Embracing My Crazy Stupid Scary 

Today’s Guest Blogger is Hope Tarr, the award-winning author of 15 historical and contemporary romance novels as well as a Co-Founder of Lady Jane’s Salon, New York City’s first (and so far only) monthly romance reading series. Forty-Three Is Too Old for a Fifth Floor Walk-Up is her first memoir. Visit Hope online at www.hopetarr.com and www.writernyc.com. You can also find her on Twitter and Facebook.

When it comes to announcing resolutions, mid-February may seem late to the party. Then again, I’ve never held that we need wait for a single calendar date, January 1st, to change our course or our lives. One of my very favorite quotes is this one by another writer chick, George Eliot (Mary Ann Evans):

“It is never too late to be what you might have been.”

Sing it, sistah!

For the past decade and counting, I’ve had the great good fortune to be a working writer. By working, let’s be clear that people—publishers—pay me for my ideas, my world view, my words. When you stop to think about it, that’s pretty cool, borderline incredible.

I’ve had the honor of being not only a working writer, but a working romance writer. Since my first romance novel was published in 2000, I’ve written 14 more as well as one novella and numerous articles, blogs, and workshop lectures and presentations.

For those tempted to shrug off romance as formulaic, I ask that you kindly consider replacing formula with structure. All genre fiction—science fiction, fantasy, mystery etc— follows a structure. So, by the way, do screenplays. (What are Blake’s 15 Beats if not the foundation for a structure?)

Romance has been a good gig for me. For a decade and counting, it has enabled me to pay my bills, feed my cats, and take trips to places that interest me, all while working flexible (if long) hours on my own time clock. And so it is with the greatest respect for the genre and the greatest pride for the small but pivotal place my works hold in its ever evolving history that I take my bow and say my goodbyes.

That’s right, I’m done. I’m outta here. It’s time to embrace my Crazy Stupid Scary and for now that means writing all the other non-romance stories that have been pounding on the exit door of my writer’s brain for far too long.

But writers love words, especially our words, and I so I want you to know that my Crazy Stupid Scary resolution isn’t all talk. I’ve backed it up with the Crazy Stupid Scary action of turning down actual work, not one but two romance contracts, contracts graciously offered to me on behalf of a very good publisher by the very great editor who works there. That editor and I have been together since 2006. Turning her down felt a lot like breaking up with a man I once adored and with whom I still wanted to be friends. Really good friends.

Conventional wisdom says that an “artist” turning down paying work isn’t only ill-advised. She’s dumb and dumber. But conventional wisdom isn’t always so wise. Sometimes it’s flat-out wrong.

I’m happy to report I’ve just finished the complete working draft of a memoir. My memoir. Forty-Three Is Too Old for a Fifth Floor Walk-Up is still in need of some editorial spit-and-polish but it’s written, currently 420 pages of blood, sweat, and tears splashed upon the no longer blank ream of printer paper.

I’m also working on a travel memoir. My goal is to have the revised proposal to my agent before the end of the month—as in this month. No promises, but I’m pretty sure I’ll make it.

And there’s a third project in progress, too. To bring the conversation back to this blog, and Blake’s legacy, I’ll say this much. It’s a screenplay.

I didn’t know Blake well. I didn’t really know him at all. But I suppose you can say I knew him enough. Our one in-person meeting took place in July 2008. He was presenting at the Romance Writers of America’s annual national conference held that year in San Francisco. I slipped into a seat at the back of the room, thinking to kill time between appointments—and ended up wanting to Save the Cat instead.

Blake didn’t just inspire me. He mesmerized me. It had been a long time since I’d encountered someone who so obviously adored what they do, including teaching others how to do it, too. Only unlike most of the published romance writers in the room, I wasn’t interested in adapting any of my books into screenplays. I wanted to write a screenplay. From scratch.

Sitting on that oh-so-uncomfortable chair and hemmed in by my romance colleagues, this realization felt revolutionary, an Ah-Ha moment indeed. The word “novelist” had defined me for almost a decade. Was I really ready to bridge such a Big Change?

And yet my favorite part of novel writing has always been the dialogue. When it comes to scene setting, I’d be more than happy to leave it at “The room was blue.” Was a screenplay really so radically different or a natural extension of the writing I’d always loved doing?

Several back-and-forth emails with Blake ensued. He was unfailingly gracious and upbeat. I bought the first Save the Cat! book and the software. I bought them—and kept them pristine in their plastic wrappers. But when an email landed in my in-box announcing that Blake would be bringing his Save the Cat! weekend workshop to New York City—the host hotel was all of three subway stops from my apartment building—there could be no more excuses. I signed up.

As much as I love writing Happily Ever After endings, sadly I can’t manage one here. I was in the optometrist’s waiting room doing a final phone check of my messages before the dilation drops kicked in when I saw the email on the Save the Cat! seminar I was to take that coming weekend. The seminar was cancelled. Blake had passed away.

Sitting in that doctor’s waiting room, my vision blurring not only from eye drops but also real tears, I resolved there would be no more excuses, no more holding off for Someday to magically materialize. Going forward I would embrace my Crazy Stupid Scary—starting with writing the stories tumbling straight from my soul.

I like to think Blake would approve.