Happy Memorial Day! Oftentimes, this seems like National BBQ and Beer-Drinking Day (Which, actually, sounds like a very worthy holiday in its own right).
But, as much as I love grilled chicken and cole slaw, I do always find myself thinking of the people I've lost. At twenty-five, I've already seen more than one friend die too young. But the greatest personal loss for me has been my father, who died when I was seventeen.
The interesting thing is how much that loss has affected my writing. I haven't written a story since that included two parents. My novel, SHARDS, is based on my memories of losing Dad in high school (with extended what-if scenarios, of course, but some scenes are purely mine in the midst of the fiction). The independent reader book I wrote before was about a girl who has lost her mother to cancer.
The day that my father died, I was getting ready to go to the hospital. It was spring, and the lilac bushes in our backyard were fragrant, the scent drifting into the house on a soft breeze as I washed dishes at the sink. I heard the front door open and I knew. I walked slowly into the living room with the dish towel in my hand. My mother was in the doorway with her arms full of flowers carried home from the hospital.
And one way or another, I've been writing about that day for the last eight years. I guess we write what we know. But I worry that there's only so much I should write about grief, that I should try to branch out and talk about college, travel, marriage. I have such a wonderful life. Why do I always find this one subject slipping into my work?
Monday, May 25, 2009
Wednesday, May 20, 2009
I've been thinking lately about how much about my writing I've been putting up on the interwebs. Details on my novel-in-progress, SHARDS, including plot elements, character names, even chunks of the story. Past short stories I've written (and have submitted... ooh, I might have to pull PERFECT GIRL off the interwebs, now that I think of it). It may not be the "smart" thing to do.
But I am an "information wants to be free" believer. The type of person who thinks record labels should get with the program, because we are willing to support the artists - just on our own terms. The type of person who reads books off the Gutenberg Project website and thinks it is the most awesome thing ever.
So I'm going to go ahead and put my writing out there, too. Because my stories also want to be free.
But I am an "information wants to be free" believer. The type of person who thinks record labels should get with the program, because we are willing to support the artists - just on our own terms. The type of person who reads books off the Gutenberg Project website and thinks it is the most awesome thing ever.
So I'm going to go ahead and put my writing out there, too. Because my stories also want to be free.
Friday, May 15, 2009
It's been a fun-filled week. Driving 12 hours a day some days... at which point, even Handsome begins to really get on my nerves... with some fun stops like Nashville, TN and a great blues bar, B.B. King's, and Coyote Ugly's; Charlotte, NC and the U.S. Whitewater Center (we rode an unbelievably fast, 35 MPH zip line, went rock climbing and white water rafting, which was a great break from being in the car) and Virginia Beach, VA, to meet friends and enjoy the (cold) beach.
But I've been getting some work done, too - mostly outlining work since the car seems more conducive to outlining than actually typing away on my laptop.
I did not outline my first draft of SHARDS. Which may or may not be how it ended up at 127,000 words by the time I finished, two months later than planned, but that is neither here nor there.
I have a neat two-page outline in my File Of Stuff To Send Out To Agents (also, a one-page and seven-page, since everyone asks for something different), but now that I am re-writing, I feel I need a more comprehensive outline for myself. Especially since I've decided to do a major renovation of SHARDS (sigh), but want to keep a lot of the same scenes and dialogue when possible. This may be difficult, though, since I want to change around some of the bones of the story and remove an entire subplot.
For someone as obsessive as I generally am, you'd think I would have an outlining method down, but no. I started off by outlining by chapter, i.e.:
Chapter Four: April goes home to Conner, her live-in boyfriend. She tells him that she ran into Nick, with whom she had a “thing” in college, and Conner says, “I sense lies of omission.” She asks him how he can be with someone he does not trust, and he admits he doesn’t know. April listens to her phone messages, and has a call from her mother, complaining that she never sees her. She deletes it, thinking that most mothers and daughters probably like each other, which is why they actually talk. Still, she adds “Call Mom” to her mental to-do list – a list which most certainly does not include calling Nick.
But then, I realized I needed to separately outline my key plot points and the subplot points, so that I could change these elements without having to look at each individual chapter. I'm finding that is helping me to focus on what my actual story is, i.e.:
Primary plot: Man against self. After telling many painful lies while covering up her father’s assisted suicide, April takes comfort in twisting the truth to make the world (and herself) seem better. However, her pathological lying endangers her relationship with her boyfriend, Conner, her seat in medical school, and even her sense of self. April tries to stop lying and tell the truth, but one more lie is always so tempting. To undo all the damage, she will eventually tell the truth about everything, including admitting that she helped her father commit suicide, which makes her vulnerable to her estranged mother and her competitive peers. But through this vulnerability, she strengthens her relationship with Conner, begins a dialogue with her mother again, and realizes that how the rest of the world sees her doesn't matter all that much.
It's hard work outlining a novel. Not the creative buzz of the writing itself, not the business thrill I feel when doing the grunt work of mailing out submissions. And I still don't know if I'm doing it "right". I guess only the finalized manuscript will tell.
What system have you developed for outlining a novel? Are you the type to wing it, or do you work with a full outline from Day 1? And how does your outline fit into your re-write?
But I've been getting some work done, too - mostly outlining work since the car seems more conducive to outlining than actually typing away on my laptop.
I did not outline my first draft of SHARDS. Which may or may not be how it ended up at 127,000 words by the time I finished, two months later than planned, but that is neither here nor there.
I have a neat two-page outline in my File Of Stuff To Send Out To Agents (also, a one-page and seven-page, since everyone asks for something different), but now that I am re-writing, I feel I need a more comprehensive outline for myself. Especially since I've decided to do a major renovation of SHARDS (sigh), but want to keep a lot of the same scenes and dialogue when possible. This may be difficult, though, since I want to change around some of the bones of the story and remove an entire subplot.
For someone as obsessive as I generally am, you'd think I would have an outlining method down, but no. I started off by outlining by chapter, i.e.:
Chapter Four: April goes home to Conner, her live-in boyfriend. She tells him that she ran into Nick, with whom she had a “thing” in college, and Conner says, “I sense lies of omission.” She asks him how he can be with someone he does not trust, and he admits he doesn’t know. April listens to her phone messages, and has a call from her mother, complaining that she never sees her. She deletes it, thinking that most mothers and daughters probably like each other, which is why they actually talk. Still, she adds “Call Mom” to her mental to-do list – a list which most certainly does not include calling Nick.
But then, I realized I needed to separately outline my key plot points and the subplot points, so that I could change these elements without having to look at each individual chapter. I'm finding that is helping me to focus on what my actual story is, i.e.:
Primary plot: Man against self. After telling many painful lies while covering up her father’s assisted suicide, April takes comfort in twisting the truth to make the world (and herself) seem better. However, her pathological lying endangers her relationship with her boyfriend, Conner, her seat in medical school, and even her sense of self. April tries to stop lying and tell the truth, but one more lie is always so tempting. To undo all the damage, she will eventually tell the truth about everything, including admitting that she helped her father commit suicide, which makes her vulnerable to her estranged mother and her competitive peers. But through this vulnerability, she strengthens her relationship with Conner, begins a dialogue with her mother again, and realizes that how the rest of the world sees her doesn't matter all that much.
It's hard work outlining a novel. Not the creative buzz of the writing itself, not the business thrill I feel when doing the grunt work of mailing out submissions. And I still don't know if I'm doing it "right". I guess only the finalized manuscript will tell.
What system have you developed for outlining a novel? Are you the type to wing it, or do you work with a full outline from Day 1? And how does your outline fit into your re-write?
Saturday, May 9, 2009
But hopefully, not too much of an adventure.
Today Handsome and I leave to drive cross-country from California to Virginia. We love Cali, but this is a career-precipitated move. Another bonus for a writing career: you can write virtually anywhere. In sunny SoCal. In Singapore. In Ireland... *Escapes into blissful daydreams for a moment*
Anyway. Back. We've much enjoyed the year and a half we spent out here: going to the beach after work to boogie-board, dinner parties and hot tubbing with friends, kayaking on the Pacific, exploring the cute little seaside towns, and finding our favorite restaurants. This is where I learned how to play soccer and how to live with someone else. We bought our wedding rings together in the L.A. jewelry district, and most importantly, we married on the beach a bit north of San Diego. SoCal will always have a bit of my heart.
