Guest Post: You are not in Control and You are not Normal.

Let's give a giant Inkspot welcome to Emily Kimmelman, author of the Sydney Rye mystery novels.

I want to start off by thanking all the authors at INKSPOT for inviting me here today to talk about writing... one of my all time favorite subjects :) For me, writing is the act of letting go of two things, control and normalcy.

I attended an event at The Center for Fiction in Manhattan last week for a friend’s book launch. During her talk, she spoke of how a story chooses the writer and that really, we have no control over it. After the reading, while the author signed books, I chatted with her husband, who admitted he never could understand what she was talking about when she said that characters often did unexpected things.

Most fiction writers will agree that your story chooses you and your characters do what they want. These are the most magical parts about writing and also the hardest to understand until you’ve been there. When I set out to write my first book, UNLEASHED (A Sydney Rye Novel, #1), I created a detailed outline that took months to complete. However, by the time I was a third of the way into writing my story I had to throw it away because none of my characters agreed with my vision. For the record, their version was a lot better.

What I learned is that I needed to trust my imagination and go with it. Which is not normal. Normal people don’t spend hours, weeks, years, let alone lifetimes listening to their imaginary friends and coming up with adventures for them to go on. I feel the constant need to remind myself of these facts, that I am not in control, and I am not normal, and that is the only way this thing works. At least for me.

Do you feel the same? Do your characters boss you around? Ever gotten half way through a novel and realized you should have taken that left turn at Albuquerque?

If you want to see where my out of control, non-normal writing ethos gets me, download a FREE copy of my mystery, UNLEASHED (A Sydney Rye Novel, #1). If you like it, which if you’re over 18, enjoy some violence, don't mind dirty language, are up for a dash of sex and can handle twists and turns that keep you reading late into the night, you probably will, then the second book, DEATH IN THE DARK (A Sydney Rye Novella, #2), is on sale for only $.99 through Tuesday.

Don’t have a Kindle but do have another reading device? Sign up for my newsletter and I’ll send you a free copy of UNLEASHED in whatever format you like. You’ll also be the first to hear about new releases and sales.

You can learn more about me on Twitter, Facebook and on my website.

A long time ago the Pilgrims sailed,

To find a brand new land.

They wanted to worship God themselves,

Not by the King's command.

So begins an eight-verse epic poem written by yours truly in November of 1971. I was a fifth grader at Norfolk Elementary School in Massachusetts, steeped so deeply in the lore and legend of the Mayflower, Squanto and Governor Bradford that I felt as if I, too, had planted my shiny black-buckled shoe upon the famous Plymouth Rock.

Growing up in the Bay State it was hard to avoid the Pilgrims. The wide-brimmed hat sported by Pilgrim men (called a capotain) was on signage for our highways, the state flower bore the same name as the Pilgrims' sturdy ship, and Plimouth Plantation, the living history museum replicating a 1627 English village and Wampanoag settlement, was the default class trip for hordes of school children, including those of us from Norfolk Elementary.

It's not surprising that a young girl who feverishly penned poems, short stories, soap operas, and magazine advice columns should turn her attention to the most famous immigrants of all.

What is surprising is what happened after I wrote the poem.

I recall the noisy auditorium of the school, the kids antsy to go home for Thanksgiving break, and me, wearing a plaid dress no doubt, ushered by my teacher up to the front of the assembly. Did I read the poem slowly, emphasizing the dramatic moment when the Pilgrims nearly starved? Or did I hurry through the verses, eager to get back to my seat?

Here is what I do remember: knowing deep in my core that I am a writer. It's a feeling as solid as Plymouth Rock itself, one that reviews, contracts, and sales figures can't touch, and for that I am grateful.

Today I'm taking a little detour with my daughter before joining the rest of my family for the holiday. A pilgrimage, if you will, down the coast to Plymouth. Having been born and raised in Maine, my kids missed out on the whole Pilgrim-related indoctrination.

Fortunately it's a heck of a long ride. Happy Thanksgiving!

Statistically Reading

I’ve seen the abysmal statistics regarding the number of people who read books. I say abysmal because the statistics always indicate the majority of us do not read books, especially men.

Recently, however, I saw a statistic suggesting the majority of us would like to write a book. Go figure.

I don’t doubt the statistics. At a craft fair in December, I sold thirty-four copies of my novel and the author I accompanied sold almost fifty books. But during the seven hour sale, a frequent response from potential customers to our offering was a wrinkling of the nose and the statement “I don’t read.”

As one of my friends commented, who admits they don’t read? It’s tantamount to confessing “I’ve stopped learning.”

Now some people at the fair said “I only read non-fiction” or “I only read the newspaper” (a dying breed). But they read.

Some said “I don’t have time to read.” Those are the ones I wanted to ask if they watched television, and, if so, what shows they watched. Lately I can’t find any shows more enticing than a book.

I’m married to a man who doesn’t read books. He reads magazines, articles on the Internet, and educational publications. Our son now reads books only as required for school assignments. Once in a while, he admits he enjoyed one. I hold an internal celebration when that happens. Our daughter, on the other hand, seems like she’ll be a lifelong book reader. Picture me cheering wildly.

It’s not nurture. We both read to our children. We encouraged purchasing books, trips to the library, and bedtime reading for years. Of course, the kids see me reading books, demonstrating the desired behavior regularly. So I’m thinking it must be nature.

I wish the statisticians were wrong, but even my husband has considered writing non-fiction books. So why is writing more attractive than reading? Is it the allure of the glamorous lifestyle?