my living room. Two cats lay suspiciously draped on the furniture, sound asleep, I assume.This is my life now, living with two cats. Recently, my partner, renowned animal lover and wrangler Sandy Moore, disappeared for a few days to spend time with her kids and grandkids, the human ones. Her real kids got very huffy with me, staring longingly and pointedly out the window, ignoring me in the anxious wait for her return. Her, the one who feeds, combs, plays, talks to them. The provider of treats! The one who stares into their eyes and surmises their thoughts perfectly.

The two were gravely ill-disposed to be left in my care. I am the second one, the one who is not entertaining in the least, who can only be counted on to respond after much prodding on their part for the most meager of attentions, the opening of doors, refilling of bowls, cleaning of the litter box. In short, a poor handler of the basic necessities with no extras. I am, in their estimation, a human of poor quality.

Sandy is home now, thank the gods. They have returned their attention to her in full and left me in my proper role, she who is to be ignored.

My life of late has also been consumed by the editing and publishing of Sandy?s memoir, Beside Myself, about growing up on a cotton farm in Frost, Texas, a tale mostly about her love of animals, and the people too, of course, that filled her childhood. Cats feature prominently in this book, and horses, fish, dogs, sheep, and pigs. Bumblebees and nutria. I hope I haven?t left out any species. I shudder at the thought of retribution.

http://www.amazon.com/Beside-Myself-Sandy-Moore/dp/1448635063/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&s=books&qid=1250378241&sr=1-1

I am completely excited about Sandy's new book, Beside Myself. In my completely unbiased (!) opinion, it is a very funny, at times very touching portrait of her childhood.

We just rceived our first official copy of the book. Sandy is at the beach for the week, with her kids and grandkids, so she doesn't get to experience this thrill that all authors feel, so I'm doing it for her. Holding the book like a treasure, walking around in circles, struck speechless in wonder.

http://www.redroom.com/publishedwork/beside-myself

I wanted to include more of Sandy's artwork, but color printing is expensive and would have increased the price of the book. I posted some snapshots of her work here and you can scroll through a slidehow in the photo gallery.

If you haven't read the book yet, why not? Kidding. You are missing some sweet stories, and some simply hilarious ones.

Sandy's sister Rose still lives in Frost, Texas. I hope we get to visit her soon. I want to see that house for myself. Yes, it's still there, though sadly it no longer belongs to the family.

Sandy retains a lifelong love of animals, and she still looks deeply into their eyes. I have no doubt about what they see in hers.

People wonder what I do here, shut in my office at home at 2:30 am each morning. Coffee's ready now. Sketch is out for his early morning prowl in the dark, and Scout is settled in asleep next to me. Actually, everyone is asleep. The neighbors across the street. My partner, who stays up late into the night, and sometimes is just going to bed when I am getting up. I open the blinds and look into the yard, the empty street. It is too early to hear the buses at the facility a couple of blocks away begin to rumble and back out of their spaces and the yard manager call out on his loudspeaker directing drivers and traffic. It is quiet and still, so quiet that if it begins to rain, I'll hear it, the whisper as it starts.

I can think, this early in the morning, while everyone is resting.

I'm trying to count how many web sites/blogs I have and maintain. Itall started with my web site, www.bettnorris.com, which still feels more like home than any other site or blog. Then I learned about MySpace. I created a page there, and posted  blogs, usually copying the latest blog from my web site.

Along came Facebook, and everyone flocked to it like lemmings, virtually leaving MySpace alone. At least, MySpace feels abandoned now to me. Hello! Anyone there? So I don't bother posting much there, except for photos. I love places that let me store my photos.

What came next? My amazon.com author page, I think. Then, I started a Google blogger page called All Bets Off (I thought up the name myself), just because. And discovered The Red Room for authors, which is totally free, lets you set up a page and a blogand post reviews of your books, upcoming appearances, etc. There's also WordPress.com, again, a free blog that is almost your own web site.

I have profiles at shelfari.com and GoodReads. Do those count?

The reason I am listing all these various venues and opportunities to engage: I recently received a firm, shall we say stern, suggestion/directive from my publisher, Bywater Books, declaring that they are putting out a monthly newsletter, listing all their authors' various web sites and blogs, and it would be darn convenient if we all manage to update the things and put something new and exciting out there for the enormous amount of traffic the newsletter should be driving our way.

Question: can anyone explain RSS feeds to me? Is that some new magic where I write and post on one blog, and it is automatically loaded onto other sites, without my lifting a finger? Yes, there is a God. RSS is proof.

I'm going to sift through old photos and post some more online. That's more fun.

Sites that I visit daily and can't live without:

http://www.strike.tv/show/anyone-but-me/;

http://cynnchadwick.wordpress.com/

http://www.huffingtonpost.com/

http://www.jillmalone.com/

http://jillbennett.com/Jill_Bennett/home.html

http://thesmokingcocktail.blogspot.com/

http://www.tampabay.com/

http://www.shewired.com/index.cfm

http://thepioneerwoman.com/

http://www.afterellen.com/

Fascinating stuff. What with checking updates on all these sites, keeping my coffee warm, and updating all my own sites as well, who has time to actually write? I mean, write, as in, what happened to that novel I am polishing/ editing/tweaking/ procrastinating over/ hanging onto/ afraid to let editor see/ can/won't finish/ gotta go post something?

www.bettnorris.com

http://bettnorris.blogspot.com/

http://www.amazon.com/gp/pdp/profile/ALA2PGOSIBWIV

http://www.redroom.com/author/bett-norris

http://www.facebook.com/bett.norris

http://www.myspace.com/bettnorris

http://www.shelfari.com/o1517926853

http://www.amazon.com/-/e/B002BLUAEW