But I'm excited to start the next chapter of our lives. We're planning to buy a house in VA, and if all works out, that's where... far, far down the road... we'll hopefully expand our family with some little hellions and a puppy. In the mean time, we have D.C. to explore, new friends to make, new hobbies and volunteer work to experience. It's an exciting move.
First, though, we have to get there. This is our first cross-country trip together; I drove out on my own and he flew out to join me before. During my drive from east to west coast, I stayed in some horrendously sketchy, rundown motels. The worst had the peep hole in the door busted out, and a wad of paper towels stuffed in; the completed deserted Denny's next door (at 7pm) did little to calm my disquiet about the place. I had already gotten a room in another motel when I noticed the flashing GIRLS GIRLS GIRLS sign at the classy establishment behind. I also got snowed into Amarillo, Texas, for two days -- and I don't think there's much to do in Amarillo regardless, but certainly not in the midst of a blizzard.
This time, I don't plan to stay anyplace that looks like a movie set for a horror film (though that's dependent on whatever we can find along the highway, unfortunately); in fact, I don't want to stay anywhere that doesn't have a hotel gym and complimentary wi-fi. And given that it's May, I think we should be safe from blizzards.
I'm hoping that this trip has its interesting moments, but isn't quite an "adventure". I wouldn't mind meeting a few interesting characters and seeing the odd curious sight, but I'd like to avoid weather, car problems, and anything that reminds me of a Freddie Kruger film. Mmmkay? Oh, and no domestic tiffs, either -- Handsome should be a good husband and let me curl up in the passenger seat with our duvet to sleep through our 10+ hours a day of driving.
I''ll be posting along the way if I get the chance, but if not -- we should be in VA in a week. May the muse be with you!
Today Handsome and I leave to drive cross-country from California to Virginia. We love Cali, but this is a career-precipitated move. Another bonus for a writing career: you can write virtually anywhere. In sunny SoCal. In Singapore. In Ireland... *Escapes into blissful daydreams for a moment*
Anyway. Back. We've much enjoyed the year and a half we spent out here: going to the beach after work to boogie-board, dinner parties and hot tubbing with friends, kayaking on the Pacific, exploring the cute little seaside towns, and finding our favorite restaurants. This is where I learned how to play soccer and how to live with someone else. We bought our wedding rings together in the L.A. jewelry district, and most importantly, we married on the beach a bit north of San Diego. SoCal will always have a bit of my heart.
But I'm excited to start the next chapter of our lives. We're planning to buy a house in VA, and if all works out, that's where... far, far down the road... we'll hopefully expand our family with some little hellions and a puppy. In the mean time, we have D.C. to explore, new friends to make, new hobbies and volunteer work to experience. It's an exciting move.
First, though, we have to get there. This is our first cross-country trip together; I drove out on my own and he flew out to join me before. During my drive from east to west coast, I stayed in some horrendously sketchy, rundown motels. The worst had the peep hole in the door busted out, and a wad of paper towels stuffed in; the completed deserted Denny's next door (at 7pm) did little to calm my disquiet about the place. I had already gotten a room in another motel when I noticed the flashing GIRLS GIRLS GIRLS sign at the classy establishment behind. I also got snowed into Amarillo, Texas, for two days -- and I don't think there's much to do in Amarillo regardless, but certainly not in the midst of a blizzard.
This time, I don't plan to stay anyplace that looks like a movie set for a horror film (though that's dependent on whatever we can find along the highway, unfortunately); in fact, I don't want to stay anywhere that doesn't have a hotel gym and complimentary wi-fi. And given that it's May, I think we should be safe from blizzards.
I'm hoping that this trip has its interesting moments, but isn't quite an "adventure". I wouldn't mind meeting a few interesting characters and seeing the odd curious sight, but I'd like to avoid weather, car problems, and anything that reminds me of a Freddie Kruger film. Mmmkay? Oh, and no domestic tiffs, either -- Handsome should be a good husband and let me curl up in the passenger seat with our duvet to sleep through our 10+ hours a day of driving.
I''ll be posting along the way if I get the chance, but if not -- we should be in VA in a week. May the muse be with you!
Friday, May 8, 2009
I was just wondering what the protocol is on borrowing another poet's line as the jumping-off point for your poem, or writing a response to their poem. Is it still publishable? Or is it just a lame writing exercise?
Because I have two poems I've written I don't know what to do with. One was written in response to Robert Frost's "Love and a Question", and one was written with a first line of Emily Dickinson's, "Bring me the sunrise in a cup..."
And if I can't do anything with them, I want to know why I wasted my time. :p I've never been a fan of the "imitation" school of writing that various teachers and professors have had me practice over the years.
Here's "Love and an Answer", my response to Robert Frost's. In his poem, written from the man's perspective, he is keeping some secret from his loving wife in an attempt to protect her.
She sat by the firelight, bending over her little work
And her needle went steadily, as he paced by the door.
She sat before the open fire, dreaming happily of him
And her skin flushed pink before the reflected heat.
She looked up often, and he would smile back
But his eyes were worried, and she bit her lip to think.
So she laid her work by her side, and went to him
As he stared out on the darkened road.
She took his big hand in her two and asked to know
And he just shook his head, wishing to keep
Her heart ever as happy and bright as it were then
Her face ruddy from the fire, her lips warm to touch.
And then darkness fell a little, into those pretty eyes
To think that there were secrets he would keep
And thought he wanted only to bear this burden
Even without knowing it had become her own.
He felt the rift, that separating his pain from her’s
Was to deeply separate himself from her,
And so he told her, with a shiver from the open door
And she pressed her warm body against his.
Because I have two poems I've written I don't know what to do with. One was written in response to Robert Frost's "Love and a Question", and one was written with a first line of Emily Dickinson's, "Bring me the sunrise in a cup..."
And if I can't do anything with them, I want to know why I wasted my time. :p I've never been a fan of the "imitation" school of writing that various teachers and professors have had me practice over the years.
Here's "Love and an Answer", my response to Robert Frost's. In his poem, written from the man's perspective, he is keeping some secret from his loving wife in an attempt to protect her.
Love and An Answer
Inspired by Robert Frost’s Poem
Love and A Question
Inspired by Robert Frost’s Poem
Love and A Question
She sat by the firelight, bending over her little work
And her needle went steadily, as he paced by the door.
She sat before the open fire, dreaming happily of him
And her skin flushed pink before the reflected heat.
She looked up often, and he would smile back
But his eyes were worried, and she bit her lip to think.
So she laid her work by her side, and went to him
As he stared out on the darkened road.
She took his big hand in her two and asked to know
And he just shook his head, wishing to keep
Her heart ever as happy and bright as it were then
Her face ruddy from the fire, her lips warm to touch.
And then darkness fell a little, into those pretty eyes
To think that there were secrets he would keep
And thought he wanted only to bear this burden
Even without knowing it had become her own.
He felt the rift, that separating his pain from her’s
Was to deeply separate himself from her,
And so he told her, with a shiver from the open door
And she pressed her warm body against his.
Tuesday, May 5, 2009
I know, this is supposed to be a writing blog. But occasionally I am probably going to veer off into my personal life. If that doesn't entertain you, feel free to skip over posts like this one and I will be back to business tomorrow. :) I justify recording these events as the little things that eventually make their way into inspiration and then story form.
Yesterday, Handsome and I were driving to our favorite Mexican restaurant (mm, quesideas and raspberry margaritas). When we exited the highway, we saw a man standing on the corner with a sign that said, "Hungry - please help."
"Do you want to stop off and buy him a burger?" Handsome asked.
I agreed that sounded like a good idea. We know a lot of the homeless kids in our area, so we sometimes give them food or money, but this was the first time we'd stopped off to buy food for a homeless stranger. We discussed the etiquette of it as we pulled into a Carl's Jr -- should we flag him down first and then pay for his order? Or just pick up food and then run it back to him? in the end, we decided to just order him a combo meal and bring it back.
Well, I still don't know about the etiquette, but I do know about the practicality of it. When we emerged with a bag of fast food and a Coke and walked down the street to the highway entrance, there was no more homeless man. We walked down the road a little further, wondering how he could have gotten out of sight so quickly (maybe our fast food wasn't all that fast).
