It makes me sad that, unless I decided to be crazy about it, there's no way I'll be able to continue my 21 posts a month streak that I've had going since September. I don't expect anybody else to really feel anything about that; it's not something that really matters, after all. It's just one of the little bits of symmetry that I appreciate when I notice it, and always makes me feel the tiniest bit crazy, when I do.
But December has not been a normal month, and so perhaps it's fitting that it won't be a normal count for December.
I should not expect to feel as I did during November. In November, this whole process was "NaNoWriMo," and it was a big, reckless, messy storm of thought and desire and a cavalier "damn-the-torpedoes" attitude. And when the goal, the only goal was 50,000 words in thirty days, it was enough. And it was fun. But now I'm approaching the second month of work on this thing, and it's no longer about reaching some word count. Now, it's about finishing a novel. In some ways, nothing has really changed, and yet, in others, it feels as though everything has. I want this story to be something now. I want the characters to take life, the plot to develop, I want it to succeed. I'm invested now, and that means, no matter how much I wish to go back to that carefree time I had in the beginning, I don't know that it's possible.
That's likely not a bad thing, though. The reckless time is fun, certainly, but it's not something that can be sustained forever, can it? At some point, we all have to grow up, mature a little, and realize that we can never go back, in writing or in life, or in anything, really. We can only move forward.
I did something different when I wrote today; took the story in a completely new direction, and I'm not talking about doing something weird with the characters, like I did yesterday. I mean, today, I took my story which has so far been a first-person narrative the entire 34 or so chapters and 70,000ish words, and introduced a completely new narrator. It's a character that's been in the story from the very beginning. And it's a character that I never even considered making into a narrator, until I found myself wondering more and more about her. What her story was. Who she was, not just in how she related herself to the protagonist.
When I looked at the place where I had originally written "the end," I wondered that, if the story wasn't over, if I shouldn't perhaps shift things a bit. Move the focus for a while, so that we can have the feeling of resolution even as I take things elsewhere for a time before I bring the focus back to my lead character.
I'm excited by the possibilities. I'm terrified, as well.
I don't know where the story will go, although to be honest, I don't think I ever did. I haven't really had a plan from the very beginning, it's just been about these characters and following them as they go off and do their things, and hope that I can record it all in a way that will make sense to other people. Does this new character have a story to tell? I believe that she does, and I think that, just as my protagonist has grown from her original inspiration as a single line (a line which has sort of become the synopsis for my story so far), this character, too, has evolved and grown and changed into something new and exciting. There's a story for this new character, and in some ways, it's the original protagonist's story told from the other side, from a new perspective... and it's also something entirely new.
It's a chance for me to zoom out, to show that there's a much larger world than the one that exists on the page so far. It's a chance to explore.
As I said yesterday, it could be dangerous.
It could also be very exciting and extremely rewarding, and I think it would be a terrible mistake if I did not at least try.
It also makes me very glad that I'm a writer and not a director. I'd imagine this sort of thing would be dangerous to do with your lead actor.
Sunday, December 27, 2009
Saturday, December 26, 2009
Trusting The Voices In My Head
Well, hello there, my dear reader. It's been a few days, hasn't it, since last you and I spent any time together. I will not apologize for it, however; such is to be expected during the holidays. And for me, it has, indeed, been several holidays; my birthday, which is a day during which I have no shame about doing as little work as possible. And of course, Christmas, as well. I hope yours was good, if you're into that sort of thing.
Today, if you follow my Twitter feed, marks the first day that I've returned to work on my novel since originally declaring that it was "done" about two weeks ago, give or take a few days. Over the past week, I've contemplated and reflected and wondered and pondered, and all the while, the feeling grew; that I had made a mistake in deciding to write 'The End,' that the story was far from over. And after much deliberation, some of which was recorded here for your enjoyment, I decided to return to that work, to write until I was sure that the story was done. I don't know how far away the end is at this point. There's a lot left to tell, and maybe all that I have should be told in one book. Maybe not. For now, I'm just trusting the story to take me as far as it can.
