Living as a Writer for Dummies

Is there a manual for that?
While I may sneer at the work of some writers, saying its too pulpy or poorly written, the truth of it is they are swimming in the money while I am clutching the caboose of the money train by my fingernails. My life long dream has always been to make a living as a writer, but that is easier said than done. You see the success of those writers on the bestseller list and it boggles the mind, BOGGLES. How did they get there, did they live in near poverty and slum housing trying to make ends meet? How many of them stared at 20 bucks in the bank account to get them through week even though they worked a full time job and supported two kids? Some writers are complete rags to riches stories, but some never rise out of the trenches.

We can't all be Kings and Rowlings.

I'd be happy to make enough off my writing to quit my day job, I don't need a castle.
Which brings up point number two. Until I am successful, if ever, writing the material I want to, is there any avenue of writing I can pursue to help garner funds?
I've thought about going into business with a cohort to do a biographies business.
I've also though about the very lucrative enterprise of smut. All I need to do is teach myself to write a decent sex scene.
Exercise for this week: come up with some outlines and characters for a smut novel! Go!

I did it, Adrian!!!!

After an intensely paced final inning, today I officially completed the first draft of The Blue Zone.
This book has been three years in the making, from its humble whimsical beginnings on Three Knaves, transforming under the eyes of writing peers in a graduate studies program, to being the only solace I had in a hellish year.
And the best part of it is I have already started the outline for book two.

For now, I'm giving the book some space, letting it breath like a glass of wine. I need to come back to it with some fresh perspective and rested eyes.
I'm looking to tackle it sometime in the next week or two, and begin the grueling process of editing.

And then I'll need readers....

Life as I know it

This is life right now.

The New Year has brought many changes to my life, most I hope for the better.

Some things haven't changed, still struggling to make ends meet, still trying to keep my head on my shoulders, still fighting numerous bouts of depression.

But there are a lot of things worth fighting for.
I have a new baby, born in November, I have more motivations, more dreams, more plans. I have a job, thats always a blessing in times like these, it's kept the roof over our heads. Hubby is finally in school after much niggling on my part, thank you very much. But what's really got me psyched is I've been finding more and more motivation to write.

Don't know how many writers go through funks like these. It's not really an artist temperment per se so much as flagging during the race of life. Sometimes I feel how much debt we have to dig ourselves out of and it gets hard to breathe. Worst of it is, compared to some, we actually aren't that bad off. Despite that fact, it still feels bad, it's a feeling I have to push through every time I sit down at the computer to write. Some days I can't.
Somehow though, after having another child, it gets easier to fight that feeling, not because it's lessened but because I have gotten stronger, realizing I can handle more than I thought I could.

The motto is revitalized: Keep on truckin'.

Finding the Beat

In Stephen King’s memoir, King used a toolbox metaphor to explain the basics of writing. The first level of the toolbox, vocabulary and grammar, two things many writers I know fumble over. I know I am guilty of not trusting my gut when it comes to word choice, so many teachers have told me not to repeat the same word in sequential sentences it raises a red flag when ever I do. But Steinbeck did it, are they calling him out? I think not.

The next layer of the toolbox is the equally important paragraph. As King explains, you can learn a great deal from a text just by looking at the length and number of paragraphs on a page. Pages of short quick paragraphs could denote action sequences or dialogue between characters, where long paragraphs set up a scene. Paragraphs can serve as stage directions, they tell you where the story pauses for breath. Once you achieve the basics of vocabulary and grammar, the next step is to establish the rhythm of your story. This is something I personally struggle with because you are trained to obey the laws of grammar and acceptable structure all through school, but sometimes your story wants you to break a few rules. Proper writing is not always fiction. Fiction is more flexible, more lenient.

Fragments are allowed. Expected, even.

King compared a writer’s story to Frankenstein’s monster, once you have breathed that spark of life into it, it takes on a will of its own. I might sit down with a set idea in my head, but once I’ve dropped into the rhythm of a piece, all bets are off. The story changes, shrugs off dead skin. It is a living breathing thing, the clack of the keys become a heartbeat, at times slow, taking a breath while I see what my characters will do next. Or fast, my fingers racing to keep up with the words pouring forth, slamming down the keys in the excitement of the moment. The action stops, my protagonist rests, the rhythm changes.

It is all a matter of keeping my fingers on the pulse.

Lovingly Killing the Adverb

I have a problem. A bad habit, really, of using adverbs. It’s not the worst literary offense I could commit.

If Plagiarism is the writing equivalent of committing murder, over using adverbs is a bit like defacing public property. Like drawing on your desk when you’re bored. Like all painless crimes, its easy to commit, relatively guilt free, you don’t even think about it until you are sitting at that same desk again and come face to face with your crime.

You don’t catch the overindulgence of adverbs when writing your first draft, you catch it in editing, and cringe at how many times you say the character “whispered quietly.” How redundantly redundant.

Every creative writing professor I have ever had has warned of the dangers of adverbs, it is far worse to use too many adverbs than too many adjectives. Here is another metaphor. If words were a food pyramid, Nouns are the bottom tier, Verbs and Adjectives would be next, like proteins and vegetables, and Adverbs would be at the top, they are the literary fat, use sparingly. More often than I would like to admit I am guilty of criminally, liberally using Adverbs.