So there we are, with good intentions, dinner plans, and a bag of fast food we don't know what to do with.
"Where are the homeless people when you need them?" I asked Handsome, because I am always very sensitive.
We walked back to our car and decided to drive down to the beach, looking for someone homeless. And as we parked our car, a man sat down on a park bench right in front of us. He was older, wearing a dirty fatigue jacket with a long beard. But... was he homeless? Would we be complete jerks if we went up and asked him if he wanted Carl's Jr?
"You do all the talking," I warned Handsome.
"Okay," he said. So we walked over to the park bench. "Um, do you want some Carl's Jr?"
"No," the guy said. Oh. Okay. Nevermind. Fall back and regroup...
"Okay," Handsome said. We started to move away, and then the guy said, "Well, maybe. Did you have extras or something?"
We explained the story of the disappearing homeless man we'd hoped to give the meal to.
"Well," he said. "I guess I can eat it. Okay. I'll eat it."
"Great," we said. We gave him the bag and the Coke.
As we started to walk away, he called, "God bless you!"
We're still not sure if he was someone who needed food or if he just wanted to end our awkward search. But I'd like to think we still managed to do a good thing that day, even if we bumbled it. Hopefully, we're in service of some higher power that's a little more slick than we are.
Next time we see someone asking for food, though, I am going to ask what he'd like and either bring him with us or tell him not to go anywhere! Handsome would like to take it a step further and bring them into our restaurant with us, but I'm not sure how that would go over. He is inspired by this project. And maybe it's not a bad idea. Probably someone living on the streets can use not just dinner, but someone to talk to.
And, tying this back to writing, the novelist in me thinks it might not be a bad idea, either. Pushing our personal boundaries could change our perspective, challenge our cherished beliefs, inspire our best writing. I know that's how, for better or worse, I've made some decisions for my life -- not, what's the smart thing to do here? but, what's going to make the better story to tell? Remarkably, I am still alive, and maybe a little bit more interesting of a person, as well.
Yesterday, Handsome and I were driving to our favorite Mexican restaurant (mm, quesideas and raspberry margaritas). When we exited the highway, we saw a man standing on the corner with a sign that said, "Hungry - please help."
"Do you want to stop off and buy him a burger?" Handsome asked.
I agreed that sounded like a good idea. We know a lot of the homeless kids in our area, so we sometimes give them food or money, but this was the first time we'd stopped off to buy food for a homeless stranger. We discussed the etiquette of it as we pulled into a Carl's Jr -- should we flag him down first and then pay for his order? Or just pick up food and then run it back to him? in the end, we decided to just order him a combo meal and bring it back.
Well, I still don't know about the etiquette, but I do know about the practicality of it. When we emerged with a bag of fast food and a Coke and walked down the street to the highway entrance, there was no more homeless man. We walked down the road a little further, wondering how he could have gotten out of sight so quickly (maybe our fast food wasn't all that fast).
So there we are, with good intentions, dinner plans, and a bag of fast food we don't know what to do with.
"Where are the homeless people when you need them?" I asked Handsome, because I am always very sensitive.
We walked back to our car and decided to drive down to the beach, looking for someone homeless. And as we parked our car, a man sat down on a park bench right in front of us. He was older, wearing a dirty fatigue jacket with a long beard. But... was he homeless? Would we be complete jerks if we went up and asked him if he wanted Carl's Jr?
"You do all the talking," I warned Handsome.
"Okay," he said. So we walked over to the park bench. "Um, do you want some Carl's Jr?"
"No," the guy said. Oh. Okay. Nevermind. Fall back and regroup...
"Okay," Handsome said. We started to move away, and then the guy said, "Well, maybe. Did you have extras or something?"
We explained the story of the disappearing homeless man we'd hoped to give the meal to.
"Well," he said. "I guess I can eat it. Okay. I'll eat it."
"Great," we said. We gave him the bag and the Coke.
As we started to walk away, he called, "God bless you!"
We're still not sure if he was someone who needed food or if he just wanted to end our awkward search. But I'd like to think we still managed to do a good thing that day, even if we bumbled it. Hopefully, we're in service of some higher power that's a little more slick than we are.
Next time we see someone asking for food, though, I am going to ask what he'd like and either bring him with us or tell him not to go anywhere! Handsome would like to take it a step further and bring them into our restaurant with us, but I'm not sure how that would go over. He is inspired by this project. And maybe it's not a bad idea. Probably someone living on the streets can use not just dinner, but someone to talk to.
And, tying this back to writing, the novelist in me thinks it might not be a bad idea, either. Pushing our personal boundaries could change our perspective, challenge our cherished beliefs, inspire our best writing. I know that's how, for better or worse, I've made some decisions for my life -- not, what's the smart thing to do here? but, what's going to make the better story to tell? Remarkably, I am still alive, and maybe a little bit more interesting of a person, as well.
Monday, May 4, 2009
I want a BMW convertible and a Lexus SUV, but I don't want either of those things right now. My next car will probably be a used Honda (although power locks and windows will still make me it an upgrade from what I drive now, bless the 2002 Saturn). The BMW and the Lexus, to me, are some far-off luxury items that I want to buy as a symbol to myself I've "arrived", when I'm financially independent.
And I would feel cheated if someone handed me the keys to a shiny new BMW right now (although I probably would not turn it down, either). Because then it would just be a car, as opposed to a personal success symbol.
Inspired by a post on the "Just to Write" blog (article found here) about goals & dreams, I have been thinking about what my writing BMW is. If a BMW means to me that I've arrived financially, then what means I've arrived as a writer?
To me, it would be publishing several novels in one genre -- five or six. Instant fame is not required (we can't all be a J.K. Rowling or a Stephenie Meyers), but I'd like to be decently established, to a point where I can support my family on my writing. I want to go into Borders and see my books on the shelf. I don't have to be a household name, but I want to be known in the industry - I want to have the credibility to lead creative writing workshops and teach a college course. I love to teach, and there's nothing I am as passionate about as writing.
So that's what I want. That's my BMW.
And if I can do well enough as a professional writer to buy a shiny BMW, well, that'd be extra peachy.
And I would feel cheated if someone handed me the keys to a shiny new BMW right now (although I probably would not turn it down, either). Because then it would just be a car, as opposed to a personal success symbol.
Inspired by a post on the "Just to Write" blog (article found here) about goals & dreams, I have been thinking about what my writing BMW is. If a BMW means to me that I've arrived financially, then what means I've arrived as a writer?
To me, it would be publishing several novels in one genre -- five or six. Instant fame is not required (we can't all be a J.K. Rowling or a Stephenie Meyers), but I'd like to be decently established, to a point where I can support my family on my writing. I want to go into Borders and see my books on the shelf. I don't have to be a household name, but I want to be known in the industry - I want to have the credibility to lead creative writing workshops and teach a college course. I love to teach, and there's nothing I am as passionate about as writing.
So that's what I want. That's my BMW.
And if I can do well enough as a professional writer to buy a shiny BMW, well, that'd be extra peachy.
Friday, May 1, 2009
I was researching markets for a story today and I ran across the most interesting tidbit in their author's guidelines:
All published authors will receive payments ranging from $5 - $25, which will accompany the contributor's CD copy of the issue, within two weeks of publication (delivery to non-U.S. contributors may require longer than two weeks).
Now, this begged an immediate question for me. I'm fine with paying by the word or line, or by standard payment prices for short stories and poetry. But paying short stories on a sliding scale? I was perplexed. How did they determine how much each story was worth?
The actual amount to be paid will be decided by our editors' ranking of the work.
Ah. So you are, theoretically, going to tell me my story was ranked highly enough to be published by your magazine, but not well enough to be worth $25. No, it's a GOOD story, publishable and all, but only $5 worth of publishable.
Folks, my mind just boggled.
Don't get me wrong, I'm not complaining about anyone willing to pay us short-story authors for our amazing little creations that far too small a segment of society seems willing to acknowledge. But I find this just a little odd.
All published authors will receive payments ranging from $5 - $25, which will accompany the contributor's CD copy of the issue, within two weeks of publication (delivery to non-U.S. contributors may require longer than two weeks).
