The Book That Didn’t Want to be Written, a guest blog bt Reba White Williams

 JULIA SPENCER-FLEMING: "Write what you know" is a truism many authors follow, but few of them are as knowledgeable about their subjects as Reba White Williams. When she wrote Restrike, the first in a series about gallery owner Dinah Greene and her art-magazine-editor cousin, Coleman, Reba didn't just take a stroll through the Met and download a copy of ARTnews.  She tackled her art-world mysteries after a lifetime of collecting American prints, writing scholarly articles and earning a PhD. in Art History. (She also has an MBA and a masters in fiction writing. Talk about overachieving!)

Her first book did well, she got picked up by a larger publisher, and her second book, Fatal Impressions, came out less than a month ago to excellent reviews. The picture of contentment, right? Well...it turns out even the most well-prepared author isn't immune from struggling with The Book That Will Not Be Written...

          I enjoyed writing my first two novels. The words flowed swiftly and easily like butter melting on a hot plate. I told my friends how easy it was to write. How much I enjoyed the experience. That I laughed out loud at the antics of my characters and couldn’t imagine having any problems writing. I was ever so smug.

I began my third book in January, and within days I knew this book was different.  The words wouldn’t come. The sentences weren’t there. I lost a completed section and had to rewrite it. I was constantly interrupted by trivia. I caught a hideous cold with drippy eyes and nose that led to an infection that led to something worse, and finally, minor surgery. I couldn’t see to read or write and I struggled to get words on paper.  My deadline was April 1. I feared that I couldn't make it. 

          We had a series of electrical blackouts and after the second one the refrigerator went insane.  It began to make horrible noises and we couldn’t turn it off (it was built in).  For two days it screeched at me.  I could hear in every room. I couldn’t escape it.  My friend Susan wrote that she had a vision of me shooting the refrigerator, making headlines all over the country.  I sent it to my editor but accidentally sent an old version and had to send again.  When the book was finally finished, I was exhausted and drained.  I felt that the book and I had been at war.  I wondered if the book tucked on a shelf somewhere was rewriting itself. Is my book an escaped Stephen King novel?

          Have other writers had this experience?  What can I do if the next book challenges me?  A friend suggests hanging garlic near where I am writing to fend off witches.  Any better ideas?

How about you, dear readers? Do you have any superstitions or charms to make your writing go smoothly? And what do you do when the work just won't come? We have three copies of Fatal Impressions to give away to some lucky commentors, so be sure to join in the discussion!

You can find out more on Reba White Williams' remarkable career, and read excerpts of her Coleman and Dinah Greene mysteries on her website. You can friend Reba on Facebook, follow her on Twitter as @RebaWWilliams, and include her in your circle at Google+.

North Toward Home—To Stay; a guest blog by Reba White Williams

JULIA SPENCER-FLEMING: Full disclosure: I read and enthusiastically blurbed Reba White Williams' debut novel, Restrike. I enjoyed the spunky, stand-up-for-themselves heroines, the behind-the-scenes view of the New York art world, and the small cultural touchstones of Southerners living up north. As someone with strong Alabama roots living in New England, I can well identify with that. So, as a matter of fact, can Reba...

 

            In 1967, Willie Morris, an admired Southern writer, published North Toward Home, a memoir of his Mississippi childhood, his Texas college days, and his move to New York.

            I was attracted by his title, which told my story, too. I was a Southern child, and I had come “North toward home” to New York. But I suffered none of the worries that tortured Willie, torn between Mississippi and New York, troubled about losing his Southerness, and about turning his back on his past. He saw himself as an exile, “alienated from Mississippi, but forever drawn back to it,” and was unhappy in the city he called the “Cave.”

            Why did he come to New York? He wrote: “We had always come, the most ambitious of us, because we had to, because the ineluctable pull of the cultural capital, when the wanderlust was high, was too compelling to resist.” He sounded as if he came against his will. He seemed to see the City through dark and dismal glasses, criticizing everything about New York, including the people. I resolved to adopt his title, ignore his misery, and to embrace New York with the love and appreciation it deserved.

            I had left North Carolina with only $500, under a cloud of family disapproval. I took a train to New York, but with no money to spare for a reserved seat, I was crammed into a crowded ladies’ room, sitting with four women sipping moonshine from mayonnaise jars. I was offered a swig, but declined, not because I feared germs, but because the ride was rough and I feared I’d be sick. Despite my discomfort, I was so excited, I felt as if I were flying.

          

  In New York, I shared an apartment at 601 Cathedral Parkway with a friend who was studying at Columbia, two of her classmates, a large collie, a small diapered monkey, and a pigeon with one wing. Did I dislike my new home? I wasn’t wild about the monkey, but even he was part of the adventure. My roommates introduced me to subways, bakeries, Broadway, Chinese food, pizzerias, the automat, and a Murphy bed.  

            I saw New York City through rose-tinted glasses. I embraced all that they showed me and much more. I loved everything, especially the fast pace, and the fascinating people. I worked at three part-time jobs to pay my share of the rent, and didn’t complain. I mastered the subway, and used it to explore the city. I attended most of the Broadway shows alone, and standing at the back of the theatre.

            Mocked and teased about my Southern drawl, I was unfazed. I kept my Southern accent, and resolved to transport aspects of the South I loved to New York, notably flowers and food. My garden features Magnolia Grandiflora trees, crepe myrtles, mimosa and honeysuckle.

            I serve homemade ice cream made from ripe peaches from the Carolinas to neighbors in the summertime. While Willie wondered, while eating black-eyed peas on New Year’s Day in Harlem, “where else could a Southern white boy have such a meal?” I and any number of other Southerners were eating that New Year’s meal every year.

            I found another apartment, and got a great job as a researcher at McKinsey. My life was all I’d dreamed about. The touches of the South I brought north added a subtle touch of spice to the flavor of a favorite recipe.

            I give my books a touch of Southern flavor: Coleman and Dinah Greene, the protagonists of Restrike, are from North Carolina, but live and work in New York. They and some of their friends speak with Southern accents or phrases. Dinah often prepares Southern dishes. They remain influenced by their Southern past, but they are true New Yorkers. They, like me, have come North toward home.

 You can find out more about Reba, read her essays, and find out where to meet her in person (hint: tomorrow night, at Longfellow books in Portland, with yours truly) at her web site.