You can train yourself not to use them, even when writing your first draft, you can try your best to you strong, direct language. There are times and places where adverbs are acceptable, where they enrich your text rather than diminish it, but it is a fine line to walk. It also makes editing painful, I agonize if an adverb is necessary, or at least allowable, or if it chokes up the flow of the sentence. The best method I have found for line editing out unnecessary adverbs is reading out loud. Nothing raises the red flag better than hearing the sentence spoken. The beauty in editing is cleaning up your text, a chance to wash the graffiti off your desk.

When the Hell Did I Write That?

Motherhood has done funny things to my brain.

I remember in college I thought I did my best work slugging caffeine on an all night bender, hunched over a key broad until the crack of dawn. Now I have kids, not just any kids, two boys, a new born and a toddler, two of the trickiest ages to maneuver. I have discovered what actual sleep deprivation is and how it affects what I write drooling on the keyboard at 11 o’clock at night having finally gotten both kids down.

It does funny things to my writing too.

In college, the words I wrote in the wee hours of the morning tended toward the flowery side. I’ve gone back to some of the writing I did at three in the morning and I’m surprised the story didn’t drown itself in all those unnecessary adverbs. This writing was fueled by caffeine and academic rage.

These days any writing done past ten pm is a miracle of will power. Even as I cringe at the looming prospect of waking up early to get ready for work, I feel I am accomplishing something, even if its typing out a few paragraphs instead of the pages and pages I used to string out in the old days. Unfortunately I have also discovered that if I am writing in the fog of exhaustion, it tends to be offal.

Arianna Huffington, as in the founder of the Huffington post, says the secret to her success as a writer/ media tycoon is SLEEP. Nothing else, just a good nights sleep has created the power house that is Huffington.

Well hell if it was that easy we would all do it. Still, two kids later, I am a big believer in the healing powers of sleep. Nothing drags on your body, mind, and soul like lack of sleep. I look like crap when I don’t sleep, same with my writing. I cannot express how many times I gone back and read what I wrote the night before only to realize half of it isn’t even legible.

The found of R.E.M sleep, Dr. Dement says the leading cause of fatal accidents is lack of sleep. Not alcohol, not drugs, lack of sleep kills more people. He has a mantra of “Drowsiness is a red alrert!” If you are drowsy in a car, you need to stop and pull over, take a nap. I firmly believe this applies to writing as well. Unless you want a plot fatality, pull the laptop over and get a good nights rest! Or at least a good refreshing nap before you attempt story construction. It could save a character.

I don’t even want to think about how many papers I wrote as an undergrad in the wee hours of the morning. I shudder to think what is on those pages, I really do.

Too Big for My Britches

It was about when I hit chapter 14 when I realized this book was rapidly spinning itself into a Moby Dick. This is my personal term for when a story I thought would simply reach an end within a couple hundred pages was inflating itself up to be thick enough to clobber a burglar with, aka 1000 pages chasing a white whale. This has happened to me before with past attempts of writing a book where I’m a good hundred or so pages in and realize I have created a monster of a plot that will not end quietly. This is also why I have never been a successful short story writer.

I begin with one idea and weave it into a vast tapestry, create a whole world around it, populate with characters I want to keep writing about. I have tons and tons of ideas, but I also have a hard time completing pieces because I reach a sticking point. How long is too long, when is a natural cut off point for a first book in a series or trilogy. What if you have enough material for more than one book but not enough for three. Do you just squander paper with filler? What is considered filler? Has the text been exciting enough to keep the reader wanting more, or not enough action up this point? These are the sort of questions that send me screeching to a halt. Even now, I can feel there is enough material set up to do more than one book in the universe of the Blue Zone, now it’s a matter of finding a natural conclusion for this first book. There are goals to meet with this one: Leaving enough mystery to string the reader along but answering enough questions to keep them involved. Creating a solid ending, not just a cheap cliff hanger. Most important to me is transitioning my main character from one stage of growth to another. In this book she is essentially a child, she is ignorant of her role in this world, she is protected, sheltered, and mentally unprepared for what she is facing but the ground work is there for the strong woman she will become.

Coming of age is a relative term in YA fiction, it can either be a physical transition or a mental one. With the Blue Zone I am aiming for the latter, Mina will probably not age so much in the course of the story, but mentally she will begin the journey into adulthood.

Dragging a good name through the mud

Characters have a peculiar way of invading your subconscious and changing the rules on you when you least expect it. At least this is how it works in my head. At the onset of this novel, I knew the character of Julian, the White Mage was a bastard. No dancing around the issue, he was a cold, calculating jerk and he would be the villain of the piece.

But then a little niggling sensation began. This character seemed to protest the role he had been cast into and decided to mutiny. I suddenly found myself with a bruising brick wall of character development crashing down on my head. My villain wasn’t my villain after all. How did this happen? What was I going to do with him now.

As I continued to write, the Julian I had pictured in my head grew five new faces. No longer was he a straight out killer, a villain, now he was a scapegoat, a victim, a lover, a best friend and eventually a hero. He also became a gem of misdirection. From his earlier character development I knew he would pull a reader in the direction of viewing him as the straightforward, but through his actions and reactions his true character would begin to emerge and allow me to build up the mystery of who the real villain, or The Master was. In literary terms Julian would be my personal equivalent to a character like Severus Snape, the character whose team you aren’t certain of, whose motivations are vague, who true heroism is not revealed until after the critical moments have passed. Of all the characters I have created writing this book, Julian will be the most difficult to pull off.

