“I don't know nothin' 'bout birthin' babies”…or houses. And I’ve given birth twice. But we’ve never tried buying a house until now, and it’s almost as stress-inducing as preparing for childbirth and surviving labor. People actually do this for a living? Buying and reselling –‘flipping’ houses, or just moving every few years? Yikes! Not for me.
First, there’s agonizing over the decision to try getting pregnant. Okay, not everyone goes through that step, but bear with me. We discussed for months the possibility of buying a home, with my usual pessimism insisting it could never be done, Geo standing firm in his belief to the contrary. So we tried – looking at houses, that is. At our age, the baby train has left the station, thank heavens. And there it was, much sooner than either of us ever expected. The perfect home, in the town we dreamed of. How could we walk away?
A nine month gestation period has nothing on the hurry-up-and-wait involved in obtaining a mortgage. Endless inspections and financial disclosures, almost as intrusive as ob/gyn visits. Will the bank approve? What’s a mortgage underwriter? It’s a VA loan; what will the government say? Radon and termites…and more waiting for negotiations with the seller and mitigation of the issues.
And the cost! We were fortunate enough to have medical insurance for the hospital bills all those years ago. Now it turns out we pay for mortgage insurance. The numbers on the loan papers are frightening enough. Then we add interest, and taxes, and the insurance company wants how much annually? Add in the movers, and the carpet cleaners, appliance installation, painting…there goes the Caribbean cruise we hoped for, at least for the foreseeable future.
But just as the memories of an exhausting and painful labor and delivery faded into nothingness at the sight of our newborn’s face, so too the sleepless nights agonizing over this enormous financial burden will dim when we sign the library-sized stack of papers and take possession of our new home. It’s another lifetime commitment, not quite as emotionally charged – or satisfying – as the children, but close. Plumbing and electrical and exterior maintenance will replace braces and sports fees and college. Worthy investments, all.
One thing we’ve learned from being parents, and from the travails of normal living, is to be able to let go. As much as we want this house, as powerful as the pull is to have a place of our own, we remind ourselves daily of the suffering inherent in attachments to impermanent things. The house, the children, each other – all are temporal, all will pass away. We strive to appreciate (I can’t quite say enjoy!) this current stage in our journey, recognizing that what will be, will be. We don’t need a special physical structure. “Wherever we’re together, that’s my home.”
Friday, June 18, 2010
Thursday, May 27, 2010
Change – the only constant
Change is the focal point of my life these days, in ways I had no inkling of even a month ago.
On Saturday, we viewed the inside of a house in Yellow Springs that we have been drooling over the outside of for the past four months. We had barely stepped in the door when we knew we were home. Before my doubts and fears and m innate pessimism could take over, we submitted a bid.
On Sunday, the contracts were all signed. We’re actually buying a home, something I never believed would be possible.
On Tuesday, I submitted my thesis to finish my graduate degree, to end my formal academic life (for now).
Change.
My dream of making a living as a writer has taken a left turn as I realize that very few people have that luxury. I’ve had three rejection letters/emails in the past two weeks – two short stories, and one essay I really thought had a shot at publication. My thesis novel, while it more than adequately fulfills the academic requirements, is definitely not ready for prime time, and more often than not these days I wonder if it ever will be.
An editor I met at a recent workshop posted this depressing statistic on Facebook yesterday: "7% of books published generate 87% of book sales. And 93% of all published books sell less than 1,000 copies each." So I have to have a ‘real’ job to support my writing habit. Teaching is always a possibility I’m told, with my almost-conferred master’s degree. But I’m not a teacher. Could I teach college freshman how to write a coherent paper, to understand and maybe appreciate literature? Probably. But good teachers have a calling that is not mine. My calling is to write. But I still need to help pay the bills on that beautiful residence.
Today (Thursday), I had a ‘pre-screening’ phone interview for a decent job that would allow me to bike to work from our new home.
Change.
Moving to Yellow Springs will make it difficult to maintain relationships and community involvement we’ve developed in Waynesville. That possibility already has some friends and colleagues on edge.
Leaving the home office where I’ve struggled for the past five years as a self-employed writer, web designer, graphic artist and computer admin support tech and taking a job in the outside world will be a huge undertaking. I’ll need to update my wardrobe (such as it is), find day care for the dogs, learn to make it through the day without the occasional afternoon nap…and deal with people. My husband has often fretted that I’ve become something of a hermit; he may be right.
Taking on the responsibility of owning a home, for all the wonderful benefits, is a frightening prospect that is already keeping me awake at night. How will I react when the first mortgage payment is due?
Change.
I hope I’m up to it all. One day at a time…
Change is the focal point of my life these days, in ways I had no inkling of even a month ago.
On Saturday, we viewed the inside of a house in Yellow Springs that we have been drooling over the outside of for the past four months. We had barely stepped in the door when we knew we were home. Before my doubts and fears and m innate pessimism could take over, we submitted a bid.
On Sunday, the contracts were all signed. We’re actually buying a home, something I never believed would be possible.
On Tuesday, I submitted my thesis to finish my graduate degree, to end my formal academic life (for now).
Change.
My dream of making a living as a writer has taken a left turn as I realize that very few people have that luxury. I’ve had three rejection letters/emails in the past two weeks – two short stories, and one essay I really thought had a shot at publication. My thesis novel, while it more than adequately fulfills the academic requirements, is definitely not ready for prime time, and more often than not these days I wonder if it ever will be.
An editor I met at a recent workshop posted this depressing statistic on Facebook yesterday: "7% of books published generate 87% of book sales. And 93% of all published books sell less than 1,000 copies each." So I have to have a ‘real’ job to support my writing habit. Teaching is always a possibility I’m told, with my almost-conferred master’s degree. But I’m not a teacher. Could I teach college freshman how to write a coherent paper, to understand and maybe appreciate literature? Probably. But good teachers have a calling that is not mine. My calling is to write. But I still need to help pay the bills on that beautiful residence.
Today (Thursday), I had a ‘pre-screening’ phone interview for a decent job that would allow me to bike to work from our new home.
Change.
Moving to Yellow Springs will make it difficult to maintain relationships and community involvement we’ve developed in Waynesville. That possibility already has some friends and colleagues on edge.
Leaving the home office where I’ve struggled for the past five years as a self-employed writer, web designer, graphic artist and computer admin support tech and taking a job in the outside world will be a huge undertaking. I’ll need to update my wardrobe (such as it is), find day care for the dogs, learn to make it through the day without the occasional afternoon nap…and deal with people. My husband has often fretted that I’ve become something of a hermit; he may be right.
Taking on the responsibility of owning a home, for all the wonderful benefits, is a frightening prospect that is already keeping me awake at night. How will I react when the first mortgage payment is due?
Change.
I hope I’m up to it all. One day at a time…
Wednesday, May 12, 2010
Antioch naming debate
Much ado is filling my social network these days from Antioch University McGregor alums who are less than pleased with the proposed school name change to Antioch Mid-West. At the risk of alienating those people, all of whom I admire greatly and respect implicitly, I believe the first skirmishes in the battle they seek to wage were lost many years ago, when Antioch College formed what was then the graduate level McGregor School focused on business and management. The name change and mindset shift were set in motion at that time.
As I often do when beginning research on an unfamiliar topic, I turned to the oft-derided Wikipedia as a starting point and found this on Douglas McGregor, for whom the school was named: “management professor at the MIT Sloan School of Management and president of Antioch College from 1948 to 1954. He also taught at the Indian Institute of Management Calcutta. His 1960 book The Human Side of Enterprise had a profound influence on education practices. In the book he identified an approach of creating an environment within which employees are motivated via authoritative, direction and control or integration and self-control... In the 1970s, the McGregor school, a graduate level business school, was founded by Antioch College in his honor.”
Doesn’t sound much like the Horace Mann ideals espoused by Antioch which led many of us to the school in the first place, does it? I did not come to Yellow Springs, to Antioch, to follow the teachings of Douglas McGregor. As is obvious by my need to Google the name, even after four years as a student at AUM I knew very little about him. I’ve learned more since then, thanks to the wisdom of an AUM professor, and I have come to appreciate Douglas McGregor’s neglected philosophy with its “emphasis on community and the processes for eliciting effective participation.”
Initially, however, I was drawn by the reputation of Antioch, and of Mann. Again turning to Wikipedia: “Antioch College continues to operate in accordance with the egalitarian and humanitarian values of Horace Mann. A monument including his statue stands in lands belonging to the college in Yellow Springs, Ohio with his quote and college motto "Be Ashamed to Die Until You Have Won Some Victory for Humanity.” That is my beacon and my anchor.