Now, this begged an immediate question for me. I'm fine with paying by the word or line, or by standard payment prices for short stories and poetry. But paying short stories on a sliding scale? I was perplexed. How did they determine how much each story was worth?
The actual amount to be paid will be decided by our editors' ranking of the work.
Ah. So you are, theoretically, going to tell me my story was ranked highly enough to be published by your magazine, but not well enough to be worth $25. No, it's a GOOD story, publishable and all, but only $5 worth of publishable.
Folks, my mind just boggled.
Don't get me wrong, I'm not complaining about anyone willing to pay us short-story authors for our amazing little creations that far too small a segment of society seems willing to acknowledge. But I find this just a little odd.
How do you track your submissions to magazines and literary agents? Well, if you spend your free time (when not writing) creating financial statements in Excel, Excel probably seems like the natural solution to all your problems. (This is not true, however. Sometimes Visio is the answer, and other times, Powerpoint)
So I track everything I send out in Excel, adding notes when I receive rejection letters, a request for a full or an acceptance (I have seen two of these so far, and I do not believe that it will ever, in my life, cease to be an exciting dance-around-the-living-room-and-scare-the-cats moment).
The First Line actually gets it own page, since, as described in my last two posts, I enjoy creating something to meet their requirements. This is what it looks like:
My novel also gets a page, although I've taken a hiatus from sending that baby out. I feel maybe it's a "ten year novel", one that I will re-work many times before it is published. Hopefully the next novel goes faster.
Hours of research, hours of designing and tweaking the perfect cover letter, and it all boils down to 44 cells in Excel. And no advance.
Last but not least, I keep my goals in the same Excel doc so that I can be inspired at the same time as I enter the latest news--
Hey, I may not be a brilliant published author (yet), but at least I'm organized.
So let's here it from the peanut gallery - how do you organize your work? I've been thinking that each market-ready story and poem really deserves it own Excel line in a worksheet, at a minimum, so I can keep on top of sending them out.
Oh, wow. I think I just added to my To-Do list.
So I track everything I send out in Excel, adding notes when I receive rejection letters, a request for a full or an acceptance (I have seen two of these so far, and I do not believe that it will ever, in my life, cease to be an exciting dance-around-the-living-room-and-scare-the-cats moment).
The First Line actually gets it own page, since, as described in my last two posts, I enjoy creating something to meet their requirements. This is what it looks like:
| A | B | C | D | |
|---|---|---|---|---|
| 1 | Issue | Story Title | Submitted | Response |
| 2 | ||||
| 3 | Fall 2006 | The Way We Say Love | 30-Jul-96 | Rejected 16 Aug with nice note asking me to try again |
| 4 | ||||
| 5 | Spring 2008 | The Perfect Girl | 17-Jan-08 | Rejected 19 Feb w/ encouraging personal note |
| 6 | ||||
| 7 | Spring 2009 | Starlets at Work and Play | 20-Dec-08 |
My novel also gets a page, although I've taken a hiatus from sending that baby out. I feel maybe it's a "ten year novel", one that I will re-work many times before it is published. Hopefully the next novel goes faster.
| A | B | C | D | E | |
|---|---|---|---|---|---|
| 1 | Literary Agent | Date Sent | Type of submission | Response | Notes |
| 2 | Levine Greenberg Literary Agency | 18-Dec-08 | Electronic | ||
| 3 | Donald Maas Literary Agency, Jennifer Jackson | 19-Dec-08 | Electronic | Rejected - 20 Dec | |
| 4 | Laura Dail Literary Agency | 23-Dec-08 | Electronic | Rejected - 13 Jan | |
| 5 | Irene Goodman Literary Agency | 2-Jan-08 | Electronic | Rejected - 14 Jan | |
| 6 | Aaron Priest Literary Agency, Lisa Erbach Vance | 5-Jan-08 | Electronic | ||
| 7 | The Writers House Literary Agency, Maya Rock | 6-Jan-08 | Electronic | Request for a full on 07 Jan! | Full sent on 08 Jan, Rejected |
| 8 | Folio Literary Management, Rachel Vater | 6-Jan-08 | Electronic | ||
| 9 | Dystel and Goderich, Chasya Milgrom | 6-Jan-08 | Electronic | ||
| 10 | Brick House Literary Agency, Sally Wofford-Girand | 12-Jan-08 | Electronic | ||
| 11 | Trident Media, Jenny Bent | 30-Jan-08 | Electronic |
Hours of research, hours of designing and tweaking the perfect cover letter, and it all boils down to 44 cells in Excel. And no advance.
Last but not least, I keep my goals in the same Excel doc so that I can be inspired at the same time as I enter the latest news--
| A | B | C | |
|---|---|---|---|
| 1 | 2009 Goals: | Intermediate Goals: | Completed: |
| 2 | Secure an agent for Shards | Market novel to 30 agents | 11 |
| 3 | Complete a second novel | 56,000 words | |
| 4 | Sell 5 more short stories or poems | ||
| 5 | Enhance my personal marketing | Update writing blog 2x/weekly | Did NaNoWriMo '08 Interview |
| 6 | Create professional website | ||
| 7 | Read & apply 6 books on marketing |
Hey, I may not be a brilliant published author (yet), but at least I'm organized.
So let's here it from the peanut gallery - how do you organize your work? I've been thinking that each market-ready story and poem really deserves it own Excel line in a worksheet, at a minimum, so I can keep on top of sending them out.
Oh, wow. I think I just added to my To-Do list.
Wednesday, April 29, 2009
Obviously, I cannot share my current work-in-progress for The First Line's slush pile at present, but here's a story that I wrote and submitted for your reading pleasure. I love this story. I believe in this story.
I cannot imagine where I can possibly submit this story for publication. You'll see why in a minute.
Sometimes the name they give you is all wrong. That's certainly true for Alberta Helstein. That's one unglamorous name for a very glamorous girl. She gets around it by calling herself Ali, which is almost pretty enough for a girl like her.
She's glamorous, like I said, but down to earth. Like now. She's been on the track for the past forty-five minutes, doing the workout she missed because she was scheduled to work at the restaurant over practice. She's resting after one of her sprints, leaning forward with her hands on her knees, and her gray Nike t-shirt has dark spots at the top of her sports bra, at the small of her back. Her sleek brown ponytail has fallen forward into her damp, red-cheeked face. But she is still heartbreakingly pretty, with her delicate bonestructure and full lips and impossibly bright smile. She has a good face, I mean a really open and honest one; and of course you can't be sure a person is really as good as they look, but I've been watching her for a while and I think I know. She lives with her mom because her mom is sick, even though the dorm is more fun, and she works part-time to pay for her car to get to and from the college. She holds hands and kisses her boyfriend but doesn't go father than that, which is pretty rare and special for a nineteen-year-old these days. Most girls you just can't respect.
Her boyfriend is down there now, as well as two of the female friends. Such is Ali's magnetic personality that even though the other two girls are not fond of running - she goes to the gym with them on occasion, and they are Stairmaster types, not runners - she has persuaded them to come out with her.
They line up, laughing, for another lap. The two girls make a show of coming out hard but then immediately slow as soon as Ali and that guy have passed. Ali, on the other hand, is all running grace, an elegant efficiency in her long-limbed loose movements. Her pink-and-white running shoes deign to touch the ground for a fraction of a second each time she lands, and in between each propulsion forward, she flies above the track. That guy lumbers alongside her, good-naturedly trying to beat her; he doesn't seem to care if he proves himself worthy. Probably wise for him, because when they take the final bend at the 300 meter mark she leans forward into the run, pumps her arms, throws her angular body forward at the finish. She trains like she races and she races like she takes on the world. I want some of her energy and life.
When she makes it across the finish she turns back, panting, and throws her arms around him. He picks her up and walks with her to where their gym bags and Nalgene bottles are waiting on the turf. The four of them gather up their things and walk from the track up the hill to the parking lot. This is where her guy makes a mistake, one of the big ones that proves he doesn't deserve her anyway. He doesn't walk with her to the car to make sure she will make it home safely. Instead, he kisses her goodbye and he and the two girlfriends turn and amble away towards the dorms on the other side of campus. Ali walks between the cars, her blue duffel bag banging against her leg, jingling her car keys in one hand, humming Maroon 5 to herself. That's her favorite group; when I snagged her IPod while she was studying in the library, she had every single song of theirs.