End of a hiatus

After suffering a few rough patches of reality at the beginning of this year I am finally back on the field with only a few minor abrasions and pulled muscles. I did not spend my time away in total lack of production, quite the opposite. The Blue Zone has grown by several chapters over the summer months and continues to pick up speed with the start of a new semster. Starting off the semester with the creation of Chapter Eleven I have begun what I believe is the most fun party of storytelling. I have laid out all the little pieces, hints and tidbits of mystery and now I am pulling the thread together, building the tension, drawing the villain out. Now that I have fully brought Julian into play, I find myself contemplating his character. Yes, Julian is evil, but I believe all evil has motivations.
Last semester I did a chapter called Felix Chapter, which has finally been woven into the story in chapter eleven, stripped down, changed and weaved in through Mina's point of view. With Julian's chapter I am doing the same sort of set up. I wanted to plot out the events that would create such a monster, so I wrote up this relativley short disturbing piece about his family and childhood. I will definitely add to it, and I plan on weaving it into the story as well within the next few chapters, but it served its purpose in helping me understand my own character better and part of where his motivation begins. The violent death of Julian's mother at the "hands" of his abusive father first leads Julian down a path of real darkness when his anger leads him to retaliate and murder his own father. Unlike everything else to this point, I also wrote this in first person. there is something about first person that allows you to sink even further into a characters psyche that third person doesn't satisfy.
Still even after completeing this tragic scene, I am not thoroughly satisfied with the extent of Julian's motivations. I think I may bulk up the influence of Aunt Ilsa and the drive to climb the social hierarchy that exists in Julian's family. I also used Julian's history to create a more sympathetic character for myself. No one starts off evil. Even a monster like Hitler was once a child, who loved and laughed just like everyone else. I also used this chapter to hash out a concept that had been bothering me, does a school of magic dictate a person's nature? No, magic is not good or evil, it is a person who is good or evil. However, I also wanted to shape more rules for magic in this world. Therefore I came up with the concept that Dark Magic is more physical, my strength oriented, while White Magic revolves around the mind and thought. These differences will play an important role in the next few chapters, esspecially concerning Capricia's behavior and odd actions in drugging Mina.

The Unyielding Curtain of Uncertainty

Despite myself, I found myself thinking about criticism I had recieved at Pope's workshop of all places during residencies and the advice he had for successful fiction. I clearly remember one piece of advice that made me cringe : Don't begin a story with the character waking up. I found myself tinkering with a very differnet beginnig for the Blue Zone, though after I got so far in, I realized it was a different novel altogether. Still, I want to post at least a chunk of it, because there is a certain cleansing factor to wallowing in one's mistakes.

Chapter One: Remix
She walked through the high grass, her fingertips tracing a parallel path at her sides as her long white skirts sighed against the growth. Stars winked in and out over head in a net of velvety black sky. The moon hung low, and was so full it blazed like daylight over the field. Laughter bubbled its way up from her belly, spilling into the night as the wind played with her long fiery red hair.


Mina sighed. The hair, that’s what gave it away. She knew it was a dream when that glorious red hair danced at the corners of her vision. It was the same color as her mother’s and very much not her own. But in dreams, wishes were reality. She had wished for this place many times. The night inhaled around her, drawing her attention to the left. There was the house, complete with its network of ivy clinging to every brick of the structure. Momma loved ivy, even when Daddy had argued it would eventually crumble the brick under it.

“Well then,” Momma had laughed, “we shall live in a house of vines.”

Momma was the only person Mina had ever known to actually possess a laugh like wind chimes. A laugh which reached her now. Mina’s mother stood on the concrete slab of a doorstep, waving to her. She wore a white dress that matched her daughter’s, glowing in the moonlight. Mina grinned, racing towards the house. Her momma was waiting.

The wind picked up. The smile slipped from Mina’s face as the world drained of color. The only color left was her mother’s red hair, which whipped across the woman’s face in the building wind. Fear pricked into Mina like thorns. She ran faster, but the grass pulled at her skirts and scraped up her legs. She began to call out, each word squeezing her throat tighter until she could barely breath.

“Mom!” Mina gasped. She was nearly there, just a few yards away. Her mother’s laughter still filled the air, except now the sound was sinister and twisted. The woman grimaced in fear. Mina reached for her when the house exploded.

The wind shrieked, drowning out all other noise. Mina cowered as shards of glass and wood splinters came at her. Pain appeared like black stripes in her eyes. She looked down. A sash of red silk twined around her legs, burning where it touched. More red threads wrapped themselves up her arms, caressing her face. Abruptly the wind ceased. The silence was worse, dreadful. Mina felt her eyes dragged to the wreck of the house. Her mother stood on the step, her hair still rising on a soundless wind. She looked perfect, immaculately white. All except for the tiniest drop of red on her stomach. Threads of red grew out from that tiny drop like spider webs, growing thicker as they went.

Her mother burst into shreds of blood red silk. Mina screamed.



The scream followed her out of the nightmare. Mina sat up, shoving her hand into her mouth to stop herself. She didn’t stop the noise fast enough. Her roommate Sarah nearly fell on the floor as she rushed over.

“Mina!” Sarah wrapped her way too thin arms around her. It was like being hugged by a friendly spider. Mina quickly squashed that thought, Sarah had been nothing but wonderful to her and to her great disgust she was quaking in the tiny girl’s embrace.

“Was it another one of those dreams?” Sarah whispered, gently pushing Mina‘s sweat soaked hair out of her eyes. Mina struggled to calm down, she was four years older than Sarah, it was silly the other girl had to comfort her every time she had a nightmare. Frustrated, she swatted the girl’s skeletal hand away, regretting it immediately when she saw the hurt in her roommate’s face.