As long as the university remains “Antioch,” I am not too concerned with the tag lines that come after - at least at this point! I am an Antiochian. Some at the college may not agree, preferring to cling to that title as exclusively for their students, but that tradition is what brought me here, and that is the bond we share. In early 2008, in response to a debate circulating on campus over claims to that moniker, I wrote, in part: “In my humble opinion, an Antiochian is a seeker of truth, one who is not afraid to question authority at any level, and one who admits the limits of their own knowledge and learning. An Antiochian is at this university to learn and to grow and to be exposed to new thoughts and ideas, not to be further indoctrinated in those beliefs society has deemed acceptable.” My opinion in that regard has not changed, and it is not dependent on the “McGregor” or “Mid-West” surname.
During my tenure in the undergraduate completion program, many of us in the World Classics Curriculum groused over the move to the new AUM building. We lost many of the traditions held dear by Classicans for nearly twenty years – meeting under the majestic trees on main campus to debate the philosophical topics of the day, a rousing graduation march through the winding paths tooting on kazoos and singing rowdy songs – but as one of the many wise instructors in that amazing program noted, the move from main campus was the time for us to begin new traditions, to decide what was important to pass on to the next group fortunate enough, and brave enough, to be called Classicans. That creation of tradition, of carrying on the tenets we share into modernized forms that can overcome the materialistic world that threatens to overrun such seemingly quaint notions, is more important to me than any name the powers-that-be decide to add after our beloved “Antioch.”
I am far more concerned with the decline of the Classics program, with the loss of that unique and powerful curriculum which was literally life-changing for me. Its dedicated professors struggle to reshape it into something that still has a place in evolving university structure. I would rather expend my energies helping them make that transition than fight over a name. “A rose by any other…”
To my dear alums and colleagues, my fellow Classicans, I salute your passionate response to yet another assault on the Antioch tradition. I respect, and in large part share, your disappointment. But if there’s one thing I’ve learned as a parent, it’s to pick your battles. This one cannot be mine.
Much ado is filling my social network these days from Antioch University McGregor alums who are less than pleased with the proposed school name change to Antioch Mid-West. At the risk of alienating those people, all of whom I admire greatly and respect implicitly, I believe the first skirmishes in the battle they seek to wage were lost many years ago, when Antioch College formed what was then the graduate level McGregor School focused on business and management. The name change and mindset shift were set in motion at that time.
As I often do when beginning research on an unfamiliar topic, I turned to the oft-derided Wikipedia as a starting point and found this on Douglas McGregor, for whom the school was named: “management professor at the MIT Sloan School of Management and president of Antioch College from 1948 to 1954. He also taught at the Indian Institute of Management Calcutta. His 1960 book The Human Side of Enterprise had a profound influence on education practices. In the book he identified an approach of creating an environment within which employees are motivated via authoritative, direction and control or integration and self-control... In the 1970s, the McGregor school, a graduate level business school, was founded by Antioch College in his honor.”
Doesn’t sound much like the Horace Mann ideals espoused by Antioch which led many of us to the school in the first place, does it? I did not come to Yellow Springs, to Antioch, to follow the teachings of Douglas McGregor. As is obvious by my need to Google the name, even after four years as a student at AUM I knew very little about him. I’ve learned more since then, thanks to the wisdom of an AUM professor, and I have come to appreciate Douglas McGregor’s neglected philosophy with its “emphasis on community and the processes for eliciting effective participation.”
Initially, however, I was drawn by the reputation of Antioch, and of Mann. Again turning to Wikipedia: “Antioch College continues to operate in accordance with the egalitarian and humanitarian values of Horace Mann. A monument including his statue stands in lands belonging to the college in Yellow Springs, Ohio with his quote and college motto "Be Ashamed to Die Until You Have Won Some Victory for Humanity.” That is my beacon and my anchor.
As long as the university remains “Antioch,” I am not too concerned with the tag lines that come after - at least at this point! I am an Antiochian. Some at the college may not agree, preferring to cling to that title as exclusively for their students, but that tradition is what brought me here, and that is the bond we share. In early 2008, in response to a debate circulating on campus over claims to that moniker, I wrote, in part: “In my humble opinion, an Antiochian is a seeker of truth, one who is not afraid to question authority at any level, and one who admits the limits of their own knowledge and learning. An Antiochian is at this university to learn and to grow and to be exposed to new thoughts and ideas, not to be further indoctrinated in those beliefs society has deemed acceptable.” My opinion in that regard has not changed, and it is not dependent on the “McGregor” or “Mid-West” surname.
During my tenure in the undergraduate completion program, many of us in the World Classics Curriculum groused over the move to the new AUM building. We lost many of the traditions held dear by Classicans for nearly twenty years – meeting under the majestic trees on main campus to debate the philosophical topics of the day, a rousing graduation march through the winding paths tooting on kazoos and singing rowdy songs – but as one of the many wise instructors in that amazing program noted, the move from main campus was the time for us to begin new traditions, to decide what was important to pass on to the next group fortunate enough, and brave enough, to be called Classicans. That creation of tradition, of carrying on the tenets we share into modernized forms that can overcome the materialistic world that threatens to overrun such seemingly quaint notions, is more important to me than any name the powers-that-be decide to add after our beloved “Antioch.”
I am far more concerned with the decline of the Classics program, with the loss of that unique and powerful curriculum which was literally life-changing for me. Its dedicated professors struggle to reshape it into something that still has a place in evolving university structure. I would rather expend my energies helping them make that transition than fight over a name. “A rose by any other…”
To my dear alums and colleagues, my fellow Classicans, I salute your passionate response to yet another assault on the Antioch tradition. I respect, and in large part share, your disappointment. But if there’s one thing I’ve learned as a parent, it’s to pick your battles. This one cannot be mine.
Friday, April 30, 2010
The voices in my head disagree...
So I’ve received my first rejection letter (email!) on my novel. Again with the point-of-view issues! Just when I think I’ve got it figured out and corrected, POV knocks me out. My grad program mentor offered her usual pointed advice, in the psychoanalyst question form: “Who is the narrator of your novel?...Writer and narrator are not the same thing…who is telling your story and why?”
Granted, she does offer more than just questions, but I’m still stuck. I thought I was writing third-person omniscient, but I’ve been told I waffle between that and what she calls “fly-on-the-wall” narration. I understand the concepts (I think); now if I could just figure out how they differ in the actual text.
The most difficult part of all this learning-the-craft process is that as soon as I think I’ve got a handle on the rules, occasionally breaking them judiciously only to get slapped down for it, I pick up a book or literary journal that does exactly what I’ve been told not to do. Learning which of those ‘lessons’ to heed and which to ignore is mind-boggling. And all too often it depends on who the reader is at any given point.
I’m waiting for a final read of my current thesis novel draft by my academic advisor. Which broken or misunderstood rule(s) will she hone in on? If it’s the same ones picked out by other readers, I guess I need to pay attention. But what of those oddities noted by one reader but not another? I have a number of those issues as well. I thought I had learned to be discerning in my acceptance of critique, but once again my confidence is faltering. I don’t trust my talent enough. I don’t give enough weight to the skill I’ve gained in thirty-plus years of writing. I don’t believe in myself, especially when someone whom I consider to be an authority disagrees with me. Even though sometimes, deep down, I think I might be right.
Who is the narrator of my novel? I thought I was, as the omniscient overseer of my fantasy world. If not, then the voices in my head have some ‘splaining to do…and I hope they do it soon.
So I’ve received my first rejection letter (email!) on my novel. Again with the point-of-view issues! Just when I think I’ve got it figured out and corrected, POV knocks me out. My grad program mentor offered her usual pointed advice, in the psychoanalyst question form: “Who is the narrator of your novel?...Writer and narrator are not the same thing…who is telling your story and why?”
Granted, she does offer more than just questions, but I’m still stuck. I thought I was writing third-person omniscient, but I’ve been told I waffle between that and what she calls “fly-on-the-wall” narration. I understand the concepts (I think); now if I could just figure out how they differ in the actual text.
The most difficult part of all this learning-the-craft process is that as soon as I think I’ve got a handle on the rules, occasionally breaking them judiciously only to get slapped down for it, I pick up a book or literary journal that does exactly what I’ve been told not to do. Learning which of those ‘lessons’ to heed and which to ignore is mind-boggling. And all too often it depends on who the reader is at any given point.