Speaking of trust, that's the other thing I wanted to talk to you about tonight, well, really the main thing, to be honest. You see, after I wrote my chapter, I sat back in my chair and thought about the work I'd done. And to be honest, although I feel very glad that I've returned to the actual writing, part of me wondered if tonight's chapter was a mistake, if it perhaps represents a deviation in what the story is supposed to be.
See, writing is really a lot like juggling, or balancing on a tightrope, or some other tired trope about doing something that requires a lot of balancing and consideration. You want to tell the very best story that you can, but you also realize that the story is an organic thing; it's a thing that you may create, but you don't really own, because the story is its own thing, its own entity, with its own identity. You can choose to deny that identity, you can try to mold the story to your whims, but then you just get an abomination, an aborted "could-have-been" that represents only potential twisted into unkind shapes by an inflexible will. It's akin to treating marble like clay; you cannot mold your story into what you want it to be. It can only be what it is.
That means trusting the story when it goes to weird places. It means trusting the characters when they start to shift away from what you think they should be. It means sitting back and letting the organic process happen. It's a scary proposition, especially when you're a control freak, and most writers are, I think, at least, fiction writers are. We like to be God with our worlds, we like to think that everything happens according to our will. And when you suddenly find yourself writing something that, in retrospect, makes you stop and go "wait, what?" well, that's a bit scary.
Do you trust the characters and follow them down whatever road their voices lead you? Or do you decide that you know better, that you know sometimes emotions can lead to unsatisfying conclusions, that sometimes, creative chaos must be tempered and focused with discipline if it is to be forged into something meaningful. Do you let the character do something that might damage herself? Do you let her damage the story? Do you let her do something you don't agree with?
Do you even have a choice?
I don't know. I could always go back tomorrow and delete what I wrote tonight. I could decide tomorrow that what happened in tonight's session was the product not of my character voices, but of my own mood, my own tired state, or whatever other excuse. I could say that my characters don't know what "jumping the shark" means, that if I let them have their way, they could very well abort the story. After all, these are my characters, my children, in a sense. And a responsible parent doesn't let his children raise themselves, does he? Or she? No, you provide guidance, gently steering them down the "right path" even as you try to give them the freedom to develop into the beings that they are meant to be.
So what do I do?
No idea. I just wanted to share with you what's going through my head, and possibly glean some insight as I did. In this case, I think, the best course is ultimately to let the story grow in whatever direction the voices take me. It's quite honestly the most insane option, choosing to listen to the voices rather than my own sense of what is and what should be, but I've long believed that creativity and madness are really not so different. Being creative means taking risks that aren't sound, aren't sensible. Being creative means doing insane things like letting your children raise themselves, even though that has the potential to be dangerous.
After all, if it wasn't dangerous, it wouldn't really be worth doing. Not this way, at least.
Today, if you follow my Twitter feed, marks the first day that I've returned to work on my novel since originally declaring that it was "done" about two weeks ago, give or take a few days. Over the past week, I've contemplated and reflected and wondered and pondered, and all the while, the feeling grew; that I had made a mistake in deciding to write 'The End,' that the story was far from over. And after much deliberation, some of which was recorded here for your enjoyment, I decided to return to that work, to write until I was sure that the story was done. I don't know how far away the end is at this point. There's a lot left to tell, and maybe all that I have should be told in one book. Maybe not. For now, I'm just trusting the story to take me as far as it can.
Speaking of trust, that's the other thing I wanted to talk to you about tonight, well, really the main thing, to be honest. You see, after I wrote my chapter, I sat back in my chair and thought about the work I'd done. And to be honest, although I feel very glad that I've returned to the actual writing, part of me wondered if tonight's chapter was a mistake, if it perhaps represents a deviation in what the story is supposed to be.