“I’m fine Sare-bear,” Mina muttered, trying to make peace. Sarah nodded, scuttling back to her bed without another word. She quickly put her back to Mina, obviously miffed but too nice to snap back. The older girl almost wished she would, it felt like kicking a puppy the way that girl cringed at every harsh word that left Mina’s mouth.

She sighed, resting on her knees. To her great disgust, she was soaked in sweat, so much it felt like it pooled in her sheets. Mina climbed out of bed, shivering as the air cooled her skin. She refused to sleep in that mess and the staff wouldn’t be around to change the sheets until morning. But she had other options. The door to this room with blessedly unlocked since she had been moved to the low risk ward and Mina intended to take full advantage of that privilege. Within ten minutes she was laid out on one of the many couches of the common room, comfortable despite the occasional whiff of old urine and cleaner. She did her best to ignore it and closed her eyes, trying to reclaim sleep.

Her clothes clung to her uncomfortably, nearly strangling her when she rolled over. When she straightened out that, her scars ached and itched. She carefully scratched around the nasty ones on her legs until she left red stripes on her skin. Ten minutes later, her hair tickled her nose, making her sneeze. Mina gave up, the sky was beginning to lighten anyway, which meant the night shift nurses would be gathering soon for Paperwork Hour.

Mina grabbed the ratty afghan hanging off the back of the couch and wrapped herself in it as she made her way down to the desk. It helped stop the shivery feeling despite the fact it made her look like a bag lady. Her journey proved a success when she caught sight of Nurses Bennett and Washbourne, the two nurses she could stand in this place.

Jeannie Bennett had been the first nurse to treat her like a normal person in this miserable place, and Max Washbourne was one of a handful of male nurses probably in existence, as well as being one of the most relaxing people to talk to. It was Max who glanced up from his paperwork first at the sound of shuffling feet, his tired face lighting up in a wonderful expression of concern.

“Mina, dear? Good gravy man, what are you doing up before the sun rise?” Max never swore, and spoke like a cross between an 18th century gentleman and Shaggy from the Scooby Gang. He ran a hand through his nest of quietly graying blond hair, massaging the muscles in his neck as Jeannie turned to Mina with open arms.

“Hunny, you having those god awful nightmares again? Please tell me you’ve been taking your meds on schedule.” She wrapped Mina in a tight hug. Mina loved Jeannie hugs. The woman always smelled like cinnamon, even after a night of work. She nodded into Jeannie's shoulder.

“I keep taking them, but I don't think my nightmares care if I'm taking sleep meds or not.” Wrapped up in Jeannie's hug the night caught up to her, Mina stifled the urge to sob. She missed her mother desperately and having an older woman hug her was almost unbearable. She gently pulled away, not wanting to reveal her feelings to Jeannie. It seemed the older woman caught on anyway, sympathy pinching her face as she ruffled Mina's still damp brown hair.

“You look far too tired for such an important day sweet heart. Why don't you go catch a nap in the staff lounge?” Jeannie pulled the keys off her wrist, much to Mina's surprise.

“But Jeannie patients can't do that, besides what's so important?” Mina got another shock when Max swore just under his breath. Jeannie's face darkened, Mina had never seen her so angry.

“Didn't Mr. Lyme tell you your out patient evaluation was this afternoon?” Jeannie asked quietly fuming.

Mina sighed. Mr. Lyme worked in one of the few offices at the center, though his actual job title had never been made clear to her. She knew his duties included such interesting tasks as drawing up the nurses shift schedules, writing requisitions for medications and other hospital supplies, arranging staff meetings to coordinate healing activities for the patients. It was also his job to inform patients of the various performance evaluations they had to undergo during their recovery. She knew the man did many tasks for the center and all around was a decent guy, in fact she saw him only yesterday. He really should have told her then, but Mina knew why he didn't, and for that reason she couldn't get mad.

“It probably slipped his mind,” Mina said as nonchalantly as she could, ignoring Max and Jeannie's shared expression of confusion. “Besides, Jeannie, I have a shift with him at 9 A.M. He could be saving it as a surprise.”

Jeannie snorted, slipping the keys to Mina anyway. “You go sleep on it, love, I'll wake you in an hour and half before I leave for the day.”

End.

Lost Masterworks

Having recently finished a rather interesting text for another class, titled Lost Masterworks of Young Adult Literature (ed. By Connie S. Zitlow) I find many contemplative thoughts springing to my mind. The collection featured several essays by writers, teachers, critics, librarians and other literary minded ilk spotlighting works that have either gone out of print, been severely over looked by the literary community, or have miraculously resurfaced. In other words it covered a wide range of topics concerning a genre of literature oh so dear to my heart. Many of the books I have not heard of, for they went out of print before I entered the realm of young adult fiction, others I have read and was shocked to learn they were no longer in print or were in danger of meeting that big paper shredder in the sky. For instance, having read The Changeover, I personally sought out Margaret Mahy’s other works, only to find out her Catalogue of the Universe is now out of print. I also had no idea Sue Townsend’s Secret Diary of Adrian Mole Age 13 ¾ was such a neglected text, since it was one of my personal favorites growing up. However, the most illuminating essay was the very last one, by Margie G. Lee, who penned her thoughts of her first book going out of print.


It is eerie how much her thoughts echo my own even now. She spoke of writing as an author’s vain attempts to escape mortality, how seeing one’s book go out of print was almost like having a family member die. In my early dreams of becoming an author, I had very much the same thoughts, that creating a book, getting published, was a secret ticket to immortality all writers shared. I could be the next Charles Dickens, whose words have lived well beyond his life span.