I follow her between the cars. I'm parked in the next row, which took some waiting. I can't wait to be close to her again. Once, in Borders, I brushed gently past her when she was leaning over to survey the lower shelves in the chic-lit section; she smelled like vanilla, spice, warmth and home. I touched the back of her gray wool coat. She turned her head over her shoulder, surprised, and said, "Excuse me", but with a smile. She has the most vibrant blue eyes, and the smile she gave me - it was a smile of sharing. I think she knew then that we were soulmates, like I do.
But in case she doesn't, and it takes some time, I have a taser, and duct tape in the back of the car.
She stops at her car door, keys in the lock - it's almost time to reveal myself now, but I freeze when she stops. She looks around her, slowly looking right and left in a studiedly casual way. My heart pounds in my chest. She's looking for someone - looking for me. She must feel the nearness of her soul mate, the soon-to-be reveal.
Then she looks down, as if she has decided there is no one around after all, and puts her finger in her nose.
She looks disgusting, standing there, with one finger shoved into a nostril, crinkling up her cute little nose. Picking her nose, like a dirty-handed little kid. I almost gag.
She must not get it with her finger, because she tries with her thumb instead.
I turn around and walk away.
I cannot imagine where I can possibly submit this story for publication. You'll see why in a minute.
Perfect Girl
Sometimes the name they give you is all wrong. That's certainly true for Alberta Helstein. That's one unglamorous name for a very glamorous girl. She gets around it by calling herself Ali, which is almost pretty enough for a girl like her.
She's glamorous, like I said, but down to earth. Like now. She's been on the track for the past forty-five minutes, doing the workout she missed because she was scheduled to work at the restaurant over practice. She's resting after one of her sprints, leaning forward with her hands on her knees, and her gray Nike t-shirt has dark spots at the top of her sports bra, at the small of her back. Her sleek brown ponytail has fallen forward into her damp, red-cheeked face. But she is still heartbreakingly pretty, with her delicate bonestructure and full lips and impossibly bright smile. She has a good face, I mean a really open and honest one; and of course you can't be sure a person is really as good as they look, but I've been watching her for a while and I think I know. She lives with her mom because her mom is sick, even though the dorm is more fun, and she works part-time to pay for her car to get to and from the college. She holds hands and kisses her boyfriend but doesn't go father than that, which is pretty rare and special for a nineteen-year-old these days. Most girls you just can't respect.
Her boyfriend is down there now, as well as two of the female friends. Such is Ali's magnetic personality that even though the other two girls are not fond of running - she goes to the gym with them on occasion, and they are Stairmaster types, not runners - she has persuaded them to come out with her.
They line up, laughing, for another lap. The two girls make a show of coming out hard but then immediately slow as soon as Ali and that guy have passed. Ali, on the other hand, is all running grace, an elegant efficiency in her long-limbed loose movements. Her pink-and-white running shoes deign to touch the ground for a fraction of a second each time she lands, and in between each propulsion forward, she flies above the track. That guy lumbers alongside her, good-naturedly trying to beat her; he doesn't seem to care if he proves himself worthy. Probably wise for him, because when they take the final bend at the 300 meter mark she leans forward into the run, pumps her arms, throws her angular body forward at the finish. She trains like she races and she races like she takes on the world. I want some of her energy and life.
When she makes it across the finish she turns back, panting, and throws her arms around him. He picks her up and walks with her to where their gym bags and Nalgene bottles are waiting on the turf. The four of them gather up their things and walk from the track up the hill to the parking lot. This is where her guy makes a mistake, one of the big ones that proves he doesn't deserve her anyway. He doesn't walk with her to the car to make sure she will make it home safely. Instead, he kisses her goodbye and he and the two girlfriends turn and amble away towards the dorms on the other side of campus. Ali walks between the cars, her blue duffel bag banging against her leg, jingling her car keys in one hand, humming Maroon 5 to herself. That's her favorite group; when I snagged her IPod while she was studying in the library, she had every single song of theirs.
I follow her between the cars. I'm parked in the next row, which took some waiting. I can't wait to be close to her again. Once, in Borders, I brushed gently past her when she was leaning over to survey the lower shelves in the chic-lit section; she smelled like vanilla, spice, warmth and home. I touched the back of her gray wool coat. She turned her head over her shoulder, surprised, and said, "Excuse me", but with a smile. She has the most vibrant blue eyes, and the smile she gave me - it was a smile of sharing. I think she knew then that we were soulmates, like I do.
But in case she doesn't, and it takes some time, I have a taser, and duct tape in the back of the car.
She stops at her car door, keys in the lock - it's almost time to reveal myself now, but I freeze when she stops. She looks around her, slowly looking right and left in a studiedly casual way. My heart pounds in my chest. She's looking for someone - looking for me. She must feel the nearness of her soul mate, the soon-to-be reveal.
Then she looks down, as if she has decided there is no one around after all, and puts her finger in her nose.
She looks disgusting, standing there, with one finger shoved into a nostril, crinkling up her cute little nose. Picking her nose, like a dirty-handed little kid. I almost gag.
She must not get it with her finger, because she tries with her thumb instead.
I turn around and walk away.
Tuesday, April 28, 2009
The deadline for The First Line's summer 2009 issue is rapidly approaching (May 1st). After my last rejection letter from them for the spring issue, I was debating not submitting to them anymore. At least my first two submissions both included nice personal notes encouraging me to submit again even though my story wasn't quite right for this particular issue. Since the last one I got back was a plain-jane form letter, though, maybe they're getting a bit tired of me.
And yet - The First Line offers a fun creative writing prompt. Then you can submit whatever you come up with for possible inclusion, and even if that doesn't work out - you still have a jaunty new story completed. So it's hardly a bad deal.
For the uninitiated, you can find The First Line here. Here's how it works: each issue has a wide variety of stories, but they all begin with the same opening line. For instance, I have the summer 2007 issue here in front of me. The first line for that issue was, "My first impression of Phillip was that he was blessed with ignorance."
It is such fun to read the divergent directions writers take from their one line. For instance, from Phillip the stories include: a story about an old man with two left hands, who makes a difference in a young person's life; a tale about the end of a relationship, told from the POV of both Phillip and Sheila; and the story of a family finally coming to terms with a daughter's sexuality. It also helps that the stories in The First Line are usually first rate.
So, I guess I'm going to give this most recent issue's first line a shot before the deadline; this means I only have a few days to write the damn thing, compose my cover letter and send it out, but that's all right. It usually only takes me a few hours to pound out a short story once I get down to it (I might not have quality down, but I sure can do quantity), so I might as well give it a chance.
For anyone else who wants to play, the first line that is due by May 1st is:
"For two weeks now, I’ve been trying to figure out if people are laughing with me or at me. "
I have no idea where I want to go from that. But I know from experience, I don't do my best plotting in front of a Word document and a blinking cursor. My story ideas always come up when I'm out on a long run, in the shower or about to drift off to sleep. You know. Whenever it's inconvenient to find pen and paper. My muse is a real jerk sometimes.
Thursday, April 23, 2009
Because the smallest memory can be turned into a short story... I took a soft and sweet childhood memory (my older boy cousin giving me a pair of his old PJs) and turned it into a darker fragment of story. What do you think?
The prompt was to write about your earliest childhood memory:
First Memories:
Uncle J and Aunt M's house in Brooklyn (?). Pancakes for breakfast. Joe running down the stairs into the kitchen to give me his outgrown pajamas, which were covered in little pictures of sailboats: pants with an elastic waist and a short-sleeved shirt with a collar and little sailboat-shaped blue buttons.
Add learning-to-read angst and a hint of a controlling, scary parental figure, neither of which existed for me, and this is the result:
Story:
"No, you don't need to read her a bedtime story," Dad said. "She's old enough to be able to read on her own. She can read her own bedtime stories when she's ready." The way he looked at Jamie when he said this, obviously meant for her ears, was affectionate enough. Jamie felt hurt and embarrassed in front of her cousins, the familiar weight of being the black sheep of the family at seven. Tom seemed to feel sad for her too and patted her shoulder.