I’m waiting for a final read of my current thesis novel draft by my academic advisor. Which broken or misunderstood rule(s) will she hone in on? If it’s the same ones picked out by other readers, I guess I need to pay attention. But what of those oddities noted by one reader but not another? I have a number of those issues as well. I thought I had learned to be discerning in my acceptance of critique, but once again my confidence is faltering. I don’t trust my talent enough. I don’t give enough weight to the skill I’ve gained in thirty-plus years of writing. I don’t believe in myself, especially when someone whom I consider to be an authority disagrees with me. Even though sometimes, deep down, I think I might be right.
Who is the narrator of my novel? I thought I was, as the omniscient overseer of my fantasy world. If not, then the voices in my head have some ‘splaining to do…and I hope they do it soon.
Thursday, April 22, 2010
Finale, and a new beginning?
It’s all over but the shouting. My thesis novel is on its way to my advisor for final review. After twenty months of intense concentration, my journey as a formal student of academia is nearing an end. I continue to nourish dreams of further study in philosophy, and possibly more in literature, but the aggregate of my outstanding student loans stops me cold. It’s time to leave my studies and face the real world, to find a job or sell a book so I can claim actual income which, as we all know, is the only measure of validity in our materialistic society.
I mentioned the ivory tower dream in an email to a recruiter a few days; she hasn’t responded. I hope she understood my point. In writing, I am free to be whatever or whoever I am at any particular moment in time. It is my escape, and my salvation. But life demands more than personal fulfillment. We have rent to pay (or a mortgage?!), food to buy, the IRS to appease. So it’s time to face reality, and the dim prospect of finding employment in a depressed job market.
While my dream has long been to make a living with my writing, I am slowly learning that even stellar prose (which I hope mine will be considered, someday!) is not enough to attract an agent or publisher. Writers are now expected to be marketing experts as well. A friend and I attended the Mad Anthony Writers Conference in Hamilton, Ohio, last weekend (kudos to the conference team!), and while most of the sessions were entertaining and informative, several of them were downright depressing. A query to an agent or publisher is now expected to include a ‘platform’ and a marketing plan for how the proposed work will be sold, and to whom. Not that many years ago, it was enough to mention the expected niche market and identify potential readers en masse. Now it seems writers must provide websites, blogs, email distribution lists – the larger the better – and detailed plans for how and where their book will be sold. And I am sorry folks, but that is not my forté; I am a writer. That’s why I turn to agents, editors and publishers – the experts in those fields, or so I assumed.
But we all know where ‘assume’ gets us.
I understand the budget constraints of the industry; I really do. We’re all trying to do more with less. I have no problem whatsoever being a part of the team that sells my work. But I am at a loss when I come up against the current expectations I heard repeatedly at the conference (not to pick on Mad Anthony – I hear the same thing elsewhere these days). Consider this awkward analogy: would you hire a carpenter to build a house, bringing with her the necessary skills and tools to do the job expertly, and then also demand that she design the plans, obtain the necessary permits, provide the materials, and hold the open house? Of course not; those things are the job of a general contractor, i.e., a publisher or agent, in tandem with the craftsman.
If I were interested in self-publishing and all the marketing efforts required by such a move, that is the direction I would take. I am not. I know my skills and I know my limitations. I am not a salesman. I have no formal training in marketing and distribution. And it makes sense to me that, if a writer spends so much time developing that platform and maintaining a website and finding a market and promoting the final product, duties that one would think and agent and publisher would be doing, that said writer would have much less time to actually write the product that earns the income shared by all those participants in the long run.
I’m probably getting myself blacklisted all over the industry with this rant, but there must be a middle ground. Are there truly no agents or publishers out there who would rather see their writers at work on the next great novel instead of fumbling their way through marketing and distribution channels the agents and publishers already know – or should know? I mean seriously, isn’t that the area of expertise for them?
Let’s each concentrate on what we do best, whether it’s writing, marketing, publishing or selling. Yes, we should overlap and help each other out; that’s called teamwork. We can all accomplish more that way. But to ignore a well-written novel (or poem, or short story…) because it doesn’t come with a prepackaged marketing plan? Who does that benefit?
I don’t expect anyone to write my novel for me; in return, please don’t ask me to take on the job of the other experts on my team. Yes, I would love to remain in my ivory tower, toiling over the keyboard by candlelight (you know what I mean!). But when my book is finished, ready for exposure to the world, I will be out there with the rest of the team, following their expert advice on where to be and what to do to gain the most exposure for the product on which we all hope to earn a decent return. I am directionally challenged at best; please don’t send me out into the unfamiliar world of marketing and distribution without an experienced guide!
It’s all over but the shouting. My thesis novel is on its way to my advisor for final review. After twenty months of intense concentration, my journey as a formal student of academia is nearing an end. I continue to nourish dreams of further study in philosophy, and possibly more in literature, but the aggregate of my outstanding student loans stops me cold. It’s time to leave my studies and face the real world, to find a job or sell a book so I can claim actual income which, as we all know, is the only measure of validity in our materialistic society.
I mentioned the ivory tower dream in an email to a recruiter a few days; she hasn’t responded. I hope she understood my point. In writing, I am free to be whatever or whoever I am at any particular moment in time. It is my escape, and my salvation. But life demands more than personal fulfillment. We have rent to pay (or a mortgage?!), food to buy, the IRS to appease. So it’s time to face reality, and the dim prospect of finding employment in a depressed job market.
While my dream has long been to make a living with my writing, I am slowly learning that even stellar prose (which I hope mine will be considered, someday!) is not enough to attract an agent or publisher. Writers are now expected to be marketing experts as well. A friend and I attended the Mad Anthony Writers Conference in Hamilton, Ohio, last weekend (kudos to the conference team!), and while most of the sessions were entertaining and informative, several of them were downright depressing. A query to an agent or publisher is now expected to include a ‘platform’ and a marketing plan for how the proposed work will be sold, and to whom. Not that many years ago, it was enough to mention the expected niche market and identify potential readers en masse. Now it seems writers must provide websites, blogs, email distribution lists – the larger the better – and detailed plans for how and where their book will be sold. And I am sorry folks, but that is not my forté; I am a writer. That’s why I turn to agents, editors and publishers – the experts in those fields, or so I assumed.
But we all know where ‘assume’ gets us.
I understand the budget constraints of the industry; I really do. We’re all trying to do more with less. I have no problem whatsoever being a part of the team that sells my work. But I am at a loss when I come up against the current expectations I heard repeatedly at the conference (not to pick on Mad Anthony – I hear the same thing elsewhere these days). Consider this awkward analogy: would you hire a carpenter to build a house, bringing with her the necessary skills and tools to do the job expertly, and then also demand that she design the plans, obtain the necessary permits, provide the materials, and hold the open house? Of course not; those things are the job of a general contractor, i.e., a publisher or agent, in tandem with the craftsman.
If I were interested in self-publishing and all the marketing efforts required by such a move, that is the direction I would take. I am not. I know my skills and I know my limitations. I am not a salesman. I have no formal training in marketing and distribution. And it makes sense to me that, if a writer spends so much time developing that platform and maintaining a website and finding a market and promoting the final product, duties that one would think and agent and publisher would be doing, that said writer would have much less time to actually write the product that earns the income shared by all those participants in the long run.
I’m probably getting myself blacklisted all over the industry with this rant, but there must be a middle ground. Are there truly no agents or publishers out there who would rather see their writers at work on the next great novel instead of fumbling their way through marketing and distribution channels the agents and publishers already know – or should know? I mean seriously, isn’t that the area of expertise for them?
Let’s each concentrate on what we do best, whether it’s writing, marketing, publishing or selling. Yes, we should overlap and help each other out; that’s called teamwork. We can all accomplish more that way. But to ignore a well-written novel (or poem, or short story…) because it doesn’t come with a prepackaged marketing plan? Who does that benefit?
I don’t expect anyone to write my novel for me; in return, please don’t ask me to take on the job of the other experts on my team. Yes, I would love to remain in my ivory tower, toiling over the keyboard by candlelight (you know what I mean!). But when my book is finished, ready for exposure to the world, I will be out there with the rest of the team, following their expert advice on where to be and what to do to gain the most exposure for the product on which we all hope to earn a decent return. I am directionally challenged at best; please don’t send me out into the unfamiliar world of marketing and distribution without an experienced guide!
Friday, April 02, 2010
Sunday, March 07, 2010
Think on these things...