See, writing is really a lot like juggling, or balancing on a tightrope, or some other tired trope about doing something that requires a lot of balancing and consideration. You want to tell the very best story that you can, but you also realize that the story is an organic thing; it's a thing that you may create, but you don't really own, because the story is its own thing, its own entity, with its own identity. You can choose to deny that identity, you can try to mold the story to your whims, but then you just get an abomination, an aborted "could-have-been" that represents only potential twisted into unkind shapes by an inflexible will. It's akin to treating marble like clay; you cannot mold your story into what you want it to be. It can only be what it is.
That means trusting the story when it goes to weird places. It means trusting the characters when they start to shift away from what you think they should be. It means sitting back and letting the organic process happen. It's a scary proposition, especially when you're a control freak, and most writers are, I think, at least, fiction writers are. We like to be God with our worlds, we like to think that everything happens according to our will. And when you suddenly find yourself writing something that, in retrospect, makes you stop and go "wait, what?" well, that's a bit scary.
Do you trust the characters and follow them down whatever road their voices lead you? Or do you decide that you know better, that you know sometimes emotions can lead to unsatisfying conclusions, that sometimes, creative chaos must be tempered and focused with discipline if it is to be forged into something meaningful. Do you let the character do something that might damage herself? Do you let her damage the story? Do you let her do something you don't agree with?
Do you even have a choice?
I don't know. I could always go back tomorrow and delete what I wrote tonight. I could decide tomorrow that what happened in tonight's session was the product not of my character voices, but of my own mood, my own tired state, or whatever other excuse. I could say that my characters don't know what "jumping the shark" means, that if I let them have their way, they could very well abort the story. After all, these are my characters, my children, in a sense. And a responsible parent doesn't let his children raise themselves, does he? Or she? No, you provide guidance, gently steering them down the "right path" even as you try to give them the freedom to develop into the beings that they are meant to be.
So what do I do?
No idea. I just wanted to share with you what's going through my head, and possibly glean some insight as I did. In this case, I think, the best course is ultimately to let the story grow in whatever direction the voices take me. It's quite honestly the most insane option, choosing to listen to the voices rather than my own sense of what is and what should be, but I've long believed that creativity and madness are really not so different. Being creative means taking risks that aren't sound, aren't sensible. Being creative means doing insane things like letting your children raise themselves, even though that has the potential to be dangerous.
After all, if it wasn't dangerous, it wouldn't really be worth doing. Not this way, at least.
Monday, December 21, 2009
Unwrapping "The End"
I'm in a bit of a bind.
So, I have this novel that I've been working on for the past month and a half. I wrote every day since November 1st, through papers, sicknesses, video game addictions and holidays. I wrote on Thanksgiving. It's the most writing I've ever done in one consecutive stretch and I'm proud of myself for making this personal milestone. To top it all off, I even succeeded at the NaNoWriMo goal of 50,000 words in thirty days. Not bad, you know?
And then, about a week ago, I hit a point where it felt like I'd reached "the end" for the current story. I'm not done with the characters, of course; there's still a lot left to tell with them. But I keep telling myself that it feels like a new book, that it won't work with the way the current plot is paced. But the more I think about it, the more I wonder if that's true, or if I'm not just trying to justify stopping when I did, breaking my streak. It has not escaped my notice that I've been extremely lax in getting any writing done this past week. Supposedly, it was because I was taking a break between the writing and editing process for the current manuscript. I told myself that I deserved some time off.
I guess what will determine whether I'm right about that or not is whether or not I can force myself to start again. This blog post is evidence of that desire; the fact that even though I don't know what to do about my novel situation, I'm still going to show up, as it were, I'm still going to write. I mean, hell, most of the writing I've been doing over the past three months has been this blog... if you look back at the archives, the novel is really only a recent addition to my life and my focus.
But back to the problem at hand: do I keep "the end" where it is right now on the current novel? On the one hand, it "feels" like a good ending to me, with a great line to leave off on, but on the other hand, where will I pick the story back up with these characters? I feel like that's a critical question to ask myself, because if I'm going to continue the conversation and the scene in the next book, does that not indicate that these really just are two pieces of the same story? There's also the fact that I feel it's not really long enough to be considered a true novel (most of the research I did indicates that 80,000 is considered the minimum length for a novel, although some place the number as high as 100,000 and others lower, around 70,000. Anything lower than 70,000, however, doesn't seem to get much attention by "novel" standards. Which would make this a novella, which, in my opinion, does not sound nearly as impressive or sexy. Because, of course, writing is all about what's sexy.