Truth and disillusionment really didn’t hit till college. I, myself, was a novelty in a small town high school, few people had such grand ambitions, or were willing to stick with them come hell or high water. I wasn’t completely under the veil of cotton candy clouds and pink sugar trails. I understood the livelihood of a writer was difficult, making a living as a writer was extremely rare, and while you hear about the success stories, there are plenty of relatively successful writers who scrape a living in between two jobs and near starvation. I expected to slave over my craft, and persevere through the ugly stack of rejection letters. But none of that mattered, because if I achieved the ultimate prize, if I got published, then I had achieved my slice of immortality, I would live ‘forever’ through my great works.

Terms like “out of print” never even crossed my mind. Really it should have. Did I really think the century Dickens wrote his masterworks produced no other writers? It is staggering to think how many writers have already slipped into obscurity. Dickens is one of the lucky ones, the chosen popular few. How few writers will escape my generation intact? Will they escape based on their merits or perhaps, their girth? Will a writer like James Patterson, who is now nothing more than a name used to sell books by lesser known authors, be someone who is remembered a century from now? Or will J.K. Rowling be one of the historical greats? Harry Potter shall be the new Oliver Twist. Will something I write find enough of a foothold, enough of a fan base, enough prestige to land in the annuls of the literary elite that perhaps I will steal a small slice of immortality after all? Perhaps. Or maybe it will find a few more centuries of readers before it slips into oblivion.

Margie G. Lee also spoke of the great lengths she went to trying to find a new publisher for her first book, going so far as to put the completion of her new work on hold in her quest to breath life back into a dead novel. Truthfully I know in her shoes I would do the same thing. I would weather hell and high water to find a way. Her essay also proved something. Out of Print books have a very nasty and inaccurate stigma to them. Lee’s book was not put out of print because of slumping sales or bad press, but rather by a common business practice; when her publishing house was bought out by a bigger house, they cut the list of books the house had in print, Lee’s included. This is a business practice that happens fairly often, not that any one told Lee this. Still in her search to find another publisher, she found door after door essentially slammed in her face because her book had the out of print stigma hovering over it. “It is out of print therefore it must have sucked”. Considering how fast books flash in and out of stores these days I wonder how many of them are actually labeled with this devastating stigma or how many were just warehoused to make room for the new junk or best sellers. For example I usually find an entire bookcase dedicated to Stephanie Meyer, whose Twilight series is the soap opera of my generation. Heaven help me if I want to find Tamora Pierce’s Song of the Lioness series or any of Diana Wynne Jones’s beautifully written young adult novels. I know these books are not out of print, and sometimes I do find them, when they are not overshadowed by the EdwardBellaJacob triangle of love.

But these books are becoming harder and harder for me to find, a fact that depresses me, these are my favorite authors, they have written some of the most meaningful books of my life. Will I see them go out of print in my life time? Very probable. On the other hand, there is always that glimmer of a possibility my books find publication. If that is the case, I know where to point a finger for my readers. You like my stuff, well then meet my predecessors. In fact it would be the highlight of my literary career if a critic ever roped my work into the same league as Jones or Pierce.

While Margie G. Lee’s words are illuminating in their honesty, and reveal a side to the publishing world I actively try to ignore as a writer and a book lover, I still find gleaming of hope in her words. Her story is one of success. While her first book did go out of print, she eventually found the publisher who helped pump life back into it. A publisher who was in fact the same one who rejected the book when she first sought to get it published decades earlier, a fact which really says rejection doesn’t always mean rejected forever.

Getting Started

There is nothing quite so frustrating as finally sitting down to your computer, after going to painstaking means to put aside time in the first place, and finding yourself staring numbly at a blank screen with no idea how to begin. You find yourself gently tapping the keys just to give your restless fingers something to do. I find myself in this predicament all too often these days and it is a sensation that makes me want to pull my hair out. It is especially painful after spending a grueling 8 hour day, working a double job of book store employee and playing mom, a double duty which leaves me drained, irritated, and exhausted by the time 4:30pm rolls around. Everyday I have dragged the extra 20 lbs of laptop and books along with me to try and get homework done in between shelving, customers and mommy time. I haven’t even had a chance to turn it on the past three days whatsoever. You would think getting work down at home would be easier, but between household chores, making dinner, and further mother duties, the hours just seem to slip away, until I find myself staring at a blank computer screen at 9:30pm, trying to remember how to spell my name. My husband has found me slumped over more than once, and kindly tucked me in. So here I am after finding a baby sitter for Malcolm, after getting the house essentially to myself, and I must have spent the last fifteen minutes trying to figure out where to go from there. After my eyeballs started pulsing I had to start ranting or I think they may have fallen out of their sockets. Still a page of ranting and raving about everyday difficulties is great therapy, everyone needs someone to rant to, even if it a blank computer screen. I am starting to feel a genuine tingle of motivation creeping into my fingers now. Perhaps this day shall not be wasted after all.

Reading Response: Art and Fear

Reading Art and Fear by David Bayles and Ted Orland was far more revealing than I anticipated. I have never had the opportunity to read a text which so thoroughly nailed down the writers mindset, truthfully I never really thought artists were such predictable creatures. I learned I am very misguided.