My mind can’t seem to let go of the issues raised by my last post. Why do authors feel the need to write, and readers the urge to read, stories of graphic violence, inhumanity, torture and humiliation? What is there in the dark recesses of the human mind that gravitates to such topics to the point that such stories make it to print, apparently to avidly-waiting audiences?
For many years I have pointedly avoided most ‘based-on-a-true story,’ made for television movies because of their single-minded focus on personal violation or pain of one sort or another. To me, that is not entertainment by any stretch of the imagination. I read, I go to movies, I watch television (albeit rarely for the last two) to escape, to be entertained or informed, to forget the horrors of real life that are paraded on 24/7 news channels. I don’t need authors or movie makers to tell me that mankind continues to inflict unspeakable horrors on other human beings, or on animals for that matter. I know that; I share the pain of that reality every day. Why does our society seem so intent on wallowing in such grotesqueness?
I love to read mystery novels, but pointing out there is a dead body in the next room is a far cry from the graphic close-ups of CSI and its many off-spring, each pushing to outdo the other with ever more violent and bloody means of dispatch. As I mentioned last week, I was half-way through Stieg Larsson’s The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo, geek that I am rather enjoying his incorporation of computer sleuthing in the intricate mystery he was weaving, when I was confronted with multiple graphic rape scenes, horrific serial killings, and torture. I set the book aside in disgust for several days before forcing myself to try again to find a kernel of redemption in the story that would justify the accolades his writing has received. I found the same issue with Reggie Nadelson’s Artie Cohen mysteries – they are awash in graphic death, including dismemberment of children. Much of what comes out of Hollywood is no better. My husband and I tried to watch the Oscar-winning Slumdog Millionaire and were horrified by the vicious torture scenes. We stopped trying to understand when they turned to the mutilation of children. This is quality film making?
What I find most disturbing about these and myriad other popular novels and movies, next to the notion that the audience for such material is apparently large and growing, is that they all begin with a writer who imagines such atrocities, creating those worlds of terror on paper. Language is too beautiful, too powerful, too all-pervasive to be used for such base means. Each of the novels and movies I referenced could have been told without the gratuitous and nauseating scenes, and the impact of the story would not have been lessened.
Lest I be accused of condoning censorship, that is not my case at all. My concern, as a writer, is at the creative level. I love language, the sound of words, the rhythm of a well-crafted phrase, the subtle twist of meaning in a skillfully constructed paragraph. I work very hard at my craft, striving to created stories that are intelligent, meaningful and entertaining. Where is the answer to this disconnect I face in relating to those who produce work that dehumanizes individuals, debases life, and glorifies violence?
Buddha said, “We are what we think. All that we are arises with our thoughts. With our thoughts, we make the world.” I would extend that to the words we write and share as well. Why would I want to share anything less than beautiful?
My mind can’t seem to let go of the issues raised by my last post. Why do authors feel the need to write, and readers the urge to read, stories of graphic violence, inhumanity, torture and humiliation? What is there in the dark recesses of the human mind that gravitates to such topics to the point that such stories make it to print, apparently to avidly-waiting audiences?
For many years I have pointedly avoided most ‘based-on-a-true story,’ made for television movies because of their single-minded focus on personal violation or pain of one sort or another. To me, that is not entertainment by any stretch of the imagination. I read, I go to movies, I watch television (albeit rarely for the last two) to escape, to be entertained or informed, to forget the horrors of real life that are paraded on 24/7 news channels. I don’t need authors or movie makers to tell me that mankind continues to inflict unspeakable horrors on other human beings, or on animals for that matter. I know that; I share the pain of that reality every day. Why does our society seem so intent on wallowing in such grotesqueness?
I love to read mystery novels, but pointing out there is a dead body in the next room is a far cry from the graphic close-ups of CSI and its many off-spring, each pushing to outdo the other with ever more violent and bloody means of dispatch. As I mentioned last week, I was half-way through Stieg Larsson’s The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo, geek that I am rather enjoying his incorporation of computer sleuthing in the intricate mystery he was weaving, when I was confronted with multiple graphic rape scenes, horrific serial killings, and torture. I set the book aside in disgust for several days before forcing myself to try again to find a kernel of redemption in the story that would justify the accolades his writing has received. I found the same issue with Reggie Nadelson’s Artie Cohen mysteries – they are awash in graphic death, including dismemberment of children. Much of what comes out of Hollywood is no better. My husband and I tried to watch the Oscar-winning Slumdog Millionaire and were horrified by the vicious torture scenes. We stopped trying to understand when they turned to the mutilation of children. This is quality film making?
What I find most disturbing about these and myriad other popular novels and movies, next to the notion that the audience for such material is apparently large and growing, is that they all begin with a writer who imagines such atrocities, creating those worlds of terror on paper. Language is too beautiful, too powerful, too all-pervasive to be used for such base means. Each of the novels and movies I referenced could have been told without the gratuitous and nauseating scenes, and the impact of the story would not have been lessened.
Lest I be accused of condoning censorship, that is not my case at all. My concern, as a writer, is at the creative level. I love language, the sound of words, the rhythm of a well-crafted phrase, the subtle twist of meaning in a skillfully constructed paragraph. I work very hard at my craft, striving to created stories that are intelligent, meaningful and entertaining. Where is the answer to this disconnect I face in relating to those who produce work that dehumanizes individuals, debases life, and glorifies violence?
Buddha said, “We are what we think. All that we are arises with our thoughts. With our thoughts, we make the world.” I would extend that to the words we write and share as well. Why would I want to share anything less than beautiful?
Thursday, February 25, 2010
I attended a new writers group Tuesday (thanks again for inviting me!) and it was an interesting evening. It’s always nice to reconnect with former writing friends, hear what they’ve been up to since we last met. But the new acquaintances were most intriguing. Warning: the names have been changed to protect the innocent! As noted in a previous blog, I struggle with relating a story that is not mine alone to tell.
Samuel started the session with a wonderfully descriptive excerpt from a larger piece. The other members had the advantage of knowing the story from earlier readings, but we all agreed his writing is well done. I was impressed with his ability to provide physical, background description so vividly that the scenes come to life in my mind. That’s something I have never mastered.
Although to some in the group, such effort is overdone. Interesting that is was a gender divide. The women loved the language; the men felt it was unnecessary and detracted from the flow of action. As I’ve considered his work in the days since, and discussed it with other writer friends, I think I lean toward a division of personal preference, not sex. Some of us love visuals; others prefer action. No right or wrong here!
The most difficult reading of the evening was the final one, given by Fred. Again, the others in the group had heard pieces of the story before, so they had more of a context for what I found to be disturbingly graphic. We ran out of time for the extended discussion the piece provoked – and warranted – and some of the talk spilled over to our walk to the parking lot after we broke up. Fred seemed focused on, “But did it hold your interest?” He asked me that several times as my answers evaded a direct response. I’ve thought about this encounter quite a bit since Tuesday and think I am finally ready to offer a more nuanced answer.
Yes, Fred, it held my interest – much like a train wreck would. I was horrified, but compelled to listen, praying for some sort of redemption. Was it really necessary to tell that story in such painful detail? If so, if it truly serves the piece as a whole, if your intent was to shock the reader into paying attention to what will be a larger message of overriding importance, then I’m okay with that. I would not read it, but there are lots of literary works I will not read. I nearly stopped halfway through Stieg Larsson’s The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo for that very reason; I plowed through, looking for that redemption, and found it – barely. I will not read the sequel. Again, personal preference, and certainly no right or wrong.
But if you wrote such cruel descriptions of disembowelment and violation simply for the ‘eeww’ factor, I would be heartily disappointed. Your obvious appreciation for the craft of writing is not well-served by such base motivations. Granted, we only met once, for two short hours, but I hold out hope that the larger message is there, yet to be discovered. I will make every effort to stay with you long enough to find it.
Samuel started the session with a wonderfully descriptive excerpt from a larger piece. The other members had the advantage of knowing the story from earlier readings, but we all agreed his writing is well done. I was impressed with his ability to provide physical, background description so vividly that the scenes come to life in my mind. That’s something I have never mastered.
Although to some in the group, such effort is overdone. Interesting that is was a gender divide. The women loved the language; the men felt it was unnecessary and detracted from the flow of action. As I’ve considered his work in the days since, and discussed it with other writer friends, I think I lean toward a division of personal preference, not sex. Some of us love visuals; others prefer action. No right or wrong here!