"Oh," Tom said, "I have a present for you. I outgrew my pajamas!"
"What are you talking about, Tom?" Aunt Tina asked.
"I outgrew my sailboat pajamas," he said. "I want to give them to cousin Jamie."
Aunt Tina and Dad shared a look, meant to be over the children's heads. Tom was already running from the living room though, to the two small bedrooms in the back of the house. He came back a minute later, clutching the sailboat pajamas that were, in fact, a little too small for him. He had worn them for almost two years now, steadily rejecting new blue-and-yellow striped pajamas, Superman pajamas, pajamas at Chrismas and pajamas at Birthdays and pajamas for just-because-he-really-needs-pajamas.
"Here, Jamie," Tom said. "You can wear these to bed tonight." He thrust them at her, obviously excited by his own generosity.
"It's okay," Aunt Tina said to Dad. "I'll be glad to get rid of them. And she is very small for her age."
"All right," Dad said. "What do you said, Jamie?"
"Thank you, Tom," Jamie said. she took the pajamas from Tom. There were pants with an elastic waistband and a short-sleeved top with a collar and little blue sailboat buttons down the front. They were colorfully splashed with red, yellow and blue sailboats, cars and airplanes.
"Go brush your teeth, both of you, and make sure you do a good job - use the timer, two minutes at least," Aunt Tina said, even though she must have known Dad would follow them into the bathroom to supervise. Jamie followed Tom to the bathroom, clutching in her arms her new pajamas, in their print of fly-away, sail-away dreams.
The prompt was to write about your earliest childhood memory:
First Memories:
Uncle J and Aunt M's house in Brooklyn (?). Pancakes for breakfast. Joe running down the stairs into the kitchen to give me his outgrown pajamas, which were covered in little pictures of sailboats: pants with an elastic waist and a short-sleeved shirt with a collar and little sailboat-shaped blue buttons.
Add learning-to-read angst and a hint of a controlling, scary parental figure, neither of which existed for me, and this is the result:
Story:
"No, you don't need to read her a bedtime story," Dad said. "She's old enough to be able to read on her own. She can read her own bedtime stories when she's ready." The way he looked at Jamie when he said this, obviously meant for her ears, was affectionate enough. Jamie felt hurt and embarrassed in front of her cousins, the familiar weight of being the black sheep of the family at seven. Tom seemed to feel sad for her too and patted her shoulder.
"Oh," Tom said, "I have a present for you. I outgrew my pajamas!"
"What are you talking about, Tom?" Aunt Tina asked.
"I outgrew my sailboat pajamas," he said. "I want to give them to cousin Jamie."
Aunt Tina and Dad shared a look, meant to be over the children's heads. Tom was already running from the living room though, to the two small bedrooms in the back of the house. He came back a minute later, clutching the sailboat pajamas that were, in fact, a little too small for him. He had worn them for almost two years now, steadily rejecting new blue-and-yellow striped pajamas, Superman pajamas, pajamas at Chrismas and pajamas at Birthdays and pajamas for just-because-he-really-needs-pajamas.
"Here, Jamie," Tom said. "You can wear these to bed tonight." He thrust them at her, obviously excited by his own generosity.
"It's okay," Aunt Tina said to Dad. "I'll be glad to get rid of them. And she is very small for her age."
"All right," Dad said. "What do you said, Jamie?"
"Thank you, Tom," Jamie said. she took the pajamas from Tom. There were pants with an elastic waistband and a short-sleeved top with a collar and little blue sailboat buttons down the front. They were colorfully splashed with red, yellow and blue sailboats, cars and airplanes.
"Go brush your teeth, both of you, and make sure you do a good job - use the timer, two minutes at least," Aunt Tina said, even though she must have known Dad would follow them into the bathroom to supervise. Jamie followed Tom to the bathroom, clutching in her arms her new pajamas, in their print of fly-away, sail-away dreams.
Shared as promised. Please don't hate me.
20 Things That Annoy Me:
1. Static on the radio.
2. People who don’t use their inside voices while inside.
3. Drivers who travel up the exit lane (or even the breakdown lane) so they can cut in front of other drivers.
4. Atheist misrepresentations of the Bible.
5. Christian misrepresentations of the Bible.
6. Women who try to use feminism as another way to force women to conform. Um, an oppressive matriarchy would be better than an oppressive patriarchy how?
7. Badly behaved children. Which seems to be the majority, these days. Man, I am getting old.
8. Crappy parents, which seem to be the corollary to the above badly behaved children. Actually, it’s not just bad parenting – it is poor examples of human beings parenting poorly.
9. Lousy service/attitude when I’m paying for a product or service. It’s really not my problem that you didn’t go to college, and I don’t care that working at T.G.I. Fridays is not the dream job you used to envision playing with your Barbies. Bring me my water and my burger… your tip is dwindling, honey.
10. “Texting” type communications anywhere other than, well, texts. If you have ever typed “UR” in an email, you are a moron. I’m sorry. I don’t make the rules.
11. People who act like going into the military isn’t good enough for them or their kids. Hey, guess what, serving your country is for everyone, even the entitled children of yuppies.
12. Being touched by people who are not welcome into The Bubble of Trust. When I am in foreign countries, I adapt to their customs, but... this is America. We are supposed to like our personal space. Back the F up.
13. The size of soft drinks nowdays. A large at Wendy’s is what, 32 ounces now? That is, minimum, 400 liquid calories to wash down your 900 calorie meal. And you want me to support socialized health care? Maybe when we impose a sin tax on high fructose corn syrup.
14. People who act like you’re a heathen for not supporting their cause/party/ideology. Because vitriolic though I may sound here, I really don’t give a crap what it is you want out of life – even if that is to raise entitled brats or to gain a new Guinness World Record for fattest human being – as long as you’ll just leave me alone. Thanks.
15. Ice on the ground. It’s slippery and dangerous and, sometimes when you fall, there isn’t even someone you can sue.
16. Diet anything. Because a) it’s been scientifically proven that it just makes your body crave more calories to replace the ones you aren’t eating, and b) wouldn’t going out for a nice run just make a lot more sense than putting all those chemicals into your body? But that’s OK. Convince yourself it won’t make you fat.
17. Twitter. Because really? Nobody should care.
18. Celebrity gossip mags. See 17.
19. Political commentary in magazines like Cosmo and Glamour. Um, if I read your crap magazine, it’s to check out the ridiculous fashions in this season, maybe some mascara recommendations… not for some silly party line I’m supposed to fall in line with (right after I blow $600 on a trendy-ugly purse, right?).
20. Lukewarm food on buffets. Because it tastes disgusting, and it could give you food poisoning. And also it just tastes disgusting.
20 Things That Annoy Me:
1. Static on the radio.
2. People who don’t use their inside voices while inside.
3. Drivers who travel up the exit lane (or even the breakdown lane) so they can cut in front of other drivers.
4. Atheist misrepresentations of the Bible.
5. Christian misrepresentations of the Bible.
6. Women who try to use feminism as another way to force women to conform. Um, an oppressive matriarchy would be better than an oppressive patriarchy how?
7. Badly behaved children. Which seems to be the majority, these days. Man, I am getting old.
8. Crappy parents, which seem to be the corollary to the above badly behaved children. Actually, it’s not just bad parenting – it is poor examples of human beings parenting poorly.
9. Lousy service/attitude when I’m paying for a product or service. It’s really not my problem that you didn’t go to college, and I don’t care that working at T.G.I. Fridays is not the dream job you used to envision playing with your Barbies. Bring me my water and my burger… your tip is dwindling, honey.
10. “Texting” type communications anywhere other than, well, texts. If you have ever typed “UR” in an email, you are a moron. I’m sorry. I don’t make the rules.
11. People who act like going into the military isn’t good enough for them or their kids. Hey, guess what, serving your country is for everyone, even the entitled children of yuppies.
12. Being touched by people who are not welcome into The Bubble of Trust. When I am in foreign countries, I adapt to their customs, but... this is America. We are supposed to like our personal space. Back the F up.
13. The size of soft drinks nowdays. A large at Wendy’s is what, 32 ounces now? That is, minimum, 400 liquid calories to wash down your 900 calorie meal. And you want me to support socialized health care? Maybe when we impose a sin tax on high fructose corn syrup.