What was I saying?
Oh, right, my current problems. Whether to unwrap the work and press on, to take what was going to be "book two" material and keep it in "book one." The reasons against it? Worries that it won't fit with the current pacing, that the narrative structure will feel strange. On the other hand, do all stories have to fit into the standard arc of "rising action/climax/falling action?" Or can there be deviations, moments of excitement and escalation followed by more even sequences?
This is why I'm writing this particular post: because it's helping me to sort through these questions in my head (and also, I don't feel like quite a failure if I don't actually work on the novel tonight.) And to be honest, as I write out these problems and I think about what I would say if I started "Chapter 1 of Book 2" at this very moment, would I continue from the previous scene? Or would it be six months in the future? And even if it was six months in the future, why would that have to be a separate book entirely? More and more, it feels like my decision to stop when I did was a mistake. I start to wonder if I felt like I had a good scene to end on and I didn't know what else to say that night, so I just said, "okay, done!"
That would make sense to me, to be perfectly honest. I wrote before that it felt very anti-climactic, that it didn't really give me any sense of achievement or accomplishment that I thought I would have felt. I wonder now if that was because I stopped before I should have, that the fact that I still have "so many ideas" for the story does not mean I'm ready for a sequel, but that there is more to tell in the current tale.
I'm going to think on it for a little while longer, because while reflecting on these things has helped organize my thoughts a great deal, I don't think I should just jump right back into it. I want to be sure, before I make that decision. I want to do this thing right.
Most of all, I want to go back to that clean, wonderful experience of writing recklessly for an hour a day and feeling the sense of accomplishment and achievement that comes from living my dream.
So, I have this novel that I've been working on for the past month and a half. I wrote every day since November 1st, through papers, sicknesses, video game addictions and holidays. I wrote on Thanksgiving. It's the most writing I've ever done in one consecutive stretch and I'm proud of myself for making this personal milestone. To top it all off, I even succeeded at the NaNoWriMo goal of 50,000 words in thirty days. Not bad, you know?
And then, about a week ago, I hit a point where it felt like I'd reached "the end" for the current story. I'm not done with the characters, of course; there's still a lot left to tell with them. But I keep telling myself that it feels like a new book, that it won't work with the way the current plot is paced. But the more I think about it, the more I wonder if that's true, or if I'm not just trying to justify stopping when I did, breaking my streak. It has not escaped my notice that I've been extremely lax in getting any writing done this past week. Supposedly, it was because I was taking a break between the writing and editing process for the current manuscript. I told myself that I deserved some time off.
I guess what will determine whether I'm right about that or not is whether or not I can force myself to start again. This blog post is evidence of that desire; the fact that even though I don't know what to do about my novel situation, I'm still going to show up, as it were, I'm still going to write. I mean, hell, most of the writing I've been doing over the past three months has been this blog... if you look back at the archives, the novel is really only a recent addition to my life and my focus.
But back to the problem at hand: do I keep "the end" where it is right now on the current novel? On the one hand, it "feels" like a good ending to me, with a great line to leave off on, but on the other hand, where will I pick the story back up with these characters? I feel like that's a critical question to ask myself, because if I'm going to continue the conversation and the scene in the next book, does that not indicate that these really just are two pieces of the same story? There's also the fact that I feel it's not really long enough to be considered a true novel (most of the research I did indicates that 80,000 is considered the minimum length for a novel, although some place the number as high as 100,000 and others lower, around 70,000. Anything lower than 70,000, however, doesn't seem to get much attention by "novel" standards. Which would make this a novella, which, in my opinion, does not sound nearly as impressive or sexy. Because, of course, writing is all about what's sexy.
What was I saying?