The most difficult reading of the evening was the final one, given by Fred. Again, the others in the group had heard pieces of the story before, so they had more of a context for what I found to be disturbingly graphic. We ran out of time for the extended discussion the piece provoked – and warranted – and some of the talk spilled over to our walk to the parking lot after we broke up. Fred seemed focused on, “But did it hold your interest?” He asked me that several times as my answers evaded a direct response. I’ve thought about this encounter quite a bit since Tuesday and think I am finally ready to offer a more nuanced answer.
Yes, Fred, it held my interest – much like a train wreck would. I was horrified, but compelled to listen, praying for some sort of redemption. Was it really necessary to tell that story in such painful detail? If so, if it truly serves the piece as a whole, if your intent was to shock the reader into paying attention to what will be a larger message of overriding importance, then I’m okay with that. I would not read it, but there are lots of literary works I will not read. I nearly stopped halfway through Stieg Larsson’s The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo for that very reason; I plowed through, looking for that redemption, and found it – barely. I will not read the sequel. Again, personal preference, and certainly no right or wrong.
But if you wrote such cruel descriptions of disembowelment and violation simply for the ‘eeww’ factor, I would be heartily disappointed. Your obvious appreciation for the craft of writing is not well-served by such base motivations. Granted, we only met once, for two short hours, but I hold out hope that the larger message is there, yet to be discovered. I will make every effort to stay with you long enough to find it.
Thursday, February 18, 2010
Mechanical priorities
What a roller coaster week! It started out with two rejections, one explicit, one by default (no news, in the case of a writing contest, is definitely not good news) which left me feeling pretty low. I spent the next few days struggling to prioritize my work and to find the motivation to tackle the necessary rewrites.
Rejection number one was a short story written several years ago and I thought it was pretty good. I revised it while in the midst of the adrenaline-rush after finishing last summer’s Antioch Writers Workshop and sent it out, with three other pieces, to various markets. Every one has now been returned. I’m left with confusion over how and where to resubmit, or if I even should. Toss these old things a file and move on to something new or keep trying? A couple of them are iffy, granted, but I see much worse items published every day. For now, I’m setting them aside.
Priorities.
A personal essay I had been so pleased with when I first wrote it last fall (rejection number two) benefitted from some trimming, some additions, and a general tightening of focus. It’s better now, I hope, but I’ve forced myself to set it aside for a few days before a final reading and resubmission. My AWW writers group has been very complimentary of this piece, so I have high hopes for it. The difficult part at this point will be deciding where to send it. Entry in a contest with a monetary prize and publication in a little-known journal, or a try for acceptance in a more prestigious outlet with a greater chance of rejection?
Priorities.
Then there’s my thesis novel. Yuck. I’m at the point where I don’t even want to look at it anymore. I’ve been ignoring it for several weeks now, waiting for a couple of new readers to comment on the completed draft, but it’s time to stop procrastinating. I went back through the chapter outline and realized what a mess it is. Scene flow, chapter breaks…the longer I look at it, the more confused I become. After a bit of shuffling, consolidation and deletion, it was better, or so I thought. I sent it to my mentor for review and she came back with a list of pointed – and difficult – questions about my characters that I’m having trouble answering.
Today, after making the adjustments I noted on the outline, I took out all the chapter numbers. I want to see where story wants to break, not where I think it should. My characters have shown me the way before; I trust they will do so again, if I will let them. As for the mentor questions, I’m going to sleep on it.
Priorities.
....Addendum:
So after I posted the above, I realized my overly-active pessimism had taken hold and wiped out the memory of two very exciting opportunities which came my way today. I hesitate to say more at this point (see pessimism note!) but once everything is settled, I'll be happy share. In the meantime, just trust me and share my joy. Thanks!
What a roller coaster week! It started out with two rejections, one explicit, one by default (no news, in the case of a writing contest, is definitely not good news) which left me feeling pretty low. I spent the next few days struggling to prioritize my work and to find the motivation to tackle the necessary rewrites.
Rejection number one was a short story written several years ago and I thought it was pretty good. I revised it while in the midst of the adrenaline-rush after finishing last summer’s Antioch Writers Workshop and sent it out, with three other pieces, to various markets. Every one has now been returned. I’m left with confusion over how and where to resubmit, or if I even should. Toss these old things a file and move on to something new or keep trying? A couple of them are iffy, granted, but I see much worse items published every day. For now, I’m setting them aside.
Priorities.
A personal essay I had been so pleased with when I first wrote it last fall (rejection number two) benefitted from some trimming, some additions, and a general tightening of focus. It’s better now, I hope, but I’ve forced myself to set it aside for a few days before a final reading and resubmission. My AWW writers group has been very complimentary of this piece, so I have high hopes for it. The difficult part at this point will be deciding where to send it. Entry in a contest with a monetary prize and publication in a little-known journal, or a try for acceptance in a more prestigious outlet with a greater chance of rejection?
Priorities.
Then there’s my thesis novel. Yuck. I’m at the point where I don’t even want to look at it anymore. I’ve been ignoring it for several weeks now, waiting for a couple of new readers to comment on the completed draft, but it’s time to stop procrastinating. I went back through the chapter outline and realized what a mess it is. Scene flow, chapter breaks…the longer I look at it, the more confused I become. After a bit of shuffling, consolidation and deletion, it was better, or so I thought. I sent it to my mentor for review and she came back with a list of pointed – and difficult – questions about my characters that I’m having trouble answering.
Today, after making the adjustments I noted on the outline, I took out all the chapter numbers. I want to see where story wants to break, not where I think it should. My characters have shown me the way before; I trust they will do so again, if I will let them. As for the mentor questions, I’m going to sleep on it.
Priorities.
....Addendum:
So after I posted the above, I realized my overly-active pessimism had taken hold and wiped out the memory of two very exciting opportunities which came my way today. I hesitate to say more at this point (see pessimism note!) but once everything is settled, I'll be happy share. In the meantime, just trust me and share my joy. Thanks!
Thursday, February 11, 2010
Between a rock and a scary place
A writer friend and I agreed to enter the Cup of Comfort for Couples contest, writing a brief story about our marriages and critiquing each other before submission. We figured it would be a good exercise if nothing else.
What I found when I tried it was surprising. I started with a gentle humor, celebrating my husband, and ended up reliving emotional baggage that he has tried desperately to help me jettison for the past thirty-five years. Where did all that come from?
I also ran head-on into another issue that I’ve been avoiding. How do I write about myself, my life, without harming those I love, or at least those with whom I’ve come into contact? My story is not just my own; it is often theirs as well. There are parts of my life I will never write about, never share, because the other people involved in those incidents deserve their privacy. It is not mine to invade or to air publicly.
Ralph Keyes addressed this issue at length in his wonderful The Courage to Write. I disagree with many of the writers he references, including William Faulkner, who said, “A writer’s only responsibility is to his art. He will be completely ruthless if he is a good one.” Faulkner’s pointed comments, and others like them, weigh heavily. Is my writing dull and lifeless because I allow what he calls my “censor-in-chief” to edit my words for fear of offending? Am I being less than true to myself, and to reality, by shielding those stories from the light of day? Keyes admits he sticks mostly to non-fiction because of the fear that “fiction might lead me into dark caves I’m hesitant to explore.” So I’m stuck? Which is worse…avoiding sensitive topics out of respect for others or bad writing that ignores truth?
Fellow writers, what say ye?
A writer friend and I agreed to enter the Cup of Comfort for Couples contest, writing a brief story about our marriages and critiquing each other before submission. We figured it would be a good exercise if nothing else.
What I found when I tried it was surprising. I started with a gentle humor, celebrating my husband, and ended up reliving emotional baggage that he has tried desperately to help me jettison for the past thirty-five years. Where did all that come from?
I also ran head-on into another issue that I’ve been avoiding. How do I write about myself, my life, without harming those I love, or at least those with whom I’ve come into contact? My story is not just my own; it is often theirs as well. There are parts of my life I will never write about, never share, because the other people involved in those incidents deserve their privacy. It is not mine to invade or to air publicly.
Ralph Keyes addressed this issue at length in his wonderful The Courage to Write. I disagree with many of the writers he references, including William Faulkner, who said, “A writer’s only responsibility is to his art. He will be completely ruthless if he is a good one.” Faulkner’s pointed comments, and others like them, weigh heavily. Is my writing dull and lifeless because I allow what he calls my “censor-in-chief” to edit my words for fear of offending? Am I being less than true to myself, and to reality, by shielding those stories from the light of day? Keyes admits he sticks mostly to non-fiction because of the fear that “fiction might lead me into dark caves I’m hesitant to explore.” So I’m stuck? Which is worse…avoiding sensitive topics out of respect for others or bad writing that ignores truth?