Art and Fear had several insightful observations not only about the current generation of artists, but human nature in general. I had not really thought of how completely unsupported the making of art is in this day and age until reading this text. I had a certain skewed understanding of it, watching the continued crumbling of the publishing world and its morals, but I did not comprehend this atrophy applies to all forms of art. It is true though, in today’s day and age, it is rare to find the writer/painter/potter etc, who makes a living solely on their craft. Many artists must compliment their meager artistic earnings with a nine to five job. I know because I do work a 40 hour a week job, and all the trappings that come with it. It is an odd feeling when say 100 years ago, one could earn a living by becoming a writer, 50 years ago writers were able to make a living off their work. Something changed, drastically, to the point where the crafting of art is almost looked down on or seen as a tier only the fabulously talented and willing to starve aspire to. The term “starving artist” is not a new phrase, but it seems to have taken on an almost vicious edge in today’s consumer driven world. Bayles covered many issues, from self doubts, to quitting, to the difficulties artists face in the current times trying to find their niche in the art world, if they have a niche at all.

The chapter that spoke the most to me in this text was Fears About Yourself. While it is sobering to realize how completely some of these fears fit me, such as the fear that you are only pretending to do art because you doubt your artistic ability, is one that has plagued me for years. There is always that nagging doubt in the back of my mind when I read over something I have written of “who the hell would read this?” or “what are you playing at? This is rubbish.” I have novellas I can’t even look at without cringing as they sit on my shelf collecting dust because I don’t think they are could enough to mess with. But Bayles also points out, you have to make a lot of bad art before any good art comes out of it. His example of the divided pottery class was excellent, as well as a statement that really struck a chord with me: Artists often dream about already finished work, not the crafting of the work.

I can not even count the number of times I have day dreamed myself at a book signing, having achieved J.K. Rowling status-like fame, having just bought a castle with my oodles of money from my amazing book sales. *Snort* Yes it is easy to dream such dreams, but I honestly do not daydream myself swearing and sweating over a keyboard, trying not to beat my head on the desk as I try to get the words out of my head and onto the page. But writers are allowed to produce bad work, its called drafts. I could not believe William Kennedy rewrote one of his novels eight times before he was satisfied with it. At the same time it is a work ethic I am trying to cultivate.

Response to Roger Sutton’s Blog

Reading Roger Sutton’s Blog was highly enjoyable, mainly because reading his blog pieces was very similar to conversations I have with a wonderfully flamboyant and intelligent coworker of mine. Although I started reading by skipping around, I ended up reading a few dozen posts, his sense of humor and insights into the publishing work are easy to get into. Plus, Sutton often references genre fiction, which is wonderful because I am surrounded by genre fiction all day long, as my store specializes in mysteries, romance, westerns, and children’s. Despite the amount of giggling I did while reading his posts, I also had some interesting personal insights.


One of his posts dealt specifically with mystery writing, as he was currently reading Lisa Scottline’s latest book in her Bennie Series. He spoke of how ludicrous the plot was but how he would not only finish the novel but eagerly await the next book. This sentiment brought to mind two questions. How long should a mystery writer keep a reader in suspense, or how long should they drag out the element of suspense, but the reader becomes too frustrated and throws the book across the room? I ran into this problem outside of the mystery genre just reading Robin Mckinley’s Beauty, which drags out its final plot elements to the point I could feel my teeth grinding as I read it. While her character development is wonderful, there is definitely a feeling it is far too dragged out, it takes nearly half the book before Beauty even meets the Beast. In my own writing this is also a large worry I have. I always wonder how much I want to reveal with a chapter and what I want to save for later, how much later, when will my reader feel I have kept too much hidden for too long and throw the book across the room. And yet the right amount of suspense is golden, fuel for the fire, it keeps the reader strung along, unable to put the book down. For all I don’t like his books, Dan Brown is the king of suspense. The Da Vinci Code consists of two to three page chapters each bloody one ending in a cliffhanger but by god you can’t put that book down.

The second question Sutton asked in this post was in a character series what unforgivable mistake does the writer have to make in order for the series to be dumped? This is a very scary feeling and again applies across multiple genres. I myself dumped the Anita Blake series by Laurel K Hamilton when her books became too raunchy. He even mentioned that perhaps the author did not truly make a mistake so much as fail to hook the reader from the beginning. I have to point a finger at Patterson in this case. The man does not even writer his own novels anymore, but the Alex Cross series sells like mad, even after he actually had a commercial where he threatened to kill the character off if not enough people bought his book. Ugh.

Aside from Sutton’s insights on writers, he also had many posts which shed more light on the world of publishing and selling. I found his post on Amazon.com’s war with Macmillan a bit unsettling. I know I am treading tricky ground here but I have always had issue with book pricing, I love working in a used book store that sells books for $1 -$4 because I hate how much Borders expects people to pay for the pleasure of reading in our current economy. When Amazon attempted to sell Macmillan’s books for cheaper than the publisher wished, Macmillan pulled all there stock out of Amazon. Okay, but I am not going to stop using Amazon because I am a poor working class housewife and Amazon helps me afford school books. It is hard to defend Macmillan’s decision, or Amazon’s reaction when I have been perpetually torn over book pricing for years now. Still it was insightful to read about the situation. I wonder how I would feel if I were a published writer in this scenario.

The Masochism Tango, the typist’s lament

A shorter entry, really to vent my frustration more than anything.


I want someone to explain to me why it takes longer to type out handwritten work than it does to actually hand write the work? It seems like it is taking three times as long to type my chapters into the computer than it did originally writing the entries out long hand. Where is the big hiccup I wonder? Is it in glancing back and forth from paper to screen and needing to find my place again every time, the constant need to go back and correct what my oh so nimble fingers have gargled on the screen, or perhaps it’s the teeth gritting need to correct all the obvious glaring errors in my spelling and grammar, not that I catch half of them anyway until I go back to see what I’ve written. I know realize one of the reasons I truly stopped writing out my work long hand was the frustrations I have with copying the text onto the computer screen. That and it became harder and harder to read my hand writing, unless I wrote in cursive at which point my hand would cramp up.