14. People who act like you’re a heathen for not supporting their cause/party/ideology. Because vitriolic though I may sound here, I really don’t give a crap what it is you want out of life – even if that is to raise entitled brats or to gain a new Guinness World Record for fattest human being – as long as you’ll just leave me alone. Thanks.
15. Ice on the ground. It’s slippery and dangerous and, sometimes when you fall, there isn’t even someone you can sue.
16. Diet anything. Because a) it’s been scientifically proven that it just makes your body crave more calories to replace the ones you aren’t eating, and b) wouldn’t going out for a nice run just make a lot more sense than putting all those chemicals into your body? But that’s OK. Convince yourself it won’t make you fat.
17. Twitter. Because really? Nobody should care.
18. Celebrity gossip mags. See 17.
19. Political commentary in magazines like Cosmo and Glamour. Um, if I read your crap magazine, it’s to check out the ridiculous fashions in this season, maybe some mascara recommendations… not for some silly party line I’m supposed to fall in line with (right after I blow $600 on a trendy-ugly purse, right?).
20. Lukewarm food on buffets. Because it tastes disgusting, and it could give you food poisoning. And also it just tastes disgusting.
Lately, to try and get in my word count, I've been using two sources to write something, anything. The first is a fun little website:
http://www.creativewritingprompts.com/#
As you hover over the number of each prompt, it displays what it is -- they aren't brilliant, but they're a start. It is amazing what can develop once you start writing about something.
Growing up religious, I was told that the law of Physics that stated that objects at rest tended to remain at rest was also true for people -- that it was easier for God to get us moving in the right direction as long as we got started moving first in ANY direction. I think the same thing is true with the muse... you might start out writing about automatic pencils or chocolate cupcakes, but the story burning within you will find an outlet from there.
The other prompt I've been using is Novakovich's "The Fiction Writer's Workshop". Each chapter discusses a different concept - dialogue, character development, viewpoint, etc., with examples from literature. Then the end of chapter gives several writing prompts. It's like a little creative writing class, but without the fun of reading aloud and hearing your peer's work. Still good stuff, though. He also wrote one for novel writers, which I am dying to read - I'll have to add that to my birthday wish list!
Tune in tomorrow for my answer to Creative Writing Prompt No. 40 from the website - 20 Things That Annoy Me. I still haven't figured out how to parlay any of those into a story, but I had fun writing it. :) Although, I am somewhat inspired by the exercise to write a tale of a young woman crotchety before her time...
http://www.creativewritingprompts.com/#
As you hover over the number of each prompt, it displays what it is -- they aren't brilliant, but they're a start. It is amazing what can develop once you start writing about something.
Growing up religious, I was told that the law of Physics that stated that objects at rest tended to remain at rest was also true for people -- that it was easier for God to get us moving in the right direction as long as we got started moving first in ANY direction. I think the same thing is true with the muse... you might start out writing about automatic pencils or chocolate cupcakes, but the story burning within you will find an outlet from there.
The other prompt I've been using is Novakovich's "The Fiction Writer's Workshop". Each chapter discusses a different concept - dialogue, character development, viewpoint, etc., with examples from literature. Then the end of chapter gives several writing prompts. It's like a little creative writing class, but without the fun of reading aloud and hearing your peer's work. Still good stuff, though. He also wrote one for novel writers, which I am dying to read - I'll have to add that to my birthday wish list!
Tune in tomorrow for my answer to Creative Writing Prompt No. 40 from the website - 20 Things That Annoy Me. I still haven't figured out how to parlay any of those into a story, but I had fun writing it. :) Although, I am somewhat inspired by the exercise to write a tale of a young woman crotchety before her time...
Saturday, April 4, 2009
So I know this is my writing job, but I'd like to take a minute to go off subject and vent about my in-progress Master's degree. That's my other project, you see, besides working full-time and trying to start a career as a novelist (and also training for a marathon, diet-and-exercising my way back to my college weight... two pounds down so far, it's going to be a while... and keeping my house tidy enough that I don't feel like a complete domestic failure).
I am getting my Master's in Finance, because grad school is a must when you decide to get your bachelor's in History because, well, you like the subject and you want plenty of time for varsity sports and drinking. Now, I don't have any interest in teaching (actually, that's not true. I love the idea of teaching. It's the teacher's SALARY that loses me), so that history degree is not helping me out. So, as much as I wanted to do a MFA program in Creative Writing, I decided to be practical with my MS.
But sometimes I wonder, what in the world am I doing? I have eighteen credits down so far, five more classes and a thesis to go. It's not fun doing homework after work and on weekends. I can't imagine what in the field of finance I'm going to write my thesis on -- a lot of the material is, you know, a little dry (as fascinating as it all is in practice). And while I'd like to become a stockbroker and dream of being on the board of directors of a bank I helped start (yes, there are people who dream of such a thing, oddly enough), I picked one hell of a time to enter the finance industry.
Man, this blog is really just me being a big whiney-pants most of the time, isn't it? Fine. I am going to shut up and go do my homework now...
I am getting my Master's in Finance, because grad school is a must when you decide to get your bachelor's in History because, well, you like the subject and you want plenty of time for varsity sports and drinking. Now, I don't have any interest in teaching (actually, that's not true. I love the idea of teaching. It's the teacher's SALARY that loses me), so that history degree is not helping me out. So, as much as I wanted to do a MFA program in Creative Writing, I decided to be practical with my MS.
But sometimes I wonder, what in the world am I doing? I have eighteen credits down so far, five more classes and a thesis to go. It's not fun doing homework after work and on weekends. I can't imagine what in the field of finance I'm going to write my thesis on -- a lot of the material is, you know, a little dry (as fascinating as it all is in practice). And while I'd like to become a stockbroker and dream of being on the board of directors of a bank I helped start (yes, there are people who dream of such a thing, oddly enough), I picked one hell of a time to enter the finance industry.
Man, this blog is really just me being a big whiney-pants most of the time, isn't it? Fine. I am going to shut up and go do my homework now...
Monday, March 23, 2009
My concentration, that is. Shot. I bounce from project to project. Yesterday I eked out almost 400 words on one novel, the day before that it was 1200 on another. I outlined a short story, but can't manage to write it in a way that even makes me want to re-read it. My obsession with professionalism, with writing every day with discipline and consistency and finishing my projects, is starting to seem laughable.
Ghaaa. Maybe we're meant to take vacations between big, soul-baring, world-changing (at least theoretically) writing projects? Or maybe I'm just too distracted by dueling piano bars, searching for the perfect Indian food, and my all-too-practical Master's degree in Finance.
Well. No one ever promised me a rose garden, as they say.
Tuesday, March 17, 2009
What I'm addicted to now?
Query Shark
Writers submit their query to literary agent for analysis. Agent posts with her comments. Not only informative, but way more fun than it sounds.
The nice folks over at Query Connect already went through my query letter and gave me some helpful advice, but I'm curious to see what the Shark would say. And a little afraid, as well.
Query Shark
Writers submit their query to literary agent for analysis. Agent posts with her comments. Not only informative, but way more fun than it sounds.
The nice folks over at Query Connect already went through my query letter and gave me some helpful advice, but I'm curious to see what the Shark would say. And a little afraid, as well.
Sunday, March 15, 2009
That's my question of the day: Do you enjoy writing?
I read a few interesting articles today. First, Nathan Bransford, a literary agent, wrote this on his blog:
Writers are dreamers, and dreamers tend to daydream about the future while concocting wildly optimistic scenarios that involve bestsellordom, riches, and interviews with Ryan Seacrest. In doing so they forget to enjoy the present. I call this the "if only" game. You know how it goes: if only I could find an agent, then I'll be happy. When you have an agent, then it becomes: if only I could get published, then I'll be happy. And so on. The only way to stay sane in the business is to enjoy every step as you're actually experiencing it. Happiness is not around the bend. It's found in the present. Because writing is pretty great -- otherwise why are you doing it?
Linked on his blog, nathanbransford.blogspot.com.
But then I also read this article from the Guardian, where authors who write for a living talked about how they felt about writing. And their milage certainly varied.