Fellow writers, what say ye?
Friday, January 29, 2010
Hard as it is for me to believe, I have made it all the way through my novel – rewriting, editing, slashing and adding – in just under a month. I’m not yet convinced that is a good thing. I am fortunate to have a dedicated core of writer companions who are prepared to read those 163 pages and give me an honest evaluation before I even look at the draft again. I’m still considering an additional scene with Gordon and Evelyn, and maybe another ‘Ah-ha!’ moment for Toni on the true definition of family, but for now, I need to step back.
The universe also very kindly provided me with a desperately needed Hungarian translator. I have a smattering of Hungarian dialogue in my book, mostly for effect, but the final revelation for Toni also depends on the language, and I want it to be portrayed accurately. Turns out a gentleman who purchased my Historic Warren County, and who has become a sort of email pen pal (is that possible?), is fluent in the language, has the proper equipment to type the foreign digraphs, and has been kind enough to offer to review my efforts. Synchronicity in action!
So for the next week or so (if I can force myself not to give in and return to the draft), I will work on other projects. Most urgently, I have a lengthy program evaluation paper due tomorrow (1/30) for my grad school program. I’ve taken on a publicity campaign for a new community park in Lebanon, Ohio, working with a delightful 90-plus year old woman whose family originally owned the land. I have several things outstanding for the Museum that I really need to spend some time on, and as much as I hate to think about it, it’s tax time. All those things, plus an extended break to read a few things from my waiting stack of books, should keep me occupied. Of course, I can always be interrupted if someone needs a lunch date…
The universe also very kindly provided me with a desperately needed Hungarian translator. I have a smattering of Hungarian dialogue in my book, mostly for effect, but the final revelation for Toni also depends on the language, and I want it to be portrayed accurately. Turns out a gentleman who purchased my Historic Warren County, and who has become a sort of email pen pal (is that possible?), is fluent in the language, has the proper equipment to type the foreign digraphs, and has been kind enough to offer to review my efforts. Synchronicity in action!
So for the next week or so (if I can force myself not to give in and return to the draft), I will work on other projects. Most urgently, I have a lengthy program evaluation paper due tomorrow (1/30) for my grad school program. I’ve taken on a publicity campaign for a new community park in Lebanon, Ohio, working with a delightful 90-plus year old woman whose family originally owned the land. I have several things outstanding for the Museum that I really need to spend some time on, and as much as I hate to think about it, it’s tax time. All those things, plus an extended break to read a few things from my waiting stack of books, should keep me occupied. Of course, I can always be interrupted if someone needs a lunch date…
Wednesday, January 20, 2010
Why I Write
In the course of an in-depth discussion on revision techniques, how many readers to have during editing stages, etc., one of my writers’ group friends asked a general question of all of us: Why do you write?
I write to tell a story, to entertain (fiction in general). I write to present and then solve a puzzle, to cause that “Ah-ha!” moment (mysteries). I write to evoke a mood, to share an experience, to vent, to argue a point, to persuade (essays). I write to share things I have learned, to offer fresh insight to age-old problems, to reframe old arguments into new ways of finding common ground (academia). I write to clarify my thoughts, to find my way through the maze of life, to find answers, or at least to better understand the questions (blog, journal, ramblings like this one). I write to celebrate language, the rhythm of words, the nuance of meaning, the exactness of a well-chosen phrase. And, yes, I write in hope of someday finding a publisher who feels my words are worth wider distribution and – ta dah! – payment.
I write because I have no better way to express the churning thoughts which fill my mind. The blank page is my friend when I need to communicate. I don’t speak well; my mind too often goes blank when I’m in conversation, whether it be with one person or a dozen, and I can’t seem to follow my ideas to a logical conclusion. There is no ‘delete’ button when I talk, no find-and-replace for the mischosen word.
During my current graduate school program, where I am pursuing a master of arts degree in creative writing, my faculty advisor, my mentor, and at least one professor have asked me variations of that question: Why do you write? One of them asked, “If you were stranded on a desert island with a stack of blank paper and a pen, knowing full well no one would ever see the results, would you still write?” That brought me up short for sometime; my rote answer to the other unanswerable question in my life, “What will you do with your degree?” has been to make a living with my writing. But as I continue my studies, and my writing, I realize that while earning an income with my words would be wonderful, it is no longer the driving force behind my efforts.
I write because I must. It is the fulfillment of my nature, my potential. I am a writer.
In the course of an in-depth discussion on revision techniques, how many readers to have during editing stages, etc., one of my writers’ group friends asked a general question of all of us: Why do you write?
I write to tell a story, to entertain (fiction in general). I write to present and then solve a puzzle, to cause that “Ah-ha!” moment (mysteries). I write to evoke a mood, to share an experience, to vent, to argue a point, to persuade (essays). I write to share things I have learned, to offer fresh insight to age-old problems, to reframe old arguments into new ways of finding common ground (academia). I write to clarify my thoughts, to find my way through the maze of life, to find answers, or at least to better understand the questions (blog, journal, ramblings like this one). I write to celebrate language, the rhythm of words, the nuance of meaning, the exactness of a well-chosen phrase. And, yes, I write in hope of someday finding a publisher who feels my words are worth wider distribution and – ta dah! – payment.
I write because I have no better way to express the churning thoughts which fill my mind. The blank page is my friend when I need to communicate. I don’t speak well; my mind too often goes blank when I’m in conversation, whether it be with one person or a dozen, and I can’t seem to follow my ideas to a logical conclusion. There is no ‘delete’ button when I talk, no find-and-replace for the mischosen word.
During my current graduate school program, where I am pursuing a master of arts degree in creative writing, my faculty advisor, my mentor, and at least one professor have asked me variations of that question: Why do you write? One of them asked, “If you were stranded on a desert island with a stack of blank paper and a pen, knowing full well no one would ever see the results, would you still write?” That brought me up short for sometime; my rote answer to the other unanswerable question in my life, “What will you do with your degree?” has been to make a living with my writing. But as I continue my studies, and my writing, I realize that while earning an income with my words would be wonderful, it is no longer the driving force behind my efforts.
I write because I must. It is the fulfillment of my nature, my potential. I am a writer.
Saturday, January 16, 2010
Rough week - started really well, fizzled into nothingness.
I was feeling pretty good about my progress Monday and updated my Facebook status to read: “Well, 86 rewritten/edited pages, just under 25,000 words - not too bad for a week's work, assuming the words themselves aren't too bad! Onward...”
After dreaming about Toni and company all night, I went back to the manuscript Tuesday morning and ran a Find & Replace search on some problem words that came to mind. I found 23 occurrences of ‘finally,’ 38 of ‘then,’ and lots of things getting ‘dark,’ ‘darkening,’ and ‘darker’ while people keep shaking their heads. Far too many exclamation points, too – thank you, email/texting/chat/Facebook.
Wonder what other pet phrases I’m missing?
I’m gathering tonight with some dear gal pals for reconnection and inspiration. Here’s hoping for a better start and finish next week.
I was feeling pretty good about my progress Monday and updated my Facebook status to read: “Well, 86 rewritten/edited pages, just under 25,000 words - not too bad for a week's work, assuming the words themselves aren't too bad! Onward...”
After dreaming about Toni and company all night, I went back to the manuscript Tuesday morning and ran a Find & Replace search on some problem words that came to mind. I found 23 occurrences of ‘finally,’ 38 of ‘then,’ and lots of things getting ‘dark,’ ‘darkening,’ and ‘darker’ while people keep shaking their heads. Far too many exclamation points, too – thank you, email/texting/chat/Facebook.
Wonder what other pet phrases I’m missing?
I’m gathering tonight with some dear gal pals for reconnection and inspiration. Here’s hoping for a better start and finish next week.
Saturday, January 09, 2010
“As far as how much you are putting into this story, you already wrote the manuscript...to my limited knowledge that is the hard part.....editing is the last road of the journey.”
Thought-provoking words from one of my strongest cheerleaders, my father, in response to my musings yesterday about the relative ease thus far of the long-anticipated rewriting. How does one explain the writing process to someone who has never experienced its highs and lows, its joys and frustrations? I’m going to make the effort, as much for my benefit as his. The unexamined life and all…
Contrary to his contention, telling (writing) a story is the easy part, relatively speaking. We all have stories in us that we love to share. Putting them down on paper requires the commitment to see them through from start to finish. The manuscript currently under construction was written in a month-long marathon. Not recommended as a practice, at least in my estimation, but the exercise had a purpose. The daily word count required to meet the deadline required me to turn off the internal editor that often impedes that initial process. Instead of fretting over the exact word choice or the most finely-tuned phrase, I was able to push through and construct a story arc, adding characters and settings, and ending up with a complete story with a start and an end. My apologies to the post-modernists who don’t believe such constructions are necessary. I don’t care for their creations any more than they would care for mine.