Oh, right, my current problems. Whether to unwrap the work and press on, to take what was going to be "book two" material and keep it in "book one." The reasons against it? Worries that it won't fit with the current pacing, that the narrative structure will feel strange. On the other hand, do all stories have to fit into the standard arc of "rising action/climax/falling action?" Or can there be deviations, moments of excitement and escalation followed by more even sequences?
This is why I'm writing this particular post: because it's helping me to sort through these questions in my head (and also, I don't feel like quite a failure if I don't actually work on the novel tonight.) And to be honest, as I write out these problems and I think about what I would say if I started "Chapter 1 of Book 2" at this very moment, would I continue from the previous scene? Or would it be six months in the future? And even if it was six months in the future, why would that have to be a separate book entirely? More and more, it feels like my decision to stop when I did was a mistake. I start to wonder if I felt like I had a good scene to end on and I didn't know what else to say that night, so I just said, "okay, done!"
That would make sense to me, to be perfectly honest. I wrote before that it felt very anti-climactic, that it didn't really give me any sense of achievement or accomplishment that I thought I would have felt. I wonder now if that was because I stopped before I should have, that the fact that I still have "so many ideas" for the story does not mean I'm ready for a sequel, but that there is more to tell in the current tale.
I'm going to think on it for a little while longer, because while reflecting on these things has helped organize my thoughts a great deal, I don't think I should just jump right back into it. I want to be sure, before I make that decision. I want to do this thing right.
Most of all, I want to go back to that clean, wonderful experience of writing recklessly for an hour a day and feeling the sense of accomplishment and achievement that comes from living my dream.
Friday, December 18, 2009
Well, At Least I'm Here
Well, this has certainly been a sad state of affairs, hasn't it? All that talk about how I wouldn't let the blog lapse, and here we are, eighteen days into December and I've posted, what, three times?
Shameful.
The truth is... well, I'm not sure what the truth is. I know that I've allowed myself to become terribly distracted by work and other, lesser pursuits than writing over the past couple of days. I've told myself not to stress about this brief lapse, that even the greats don't write every single day of the year and that a break is okay, particularly since it comes between the completion of the first draft and before the beginning of the editing process.
Although, that's something that's been on my mind a lot, as well. I want this to be my next novel. Hell, I very much want this to be my first published novel, and more and more, I find myself worrying as to the length. Is it long enough to be considered a novel? My first work was 88,000 words, but I wonder if I go back now how many of those chapters could very much be considered fluff that really should be cut from the final plot. I remember writing a scene where a character gets attacked by some kind of panther. I think its purpose was to show the lethality of the protagonist, or something. Who knows.
The concern is not that I don't have any more ideas. I do have ideas. I want to write another book about these characters. The problem is that right now, it feels like the pacing is such that this story is done and that if I keep going, it really should be a sequel instead of a continuation. Unless maybe I decided to break up the novel into two distinct "books" within the actual work? It's weird hard to explain; I keep feeling like I've told the story that needs to be told for the first book, but then I also feel like if this story isn't long enough to be a "novel," and I have more story to tell with these characters, it should be obvious, right? I don't know.
Then I wonder if perhaps I'm silly for fretting about this because when I go back and edit, I'm sure that, at least in the initial drafting phase, there will be all kinds of things to add and clarify and explain which will probably increase the length. I don't know. I'm sure that a lot of the reason why I feel antsy is because it's been a good, what, three days since I wrote much of anything and I haven't written any fiction since Monday, even then this is supposed to be a break.
And of course, I'm already thinking about other things, new projects, whether I decide to reopen work on the current novel and keep writing, or start in on a separate sequel, or revisit my old novel (probably not going to happen) or try to do something else entirely.
I don't know. What I do know is that I miss the simplicity and elegance of writing a story for an hour each night, every night. It was very nice to simply sit down, write for a while, marvel at my progress and then go about my business. Although I suppose I could just go do that again, I mean, it's not like there's anything stopping me except for the fact that I told myself it's a good idea to put some space between the writing and the editing parts.