For instance, John Banville: "The struggle of writing is fraught with a specialised form of anguish, the anguish of knowing one will never get it right, that one will always fail, and that all one can hope to do is 'fail better', as Beckett recommends. The pleasure of writing is in the preparation, not the execution, and certainly not in the thing executed. The novelist daily at his desk eats ashes, and if occasionally he encounters a diamond he is likely to break a tooth on it. Money is necessary to pay the dentist's bills."
and cheerful Amit Chaudhuri: "Writing novels is no fun; nor is, generally speaking, reading novels. Reading people writing about novels is not always fun, either, because relatively little of this kind of writing is any good. Then there's the group of people who don't enjoy being novelists, to which I probably belong; whose lives are at once shaped and defined by, and to some extent entrapped in, the act of writing fiction."
I think I enjoy writing. But sometimes, I just don't want... it's so much effort and so much frustration.
Do you enjoy writing? And if so, what do you enjoy about it?
I read a few interesting articles today. First, Nathan Bransford, a literary agent, wrote this on his blog:
Writers are dreamers, and dreamers tend to daydream about the future while concocting wildly optimistic scenarios that involve bestsellordom, riches, and interviews with Ryan Seacrest. In doing so they forget to enjoy the present. I call this the "if only" game. You know how it goes: if only I could find an agent, then I'll be happy. When you have an agent, then it becomes: if only I could get published, then I'll be happy. And so on. The only way to stay sane in the business is to enjoy every step as you're actually experiencing it. Happiness is not around the bend. It's found in the present. Because writing is pretty great -- otherwise why are you doing it?
Linked on his blog, nathanbransford.blogspot.com.
But then I also read this article from the Guardian, where authors who write for a living talked about how they felt about writing. And their milage certainly varied.
For instance, John Banville: "The struggle of writing is fraught with a specialised form of anguish, the anguish of knowing one will never get it right, that one will always fail, and that all one can hope to do is 'fail better', as Beckett recommends. The pleasure of writing is in the preparation, not the execution, and certainly not in the thing executed. The novelist daily at his desk eats ashes, and if occasionally he encounters a diamond he is likely to break a tooth on it. Money is necessary to pay the dentist's bills."
and cheerful Amit Chaudhuri: "Writing novels is no fun; nor is, generally speaking, reading novels. Reading people writing about novels is not always fun, either, because relatively little of this kind of writing is any good. Then there's the group of people who don't enjoy being novelists, to which I probably belong; whose lives are at once shaped and defined by, and to some extent entrapped in, the act of writing fiction."
I think I enjoy writing. But sometimes, I just don't want... it's so much effort and so much frustration.
Do you enjoy writing? And if so, what do you enjoy about it?
Friday, March 6, 2009
I went back to my writers' group last night after a year away. We meet in the upstairs of a sweet coffee shop in a distinctly sketchy part of town - definitely the kind of place where you carry your keys in your hand on your way to the car and lock the doors behind you as soon as you're in. But then, I am also a little paranoid.
HOWEVER, walking through the Valley of Sketch is hardly the point. The writers' group had changed composition from last year, with a few people I still know and more that I did not. I guess there is a natural ebb and flow - the group gets too big, not everyone gets to read in the time allotted for the meeting, people drop out and the group gets smaller, and then more people come.
I read chapter seven of SHARDS. I got some good feedback: great dialogue, need more visual description, love the characters, the female character in the scene could be more hostile and angry. I tend to downplay the female characters a little, I guess, because I don't want them to be just another irrational, stereotypical woman. My characters are a little neurotic and quirky, but honestly, that is how I see everyone. If you met my family, this would make sense.
I enjoyed the other readings too. There was a pretty rousing chapter of an action-adventure novel, a beautiful piece about observing gulls on the beach (the kind of detailed description that I don't think I could ever settle down enough to write myself), a chapter from the memoir of a former priest who left the church with a nun he had fallen in love with... overall, just good stuff. It's fun to hear such a variety of stories in one place.
The problem with writers' groups (for me) is they are most effective for short pieces - a story, a scene, a poem - something that can be read in your fifteen-minute spot of fame that week. Several of us are reading novels, in excerpts, which allows you to polish a scene (and ensures it stands on its own), but it doesn't give you a good sense of the overall flow of your piece. I have some friends reading the novel for fun, but I wish I could get a good literary critique of it.
I do love the group, though. Writing is so solitary, it's fun to socialize and talk about your writing. In small doses, of course... eventually you have to shut up and get back to the keyboard. :)
HOWEVER, walking through the Valley of Sketch is hardly the point. The writers' group had changed composition from last year, with a few people I still know and more that I did not. I guess there is a natural ebb and flow - the group gets too big, not everyone gets to read in the time allotted for the meeting, people drop out and the group gets smaller, and then more people come.
I read chapter seven of SHARDS. I got some good feedback: great dialogue, need more visual description, love the characters, the female character in the scene could be more hostile and angry. I tend to downplay the female characters a little, I guess, because I don't want them to be just another irrational, stereotypical woman. My characters are a little neurotic and quirky, but honestly, that is how I see everyone. If you met my family, this would make sense.
I enjoyed the other readings too. There was a pretty rousing chapter of an action-adventure novel, a beautiful piece about observing gulls on the beach (the kind of detailed description that I don't think I could ever settle down enough to write myself), a chapter from the memoir of a former priest who left the church with a nun he had fallen in love with... overall, just good stuff. It's fun to hear such a variety of stories in one place.
The problem with writers' groups (for me) is they are most effective for short pieces - a story, a scene, a poem - something that can be read in your fifteen-minute spot of fame that week. Several of us are reading novels, in excerpts, which allows you to polish a scene (and ensures it stands on its own), but it doesn't give you a good sense of the overall flow of your piece. I have some friends reading the novel for fun, but I wish I could get a good literary critique of it.
I do love the group, though. Writing is so solitary, it's fun to socialize and talk about your writing. In small doses, of course... eventually you have to shut up and get back to the keyboard. :)
Wednesday, March 4, 2009
Obviously, I lied and, after my last post, promptly disappeared again. I've spent the last few weeks enjoying all sorts of lovely food, learning to snowboard, getting manicured/pedicured/massaged and generally girlified again, wandering around the beautiful city of San Diego and exploring happy hours throughout the entire SoCal region - as well as bonding with my gorgeous and fun husband.
Which brings me to a question. I read a magazine article once that suggested that writing was not for the young. In it, the author suggested that you should first concentrate on living your life, observing and coming to understand human beings and their interactions with each other and their environment, accumulating experiences. Then, not only well-stocked with ideas but also with a more mature understanding of how people act and interact, THEN you are ready to sit down and create fiction.
But, while I think that more mature writing is probably better writing, I think there is much to be said for writing at every stage in your life. Because the story that you will tell now, this week, this month, this year, is a different story than the one you would write in the future. Now there's a particular thought nagging at you, a particular bit of youthful angst; or a newspaper story you read this morning and will have forgotten by next Tuesday; or a bit of dialogue you overhear at work, that will find its way into THIS story, but only if you write it now, before you change. Because we are always changing, if only in tidbits and dabs.
Sometimes, however, I think maybe there's something to be said for living now, writing later. Mostly when I find myself joyously overwhelmed by life in the moment, and not so eager to return to my keyboard...
Which brings me to a question. I read a magazine article once that suggested that writing was not for the young. In it, the author suggested that you should first concentrate on living your life, observing and coming to understand human beings and their interactions with each other and their environment, accumulating experiences. Then, not only well-stocked with ideas but also with a more mature understanding of how people act and interact, THEN you are ready to sit down and create fiction.
But, while I think that more mature writing is probably better writing, I think there is much to be said for writing at every stage in your life. Because the story that you will tell now, this week, this month, this year, is a different story than the one you would write in the future. Now there's a particular thought nagging at you, a particular bit of youthful angst; or a newspaper story you read this morning and will have forgotten by next Tuesday; or a bit of dialogue you overhear at work, that will find its way into THIS story, but only if you write it now, before you change. Because we are always changing, if only in tidbits and dabs.
Sometimes, however, I think maybe there's something to be said for living now, writing later. Mostly when I find myself joyously overwhelmed by life in the moment, and not so eager to return to my keyboard...
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