So, after the bare bones of the story are down on paper, the much more difficult process of rewriting and editing begins…if an author wants the story to be worth reading. That is the stage at which I find myself with this current novel. The characters are there; the plot begins, develops, climaxes, and ends (sort of). But it is rough, very rough, and inconsistent and jagged and deadly dull in parts. I need to smooth out those rough edges, tie up loose ends, bring dates and timelines and descriptions into a semblance of order and, with any luck, along the way add enough interest and tension and description and maybe a bit of humor to keep a reader sufficiently involved to stick with me until the end.
Is rewriting the easy part, as Dad suggests? Not really. But neither is the initial story line, if I am completely honest with myself and with my readers. It is dreadfully easy to get lost in a maze of minutiae that is incoherent and bland, with no plot to speak of and nothing to compel a reader to turn the page. Unfortunately, books like that get published – I’ve read them! My goal is to create something that Dad, and maybe someone with no sentimental attachment, will actually enjoy reading and, as any good author hopes, make them want to open the book and start reading again after savoring the last page.
Thought-provoking words from one of my strongest cheerleaders, my father, in response to my musings yesterday about the relative ease thus far of the long-anticipated rewriting. How does one explain the writing process to someone who has never experienced its highs and lows, its joys and frustrations? I’m going to make the effort, as much for my benefit as his. The unexamined life and all…
Contrary to his contention, telling (writing) a story is the easy part, relatively speaking. We all have stories in us that we love to share. Putting them down on paper requires the commitment to see them through from start to finish. The manuscript currently under construction was written in a month-long marathon. Not recommended as a practice, at least in my estimation, but the exercise had a purpose. The daily word count required to meet the deadline required me to turn off the internal editor that often impedes that initial process. Instead of fretting over the exact word choice or the most finely-tuned phrase, I was able to push through and construct a story arc, adding characters and settings, and ending up with a complete story with a start and an end. My apologies to the post-modernists who don’t believe such constructions are necessary. I don’t care for their creations any more than they would care for mine.
So, after the bare bones of the story are down on paper, the much more difficult process of rewriting and editing begins…if an author wants the story to be worth reading. That is the stage at which I find myself with this current novel. The characters are there; the plot begins, develops, climaxes, and ends (sort of). But it is rough, very rough, and inconsistent and jagged and deadly dull in parts. I need to smooth out those rough edges, tie up loose ends, bring dates and timelines and descriptions into a semblance of order and, with any luck, along the way add enough interest and tension and description and maybe a bit of humor to keep a reader sufficiently involved to stick with me until the end.
Is rewriting the easy part, as Dad suggests? Not really. But neither is the initial story line, if I am completely honest with myself and with my readers. It is dreadfully easy to get lost in a maze of minutiae that is incoherent and bland, with no plot to speak of and nothing to compel a reader to turn the page. Unfortunately, books like that get published – I’ve read them! My goal is to create something that Dad, and maybe someone with no sentimental attachment, will actually enjoy reading and, as any good author hopes, make them want to open the book and start reading again after savoring the last page.
Friday, January 08, 2010
And we’re off!
Seventeen pages of rewrites Wednesday, which sounds like an awful lot, until I realize those pages were all workshopped and edited and fussed over repeatedly in the past several months. They shouldn’t need much more.
But I have found a new story line that needs to be inserted, a couple of new scenes to write, and deleted two characters entirely, so I guess that’s progress.
Thursday: Only two pages so far, but it’s an entirely new storyline (sort of) in an added scene. Plus LOTS of distractions made for a short work day…I know, no excuse!
Friday: Twelve pages today, thirty-one pages for the week (ok, three days…) and nine chapters total. Two new scenes, a growing complication that also – I hope – explains Toni’s motivations. Not bad for the first week out, I suppose.
For some reason I feel strangely uneasy with my progress. Isn’t this supposed to be more difficult? Am I fooling myself, and coasting? Where’s the labored, “This morning I took out a comma and this afternoon I put it back in again,” variously attributed to Oscar Wilde and others? Not that it’s been a breeze. I still agonize over my word choices, second-guess my sentence structure and obsess over all the little critique comments I’ve received (…she sighed regretfully). But this rewriting/editing thing is actually moving along pretty well. Knock window, cross my fingers, jump over the crack in my desk – we’ll see what next week brings!
Seventeen pages of rewrites Wednesday, which sounds like an awful lot, until I realize those pages were all workshopped and edited and fussed over repeatedly in the past several months. They shouldn’t need much more.
But I have found a new story line that needs to be inserted, a couple of new scenes to write, and deleted two characters entirely, so I guess that’s progress.
Thursday: Only two pages so far, but it’s an entirely new storyline (sort of) in an added scene. Plus LOTS of distractions made for a short work day…I know, no excuse!
Friday: Twelve pages today, thirty-one pages for the week (ok, three days…) and nine chapters total. Two new scenes, a growing complication that also – I hope – explains Toni’s motivations. Not bad for the first week out, I suppose.
For some reason I feel strangely uneasy with my progress. Isn’t this supposed to be more difficult? Am I fooling myself, and coasting? Where’s the labored, “This morning I took out a comma and this afternoon I put it back in again,” variously attributed to Oscar Wilde and others? Not that it’s been a breeze. I still agonize over my word choices, second-guess my sentence structure and obsess over all the little critique comments I’ve received (…she sighed regretfully). But this rewriting/editing thing is actually moving along pretty well. Knock window, cross my fingers, jump over the crack in my desk – we’ll see what next week brings!
Tuesday, January 05, 2010
“The time has come,” the Walrus said, “to talk of many things. Of shoes and ships and sealing wax, of cabbages and kings…”
After what has really been a lifetime of preparation, with a more intensely-focused period these past fifteen months, my time has come. Nothing quite as grandiose as Lewis Carroll’s “cabbages and kings,” but my time to create. I am ready to set aside all the books, all the studying, reading, researching and dissecting the words of others and immerse myself in a story of my own making. It’s time to write my thesis.
So many have asked recently, “What is your thesis about?” “How can you write that many words?” and the ultimate enthusiasm-damper: “Why?” In an effort to answer those questions, and many others often of my own making, I’ve decided to record my progress in this blog format. It will also serve as a journal of my work that will make my final evaluation of the process easier to write.
Because my graduate school program is in creative writing rather than, say, education or computer technology, I will not be producing a traditional thesis based on an in-depth study of the work of others with an occasional original thought thrown in to satisfy academia. Rather, I am writing a novel, literary mystery if one must apply a label. The initial rough draft was completed in 2005 during the masochistic National Novel Writing Month exercise. It’s been languishing at just over 50,000 words ever since. I resurrected the manuscript for last summer’s Antioch Writer’s Workshop and found, surprisingly (to me at least), that much of it is pretty good. A lot of it is pretty bad, too, but that is what I will be working on for the next six months.
The radical rewriting and editing will require all of the skills I have studied in-depth during the earlier quarters of this program. I have practiced writing dialogue and narrative, scenes and character sketches. I have read massive amounts of 20th century literature to compliment the two years I spent reading the Classics. And I have gleaned the rules of good fiction writing. More importantly, I have learned how and when to break those rules, as so many have before me, and I am eager to begin this next stage of my journey.
Yesterday, after a rough start, I began searching through my manuscript for character details and today I finished creating the spreadsheet which will serve as my roadmap. Every person is listed; the timeline is detailed; the settings are in order. This afternoon I pulled out all the comments from fellow AWW workshop participants (which I have deliberately avoided reading until this stage) and made notes, remembering the admonishment to take what works and leave the rest.
Tomorrow I begin writing. I’ll record my progress in these pages for those who are interested and as an assist to my overloaded memory banks. I may share a scene or two as the mood strikes. But above all, finally, I will write.
My time has come.
After what has really been a lifetime of preparation, with a more intensely-focused period these past fifteen months, my time has come. Nothing quite as grandiose as Lewis Carroll’s “cabbages and kings,” but my time to create. I am ready to set aside all the books, all the studying, reading, researching and dissecting the words of others and immerse myself in a story of my own making. It’s time to write my thesis.
