heroes in print

I took a back road today and came upon a small house with a large sign on it, saying that Johann Philipp Palm lived here. Who was Johann Philipp Palm? A book publisher of the 18th-19th centuries. He had the unfortunate distinction of writing a pamphlet against Napoleon (who had invaded this area), and for that was executed, shot three times because the first two tries didn't quite do him in. Words are powerful.

But that isn't the end of the Palm family. Philipp's uncle Jakob was a publisher, too, and that publishing company (Palm & Enke) is still in existence. Until recently, it was also a bookseller, until it was bought out by a chain (boo! hiss! Although I still shop there, because--shh!--there are three floors FULL of books, and the booksellers have actually read the books in their departments). But you can still buy books published by P&E. And thanks in part to P&E, my kids have learned to read in German.

And that still isn't the end. According to Wikipedia, there's a foundation established in Philipp's name set up to promote the free press, the "Johann Philipp Palm-Preis für Meinungs- und Pressefreiheit." Among other winners is a magazine for Afghani women. (If you didn't know, only 7%? of Afghani women can read--the figure for men is more like 25%--and women like Mina have been assasinated, just for teaching people to read. Which is a subject for a complete post of its own.)

I guess my point is that you can be a hero in everyday life if you are typing away in the back room just as much as if you're on the front lines somewhere. Without publishers or people with the courage to print things that others disagree with, or people who insisted on learning to read and teach others, I wouldn't have most of what is important to me. So this is my thanks--to Johann Philipp Palm, Johannes Gutenberg, the inventor of phonics, whoever that may be, Miss Hunter, my first grade teacher, my parents who read to me, and to everyone else who's given me the printed word.

the muse and becoming a writer

I'm working on my WIP right now and as usual I'm surprised at how spooky the whole novel-writing thing is. I've got a working outline this time around, which I didn't with my first book, but the outline only emerged after 15K or so of prewriting. AND it's subject to change. But still, I'm a kitchen-sink writer who puts things in that seem interesting or important, even without realizing completely why at the time. It seems right, and usually those things end up being important plot nodes. Which makes me realize that, although I've written stories ever since I can remember, I can point to a specific time when suddenly I knew I was a writer inside. After reading thousands of pages and living in many towns and states and countries and knowing tons of people, I sat down to write one winter. I had three kids under the age of four and it snowed every day. And we had no TV. And no money. And we were at a university town with nothing but cornfields for miles and miles and miles. And as I wrote, things came out of my head that I didn't realize were there.

Whenever I'd written before, I was consciously trying to think up a story. Maybe sitting down with one of those character charts that ask for name, age, sign, hair color, and hobbies. And things just didn't get far. But this time, the characters weren't exactly people I knew, nor were they pale echoes of characters in books I'd read. They were...alive in my head, their own people. And now every time I sit down to write (and it has to be the physical act of writing, not toying with some kind of character checklist), it's like these people and their stories come out of the darkness. And now I don't have to search for a story, because the characters come with their own stories. Even minor ones. I've currently got a half-Tongan football player in my story whose name might be mentioned occasionally, and that's all. But hey, I know how his parents met and what his cousins are like and what he looks like. Weird, huh? I never had imaginary friends as a kid, but now...now I have whole villages in my head, trying to talk to me! (I promise, I'm not crazy! Well, not any crazier than anyone else I know...) And this is the point at which I realized it was my time to write, that the rest of it all was preparation, but now I was ready.

So, what about you? How does the muse appear to you, and/or when did you realize that now was your time to be a writer?