Okay frustration vented. Back to the typing board.

Musical food for thought

I never really thought about it much, but it is nigh impossible for me to work without the benefit of music. The itunes library on my computer has a song list that literally lasts for ten straight days if I just left it playing. That’s a lot of tunes. The taste in music is eclectic as well. I listen to a wide, wide range of music in genres across the board, much like I read books in every genre across the board. I enjoy a trashy romance as much as I enjoy a riveting memoir. Likewise I have play lists for music ranging from soft comfy tunes, to harsh angry music I like to play when I am pmsing.


I even have three different play lists of music to write to. One with fast paced, pounding music which I find helps me write action oriented stories, or stories that have to keep up a rhythm. I have a mix of silly fun music that helps me relax into a writing mood, sort of like watching Stranger than Fiction gets those creative juices flowing. And, aaaand, I have a play list specifically for writing academia. I titled it my Mind Meld list, which mostly consists of classical music, certain wordless soundtracks, such as lord of the rings, and for some reason a great deal of Enya. The point of the mind meld list is to provide music without the possible hitch of singing along to my favorite songs, whose lyrics have a bad habit of creeping into my papers. (“Why are the words “Sassy Brat” in the middle of this essay on Jane Austen‘s Pride and Prejudice, Kristin?”)

Still I find it interesting this development has taken such firm root in my entire work habit. For as long as I can remember, even back as far as my first “highly” functioning computer in high school, I would slog that thing full of music off of every CD I could jam in there, create this extensive play list that wouldn’t repeat back to the first song for five hours and work all night long to music. It has literally become part of my writing process at this point. With music playing, the typing is smoother, faster, more regimented. I’m not sure what to call such a technique, but I guess each writer has their own methods to their individual madness.

The Masochism Tango, part deux

When I was much younger and lived in a house with nothing more than a DOS word processor safe guarded in my parents’ bedroom, I used to scribble everything long hand. I filled notebooks upon notebooks with my lefty scrawl, and I was proud of my efforts, but in my handwriting I could fill a sixty page notebook with five chapters of writing. Granted once typed out and edited a bit, this produced about maybe twenty pages, but it sure felt like I was writing novel length stories in those notebooks. Hell twenty typed pages still felt novel length when you are 12 years old. I was just rearing up in my ambitions too. Still it was a relief when my family acquired its first family computer, which I would spend hours on, or until dad kicked me off, typing away. It was one of those old school word processor types, which printed everything in hard to read gray scale, on double perforated paper, but it was a step up from the ancient electric typewriter which refused to type e, g, or c. I never knew how many words needed the letter e until I didn’t have one.


Back to the moral of the story, I used to write out everything by hand, in fact used to write instead of paying attention to the lesson in class. But since they thought I was taking notes it is amazing what you can get away with. I was a decent student, really good at essays, so they never clued in. A side effect of all this writing was a remarkably noticeable indent in the middle finger of my left hand. There was an actual pencil shaped groove from the death grip I kept on my writing utensil. It was also usually the color of pencil lead. As time went on, and my access to computers became blessedly more commonplace, the groove slowly began to fade. In college, even if my computer of the moment was having a persnickety moment, I had access to computer labs all over campus.

So here I am nearly a decade since my finger groove had begun to smooth itself out. It’s amazing how fast that groove reforms when you have no choice but to write everything out by hand. I definitely have a new respect for computers after not having much access at all to one for just a few weeks. I think I actually did a celebratory dance when we bought the lappy. But sometimes I still find myself, tracing the familiar pencil gray indent on my middle finger with fond memories.

The Avatar Effect

Okay this is a post of outrage.


As recently pointed out to me by my habit of watching Today while getting ready for work, movie theaters have sneakily hiked their prices more and more for 3-D movie showing, which are now all the rage due to the outrageous success of Avatar. On top of that was the unexpected success of Alice in Wonderland which also broke box office records. How bad are the prices you ask?

Well the news anchor pointed out with a slight green look of disgust on his face that a family of four will have to pay about $100 including any refreshments that is, to see movie in 3-D.

Quoi!

This does not make sense to me; maybe I think the movies should be more accessible especially in a time of economic crisis where a two hour movie is the only vacation way too many families can afford. What makes even less sense, is Hollywood is not the one demanding the price hikes. They are happy, movie goers are at an all time high, they like the numbers they are seeing. So why is this necessary? The Today show doesn’t think this necessary; they attacked this price hike like white on rice.

But you know what bothers me most of all about this back stabbing price hike? This is going to make new movies as bad as new books.

I have long been disgusted with the price of a new hardcover book, long disgusted with the whole publishing industry as a matter of fact. This is why I am happily working at a used bookstore. Sure I would love to be one of those writers who makes so much money of their work they live in a Scottish castle, but as a reader, my heart is with the Book Barn, where I can purchase an 8 dollar paperback for a buck and a $25 hardcover for $4 or $5 bucks. There is something even more satisfying than that. Its having a family come in and walk away with a stack of books knowing this place has provided them a way they can live off their budget and not get raped by Borders or Barnes and Nobles. I have helped teachers stock their classroom libraries, knowing they have to stock their classroom out of their own pocket.

