Lolly Walter's Blog, page 2

Dry Run comes out tomorrow! Add it to your to-do list, put an alarm on your phone, write it on your inner forearm--whatever it takes to remind you to go to Amazon tomorrow and pick up a copy! (I'm a put-it-on-the-Google-calendar person, myself.)

And because Dry Run comes out tomorrow, I am feeling vulnerable. Like, really vulnerable. You know that dream where you go to school and suddenly realize you showed up naked? That's how I feel. 

I put my heart and soul into this book. And now, strangers and loved ones alike get to go buy that piece of me on Amazon ($3.99 ebook, $11.99 print, free on Kindle Unlimited). Anyone can see who I am.

It could go horribly wrong. That's a possibility. But what I've learned over the past three years I've been writing is that making myself vulnerable like this makes me happy. Sharing my early writings with my husband was scarier than the first time he saw me naked, but from the first chapter he read, he's been my biggest fan.

I remember whispering to my best friend (in a swimming pool, surrounded by our kids) that I was writing a book, and it wasn't meant for kids. Those words were too scary to say in a non-whisper. When she read the book, her first words were, "When can I read the next one?" She texted me as I was writing this, more excited about tomorrow than I am.

Opening myself up has deepened my connection to my closest loved ones. It's taken old acquaintances and turned them into friends who introduced me to other acquaintances who became friends, all champions of my work. It's turned strangers into colleagues, then turned those colleagues into mentors and friends. Every time I take a risk and make myself vulnerable, I'm so glad I did.

Viewed through that lens, tomorrow isn't so scary. I'm looking forward to it.

At the time I finished writing Dry Run, almost two years ago now, I thought we Americans were on the precipice of shattering a glass ceiling, that we were working toward a more just and equal democracy. For years, I had heard the rumblings, though, and I wasn't foolish enough to believe that racism, homophobia, xenophobia, misogyny, and religious persecution were dying away. So I had written Dry Run as a sort of warning, a bogeyman's tale of what harm can be wrought by privilege, dehumanization, and desperation. I didn't ever want it to be real.

Dry Run comes out in eight days, and this blog post was originally going to be some catchy musing that would help convince folks they should read the book. Friends, I just can't, not when something so much more important is on my mind.

What's happening on the southern US border--families being ripped apart when their only crime is seeking a better life for their children--is the kind of cruelty I'd once naively hoped America was leaving behind.

The good news is that, according to a recent CNN poll, two-thirds of Americans disapprove of this policy. And this is our country. The people in our government are our employees, not our rulers. By making our voices heard, we can effect change.

And making our voices heard has never been easier. The League of Women Voters will happily tell you who your elected officials are; all you have to do to get the list is enter your zip code here. Even contacting these officials is easier than ever. Services like Resistbot and stampslicked.org will send messages for you. I'm sure there are many more resources. Even tweeting at your Senators and Reps matters. The point is, if you're troubled by what is happening to the children at the border, you aren't relegated to silence. You do have a voice, if you're moved to use it.

"You'd sell more books if your main characters weren't gay--or whatever they are."

"You aren't a member of the community, so what makes you think you can accurately portray a (fill in the blank) person?"

I've heard both. The first statement was directed at me in person, the second was online and directed broadly. Both have merit in the sense that they're probably true.

But, as my friend Kate reminds me when I worry about stuff like this (and to be clear, I mean I worry about statement two, because I have never, and will never, care enough about sales numbers to justify making homophobes and racists more comfortable): It's about representation.

Simply put, there aren't enough gay characters, enough Latino characters, enough pick-your-underrepresented-group-and-stick-it-in-here characters in fiction (or in any media). We all need more.

What finally helped me reach peace about being a white, straight writer of the non-white, non-straight characters in Dry Run was the realization that I'm writing fiction. Yes, I did a lot of due diligence to get the thoughts and emotions of my characters as authentic as possible, and I hope I've done a good job, but my book is a fiction. It's made up. Joe and Devin and all the other characters are just--characters.

I want to get to a place where our choices in fiction are as varied as the people in the world. When deliberating over the "read or not-to-read" question about a book, I don't want to think about whether or not the main character in the story looks like me or shares my sexual orientation. I just want to know if it sounds like a good story. That's what I'm going for.

If you want to be educated about what it's like to be (fill in the blank again), seek out members of that group who are willing to share their experiences. Educating others isn't a responsibility of anyone in a particular group, but there are folks on Twitter and Facebook and in magazines and newspapers who are graciously talking. Listen.

Reading a work of fiction isn't the same education. But having lots of books full of diverse characters--reminding us that we are all worth writing and reading about--is important, too.

Dry Run launches in two weeks and a day, friends! Can't wait!

It was your fault for having me sit by the window.

You wanted me to conjugate être and jouer when all sixteen-year-old me wanted to do was stare out the window, pick at my numerous split ends, and daydream.

Now see, as an adult, I can understand why my inattention irritated you. You were trying to teach my something useful -- though in the interest of full disclosure I'll say I've never needed French II. I wish I'd either been someplace where it was necessary or that I'd just taken Spanish like the kids who wanted an easier class and didn't indulge in romantic daydreams of outdoor cafes in Paris (or at least Canada). I've been a teacher, and French II-me would have irritated teacher-me a hell of a lot. But none of that matters, really.

I learned something more important than verb conjugation in your class. I learned the power of telling a story, even if I was the only person who ever heard it. In my mind, I sculpted worlds full of heroes and villains and intrigue and angst and very attractive boys who were inexplicably interested in the heroine, who happened to be a quiet, stubborn introvert with a whole lot of passion and a terrible temper.

The stories got me through French. And they got me through all of the most brain-killing times in my life: boring college courses, long car rides, the sometimes-crushing insomnia, the years when my children were small and days dragged on a diet of Caillou and the Bubble Guppies.

It took a long time for me to work up the courage to share my stories with anyone else, and it took another couple of years to learn to craft one into something I'm proud for others to read. But it started with you, Mrs. Tapscott. Thank you.