Stop Making Things Up!

by Lee Ann Setzer

I’ve been working through the book we received at the CFI writers’ conference, Get Off the Beach!, by keynote speaker Eloise Owens. She uses surfing metaphors to illustrate principles of salesmanship and marketing.

She quotes a famous surfer: “Essential requirement for a big-wave rider is not courage, daring, or fitness but a non-arousable imagination.” Owens emphasizes the “mental strength to stay quiet while executing through the unknown.”

So, how’s that supposed to help a novelist? We’re using our imaginations to “execute through the unknown,” and if they're "non-arousable," we're in trouble! This reminded me of advice I heard years from authors Kristine Kathryn Rusch and Dean Wesley Smith: “Stop making things up!”

We’re novelists. We have great imaginations. We can create a whole dramatic chain of events from one minor occurrence. We make things up for fun and profit. The problem comes when we write the query letter, put the manuscript in the mailbox, and start waiting—and making things up.

It’s the worst thing they’ve ever received. I haven’t heard back because they burned it and scattered the ashes. Not only do these editors hate this manuscript, every editor in the world (or universe, if you write science fiction), is destined to hate everything I ever write for the rest of my short and miserable life. I should have become an accountant.

So, fellow authors, how do you avoid making things up? Or do you guide your limitless imagination in positive paths, and put it to work for you?

Me, I have a goal to receive 100 rejection letters.

Under Son

by Shirley Bahlmann
I just finished a week and a half long stint at the Mormon Miracle Pageant in sunny, mosquito-infested Manti, Utah. My routine was pretty much get up at 6:00 a.m., clean the alternative high school in readiness for Summer School classes, feed and water our pets since that's the only way I could be certain they'd remain alive, then be in my Craft Fair booth by 10:00 a.m. (I didn't have to go except when it was my turn to take the till, but more people bought books when I was there to threaten them with paper cuts if they didn't.) I stayed among the paper and glossy covers until it was time to do my part in the Pageant, which started at 9:30 p.m. (I was a wicked Shaman who led people astray from Third Nephi.) Home by 11:30, I was in bed soon after, unless my restless 8-year-old made it later.
Later, rinse, repeat.
I met some interesting people in my book booth. One fellow who appeared deceptively young had a double super hero cape velcroed around his neck. On one side was the Superman symbol, the other side showed Batman. One lady who shared my booth asked the young hero which super dude he was. "Are you Batman or Superman?" was her innocent question.
The boy fixed her with deadly laser beam eyes. "I'm Under Son," he declared, clearly irritated that she did not recognize him by sight. (How could she have known his real cape was at the cleaners?)
"Under Son?" the lady asked, unaware of the mortal danger she put herself in by questioning his identity. Her life was saved by the lad's older sister, who obviously had super powers of her own. She grabbed Under Son's shoulders and held him fast.
"It's like Under Dog," the girl explained. "Only he's Under Son."
Ah.
That boy has a big future. I could tell by his cape-swaying swagger as he left us without a backward glance. (Under Son never glances backwards.)
I'll tell you what... if I'm ever in danger, I'll run to the nearest kindergarten class and call for Under Son, the hero of limitless creativity.

Walking Boxes

by Shirley Bahlmann

They were big, they were beautiful, and they were in the dumpster. Two huge boxes, big enough to reach from my head to my ankles, sat unappreciated, waiting for their final journey to the dump. How could I let these building blocks of imagination meet such an awful fate? There were castles and rocket ships and secret clubhouses just waiting to be built!
I recruited my big fourteen-year-old son for project "Save-a-Box." We each hoisted one up, up, and over our heads, upside down, so we were looking through little peep holes that were torn along the bottom. Walking with a big box on your head takes some getting used to. By the time we reached Main Street, we were moving at a reasonable pace, and were glad to find the crossing guard willing to hold up his STOP sign so we could cross without worrying about being blindsided by a turkey truck. I thought the most dangerous part of our journey was over, but that was before I decided to take a shortcut through the elementary school yard. That was real danger.
Curious children started squealing and pushing on our boxes, making me stagger to catch my balance. I don't know about you, but falling down is not one of my top ten favorite things to do, and falling down inside a box where I had no option of putting out my hands to catch myself is an even worse prospect.
"Hey, stop pushing us!" I yelled.
There was a moment of silence, then a small voice asked, "Are you Michael's mom?"
"Yes," I answered, claiming parentage of my third grader. Since I'm a minor celebrity at the school, working with producing social skill skits every month, most students know me. Once they knew who the alien box monster really was, the pushing stopped and we survived crossing a street on our own.
A block from home, a stream of wolf cub scouts flowed toward us, parting around the boxes like rocks in a river. Then I saw my son, Michael's, face through my peephole.
"Mom, what are you doing?" he asked, his cheeks turning red.
"Taking these boxes home," I answered.
"What for?" He tried to sound exasperated.
"To play with," I said.
"Whatever," he answered, and walked on to join his den.
When my son got home from scouts, he spent the rest of the afternoon playing in the boxes. I grinned, remembering all my cardboard box adventures, and marked double time on my walking exercise chart.