A Match Made in Heaven: When the Two Sides of Your Brain are in Sync

When I think about 2010, about all that I want to accomplish, my head begins to spin: Design a web-page, send out two more queries, edit the hook of my first chapter, read killer fiction, navigate the web...the list goes on and on. Then my organized self, the disappointed principal, steps in to chide my creative self. Make a schedule, Amy. Tackle one facet of writing per day. Be consistent. Start the new year with diligence. And then there's her favorite: Be informed.


"There are those who wait for things to happen and those that make them happen," she shamelessly adds, never a fan of Michael Jordan's before.


My sensitive self gets up and walks away. One more cup of coffee to ward off the demons. Or at least buzz them. I grab my coffee, gulp down a couple swigs, and head to the laundry room.

Someone's gotta' do the dirty work around here.


I begin rifling through the pile when the phone rings. I nearly trip over the sash of my velour robe to grab the receiver. (I'm old fashioned that way, still use the home phone). It's the voice of a politican and in my sternest of voices, I lie to him that he's caught me at a bad time, that I'm in the middle of something very important. He doesn't answer right away and then I realize that his voice is only a recording. I put down the receiver and laugh. I can't help it. I'm alone and laughing and my dog eyes me suspiciously, his chin resting on his front paws.


My routine has ended with a twist. Who would have guessed that the caller I craved would be a damn recording? It's a creative conclusion to the doldrum of my morning and the mere thought of it sends me back to my stool, to my trustworthy companion, the laptop. To write. One quick refill of coffee, and I perch.


The opening paragraph of The Hunted needs a new hook, and though it's taken me eighteen months (along with a fair share of arguments) to let go of my 'darlings', I start to rearrange words like I'm in a Scrabble match. The first sentence comes quickly; a dramatic hook, less words are better. It's me and the reader and I throw the first punch. The next few lines are less inviting, need more tightening than a Joan Rivers facelift. So I prune and change and cut and paste until my first paragraph sings to me. I'm proud of that first paragraph now. I read it aloud one more time. One small change, just one. That word is ugly, doesn't belong. I snip it and sigh. One more read, just to hear the final melody, a paragraph in harmony, a paragraph that has sat on the bench for eighteen months before scoring big.


That paragraph has me so inspired that I switch windows to my latest query letter. This agent has asked for five pages. Certain that my first paragraph will sell a library, I copy and paste that sucker into the document as though it's a yellow smiley sticker.


My energy follows me throughout the day. It is with me at parent-pick up, at the overcrowded ski lodge, and, later that evening, on my comfy purple writing chair in the finished basement. My friend Pete returns my call to offer technical support and, together, we're creating google accounts that are smoother than butter. I have enough windows open to stump Bill Gates but I'm making progress.


By the end of the day, to my credit, I have a knock-out hook for The Hunted, a polished query letter, and a place to blog. My two selves shake hands, make peace. We're a match made in heaven.