So many have asked recently, “What is your thesis about?” “How can you write that many words?” and the ultimate enthusiasm-damper: “Why?” In an effort to answer those questions, and many others often of my own making, I’ve decided to record my progress in this blog format. It will also serve as a journal of my work that will make my final evaluation of the process easier to write.
Because my graduate school program is in creative writing rather than, say, education or computer technology, I will not be producing a traditional thesis based on an in-depth study of the work of others with an occasional original thought thrown in to satisfy academia. Rather, I am writing a novel, literary mystery if one must apply a label. The initial rough draft was completed in 2005 during the masochistic National Novel Writing Month exercise. It’s been languishing at just over 50,000 words ever since. I resurrected the manuscript for last summer’s Antioch Writer’s Workshop and found, surprisingly (to me at least), that much of it is pretty good. A lot of it is pretty bad, too, but that is what I will be working on for the next six months.
The radical rewriting and editing will require all of the skills I have studied in-depth during the earlier quarters of this program. I have practiced writing dialogue and narrative, scenes and character sketches. I have read massive amounts of 20th century literature to compliment the two years I spent reading the Classics. And I have gleaned the rules of good fiction writing. More importantly, I have learned how and when to break those rules, as so many have before me, and I am eager to begin this next stage of my journey.
Yesterday, after a rough start, I began searching through my manuscript for character details and today I finished creating the spreadsheet which will serve as my roadmap. Every person is listed; the timeline is detailed; the settings are in order. This afternoon I pulled out all the comments from fellow AWW workshop participants (which I have deliberately avoided reading until this stage) and made notes, remembering the admonishment to take what works and leave the rest.
Tomorrow I begin writing. I’ll record my progress in these pages for those who are interested and as an assist to my overloaded memory banks. I may share a scene or two as the mood strikes. But above all, finally, I will write.
My time has come.
Saturday, January 02, 2010
Sunday, December 27, 2009
Finally, it's over for another year...
What is it in human nature that pushes us to buy into the Hallmark card holidays? We invest an inordinate amount of time, effort, and usually far too much money into a single family gathering, thinking that one day of forced togetherness will somehow make up for the other 364 days of squabbling and emotional distance. It doesn’t, of course, even if we manage to get through the day itself with gritted teeth, pasted-on smiles, and carefully avoided conversational topics. Too many people crammed into a too-small living area do not make for a memorable occasion, at least for me. And I don’t know of anyone who can honestly say they do not heave a sigh of relief when the door closes on the last guests, or the car pulls out of the drive, headed for the peace and quiet of home.
I would so much rather see us spend quality time together more frequently, in much smaller groups, when we can actually hear one another talk about something other than the weather and the latest TV reality show. Letters may be passé, but email is a great way to stay in touch quickly and regularly – and I don’t mean the Fwd: Fwd: Fwd messages. Even grandparents have email these days, at least in our family. Phone calls work, too, and hey, guess what? The phone rings at both ends! A quiet meal, a cup of coffee (or tea!), a walk in the park – those are the moments of emotional connection and relationship-building that mean the most to me. I can do without the holiday hoopla with its unrealistic expectations and over-hyped anticipation of…something.
Lunch, anyone?
What is it in human nature that pushes us to buy into the Hallmark card holidays? We invest an inordinate amount of time, effort, and usually far too much money into a single family gathering, thinking that one day of forced togetherness will somehow make up for the other 364 days of squabbling and emotional distance. It doesn’t, of course, even if we manage to get through the day itself with gritted teeth, pasted-on smiles, and carefully avoided conversational topics. Too many people crammed into a too-small living area do not make for a memorable occasion, at least for me. And I don’t know of anyone who can honestly say they do not heave a sigh of relief when the door closes on the last guests, or the car pulls out of the drive, headed for the peace and quiet of home.
I would so much rather see us spend quality time together more frequently, in much smaller groups, when we can actually hear one another talk about something other than the weather and the latest TV reality show. Letters may be passé, but email is a great way to stay in touch quickly and regularly – and I don’t mean the Fwd: Fwd: Fwd messages. Even grandparents have email these days, at least in our family. Phone calls work, too, and hey, guess what? The phone rings at both ends! A quiet meal, a cup of coffee (or tea!), a walk in the park – those are the moments of emotional connection and relationship-building that mean the most to me. I can do without the holiday hoopla with its unrealistic expectations and over-hyped anticipation of…something.
Lunch, anyone?
Saturday, December 19, 2009
Now - it's all we have
So – I let my ego self get the best of me today. While waiting ever so patiently (NOT!) for the arrival of my first authored book, all the months and weeks this project has entailed (19 months, so far, since the contract was signed in April 2008) caught up with me and I had a meltdown right in the middle of the kitchen, crying on the floor over spilled puzzle pieces, not milk.
I’ve been doing pretty well with the waiting since the final proof was approved and returned to the publisher in August. They’ve been promising delivery by Christmas, and it’s getting awfully close. I received an email Thursday morning (12/17) saying the publisher’s copies had been received at their offices in Texas and to expect our delivery that same day or the next. It’s now 6 p.m. Saturday and nothing. WHERE’S MY DAMN BOOKS?!
Ok, sorry, thought the meltdown was over.
Rather than addressing the rising tension of the past few days and taking a little extra time in morning meditation to deal with it, I’ve been fiddling with mindless distractions. Baking has been one; yesterday, I cleaned the house top to bottom. Today…I was running out of things to occupy my hands and my mind, so I pulled out a jigsaw puzzle mystery thing that has been collecting dust for several years. After an hour or so sorting pieces and trying to connect all the edges to complete the frame, I realized I needed the kitchen table for dinner (duh!). I scrubbed the filthy card table which had collected two season’s worth of crud on the back porch, found a table cloth, and started moving pieces from one table to the other on the back of a poster board…and dropped a whole tray full. The dogs looked at me rather oddly when I plopped down on the floor in the midst of the scattered bits and cried, but they cuddled in and settled down to wait. Good puppies!
Geo showed up a few minutes later and, bless him, joined us on the floor until I collected myself. I realized then I’d been avoiding the whole issue and letting tensions build for the past two days. I’m better now – a glass of wine helps! – and I’ll wait, semi-patiently, for the arrival of the tangible evidence of my work. Until then, I need to occupy myself with more work, not with avoidance and escape into fantasies of what will happen when the books arrive. Today is what matters.
“Life can be found only in the present moment.” Thich Nhat Hanh
That’s the moment I need to be in. Wish me luck!
So – I let my ego self get the best of me today. While waiting ever so patiently (NOT!) for the arrival of my first authored book, all the months and weeks this project has entailed (19 months, so far, since the contract was signed in April 2008) caught up with me and I had a meltdown right in the middle of the kitchen, crying on the floor over spilled puzzle pieces, not milk.
I’ve been doing pretty well with the waiting since the final proof was approved and returned to the publisher in August. They’ve been promising delivery by Christmas, and it’s getting awfully close. I received an email Thursday morning (12/17) saying the publisher’s copies had been received at their offices in Texas and to expect our delivery that same day or the next. It’s now 6 p.m. Saturday and nothing. WHERE’S MY DAMN BOOKS?!
Ok, sorry, thought the meltdown was over.
Rather than addressing the rising tension of the past few days and taking a little extra time in morning meditation to deal with it, I’ve been fiddling with mindless distractions. Baking has been one; yesterday, I cleaned the house top to bottom. Today…I was running out of things to occupy my hands and my mind, so I pulled out a jigsaw puzzle mystery thing that has been collecting dust for several years. After an hour or so sorting pieces and trying to connect all the edges to complete the frame, I realized I needed the kitchen table for dinner (duh!). I scrubbed the filthy card table which had collected two season’s worth of crud on the back porch, found a table cloth, and started moving pieces from one table to the other on the back of a poster board…and dropped a whole tray full. The dogs looked at me rather oddly when I plopped down on the floor in the midst of the scattered bits and cried, but they cuddled in and settled down to wait. Good puppies!
Geo showed up a few minutes later and, bless him, joined us on the floor until I collected myself. I realized then I’d been avoiding the whole issue and letting tensions build for the past two days. I’m better now – a glass of wine helps! – and I’ll wait, semi-patiently, for the arrival of the tangible evidence of my work. Until then, I need to occupy myself with more work, not with avoidance and escape into fantasies of what will happen when the books arrive. Today is what matters.
“Life can be found only in the present moment.” Thich Nhat Hanh
That’s the moment I need to be in. Wish me luck!
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