So yeah, something like a movie ticket price hike fuels my outrage all around for the price this country tries to place on its entertainment. Books and movies are meant to entertain, to help you laugh or cry or just forget the world is in rough shape for five minutes. They are meant to be a source of wonder, of learning, of seeing worlds in a new perspective. It disgusts me businesses feel it’s necessary to make these precious items more and more unattainable.

Yet, Borders has the gall to complain about Walmart offering books at a cheaper price then they do. Gee, golly whiz, that sure sounds hard to do. And yet not a peep about BJ’s doing the same thing… riiiight. Still, on a lighter note, I have to say it is deeply satisfying to know places like the Book Barn exist, and continue to thrive despite having no form of advertising other than word of mouth. Okay so I don’t have the “at my fingertips” selection that the big boys have, but working in a used bookstore, (which also sells $4 DVDs I might add) has taught me good things come to those who wait. So I shall wait out this absurd price increase in entertainment, firmly holed up in my used book store.

And then there are the true pioneers…

Okay I have said my piece about companions and adaptations, now here is the main course of the tirade. Rewritten Fairytales.


Rewritten fairy tales have almost become a genre unto themselves, with writers like Cameron Dokey, Donna Jo Napoli and Robin McKinley, creators of strong representations of the art that can be wrought from a three page Grimm’s fairytale. It is interesting to see a three hundred page novel take shape from these short, sparsely detailed stories. Rewritten fairytales is in particular a genre I like to work in. While I enjoy creating completely original worlds, or at least as original as I can make them, there is a satisfying concept to recreating fairytales, mainly because so many of them have endings I find unsettling. I am unsettled by happily ever after! I am not satisfied with the behavior of the women in these fairytales, hell even the men usually leave something to be desired. By really I am not satisfied with the motivations in these fairytales. So sue me if I have a problem with the concept of love at first sight, though I am a true believer in lust at first sight, but I don’t believe in a lust so immense these princes would be flinging themselves in great peril just to get a date. Plus what if the rescued maiden or princess turned out to be atrociously awful? Well then you’re stuck with her…happily ever after.

Perhaps the reason the old school fairytales do not satisfy anymore is because they no longer serve their original purpose. Originally fairytales were supposed to be moral tales, stories that taught you what to fear and to respect the things that go bump in the night. By the night has gotten considerably smaller, the unknown is slowly shrinking, there are new things that give us chills while walking alone at night. It used to be beware of vampires and werewolves while walking the dark highways of night, but now our monsters are more human, but just as dangerous. Fairytales need a new purpose, perhaps they can still tell a moral but the moral needs to be tweaked to fit a more modern time.

The writers who undertake rewriting myths, folktales, fairytales, legends and so forth now, have different goals in mind than scaring the wits of their audience. I have personally found in the numerous reworked and reshaped fairytales I have read, these works explore a great deal more of the human psyche, the motivations behind the face value approach fairytales originally gave. One really stunning example is Beast by Donna Jo Napoli, which retells the Beauty and the Beast story from the Beast’s point of view. Napoli had nothing more to springboard off of for that story than one version of the fairytale which happened to mention the Prince was from a middle -eastern country and bam, Napoli created an eloquent story of a prince’s pride being his downfall, his eagerness to gain the wisdom of adulthood leading to his curse. It follows his attempts for survival, his long journey to France, his work to make the abandoned castle he finds a suitable home for Belle, even his sorrow when she doesn’t return back to him at her promised time.

Truthfully, this makes for the more interesting story.

This is what I seek to do with my own rewritten fairytales. I want to explore the human motivations behind the characters. I have trouble believing a character who falls in love at first sight, unless there are some strong motivations behind it.

Flattery will get you everywhere...

Continuing on a thought from yesterday, after broaching the subject of the Companion novel it seems only natural to mention the odd success that adaptations enjoy. Adaptations are not in the same league as companion novels though many would be quick to loop them into the same category. Truthfully, adaptations, while operating on some of the same guidelines as Companion novels, have a great deal more freedom in their construction. And speaking of the construction analogy here, if a companion novel is an attempt to build something new in an already constructed universe, an adaptation, or retelling is basically knocking the old universe down and building something new fangled on its sturdy foundation. The same characters might be there, but they have been outfitted with new personalities, new clothes, new time period, new motivations, and so on. This is why adaptations are so popular, and also the secret to their success. When a writer sets out to retell an old story, they don't set out to continue it as writers of companions do; instead they set out to create something new, with a few bits of borrowed material.


Indeed, I think the success formula of adaptations is that they bring a level of familiarity, even comfort to the reader while creating a new story. Plus adaptations are expected to take interesting liberties with the characters they are borrowing for their piece. Frank Beddor took extreme liberties in his Looking Glass Wars trilogy, blending science fiction and fantasy elements to create a very unique version of the Alice in Wonderland story. There is mystery series featuring the charming duo of Mr. and Mrs. Darcy as a pair of genteel sleuths. Not to mention the fifty or so different versions which borrow the lovers for various works of romance, chic lit, and other genres it has actually become difficult to remember how the real Mr. and Mrs. Darcy behaved, though the romances are interesting. An even more reproduced set of characters would be the knights of Arthurian legend. There have been retellings of Arthurian legend in every century, including this one, such as the very memorable Mists of Avalon by Marion Zimmer Bradley.

They say imitation is the highest form of flattery, I wonder if any of the creators of the original characters were still alive to see their creations behaving as such what they would have to say to such a statement then. Somehow I don’t think Austen would necessarily be pleased with Mr. Darcy in a few of the romance novels I have come across, then again….she might.