I read that somewhere in a book, I think.
Shameful.
The truth is... well, I'm not sure what the truth is. I know that I've allowed myself to become terribly distracted by work and other, lesser pursuits than writing over the past couple of days. I've told myself not to stress about this brief lapse, that even the greats don't write every single day of the year and that a break is okay, particularly since it comes between the completion of the first draft and before the beginning of the editing process.
Although, that's something that's been on my mind a lot, as well. I want this to be my next novel. Hell, I very much want this to be my first published novel, and more and more, I find myself worrying as to the length. Is it long enough to be considered a novel? My first work was 88,000 words, but I wonder if I go back now how many of those chapters could very much be considered fluff that really should be cut from the final plot. I remember writing a scene where a character gets attacked by some kind of panther. I think its purpose was to show the lethality of the protagonist, or something. Who knows.
The concern is not that I don't have any more ideas. I do have ideas. I want to write another book about these characters. The problem is that right now, it feels like the pacing is such that this story is done and that if I keep going, it really should be a sequel instead of a continuation. Unless maybe I decided to break up the novel into two distinct "books" within the actual work? It's weird hard to explain; I keep feeling like I've told the story that needs to be told for the first book, but then I also feel like if this story isn't long enough to be a "novel," and I have more story to tell with these characters, it should be obvious, right? I don't know.
Then I wonder if perhaps I'm silly for fretting about this because when I go back and edit, I'm sure that, at least in the initial drafting phase, there will be all kinds of things to add and clarify and explain which will probably increase the length. I don't know. I'm sure that a lot of the reason why I feel antsy is because it's been a good, what, three days since I wrote much of anything and I haven't written any fiction since Monday, even then this is supposed to be a break.
And of course, I'm already thinking about other things, new projects, whether I decide to reopen work on the current novel and keep writing, or start in on a separate sequel, or revisit my old novel (probably not going to happen) or try to do something else entirely.
I don't know. What I do know is that I miss the simplicity and elegance of writing a story for an hour each night, every night. It was very nice to simply sit down, write for a while, marvel at my progress and then go about my business. Although I suppose I could just go do that again, I mean, it's not like there's anything stopping me except for the fact that I told myself it's a good idea to put some space between the writing and the editing parts.
I read that somewhere in a book, I think.
Monday, December 14, 2009
A Reflection Upon Reaching "The End"
If you happen to keep up with my Twitter feed (and I'm arrogant enough to assume that everybody does), you know that for the past few days, I've been saying that I think my current novel is drawing to its conclusion. I've noticed the past few nights that I've had less and less story to tell, haven't been able to really just throw myself into the work and write with abandon the way that I did before.
At first, I thought this was because I had begun to realize that NaNoWriMo is over and that now, I have a sense of the amount of work behind me, I was less willing to just let myself fall into the work, let myself write without fear of failure. But more and more, I think that it's not because NaNoWriMo has come and gone, but because I've been approaching the end of the story not with elation, but with trepidation.
It seems weird, that I actually finished the story last night, and there wasn't this sense of satisfaction or completion, only a vague sense of emptiness, a feeling that I had lost something. At first, I thought it just meant that I wasn't quite done with the story, that maybe there was more to the epilogue than I had written. But when I sat down to write tonight, I realized that I had nothing to add, nothing more to say at this point. The story felt done.
Well, not done, because this is only a first draft and I know that there's still a great deal of work ahead of me. And of course, I've got a lot of ideas for a sequel that I didn't include, because then the pacing would have been totally thrown off. So it's not like this is the end, or even that this is the only story I'm ever going to write. NaNoWriMo showed me how to make the effort to right a lot, to write every day. It's up to me, now, to take that knowledge and apply it, to not allow myself to slip back into the lax and easy life of "oh, I don't feel like writing tonight, I'll do it tomorrow." That's one thing that I cannot allow to happen, even if this story is done. Even if there's no novel writing for a while as I let the current project simmer for a bit before I begin the editting process, that can't be an excuse to skip out on what has become my daily ritual, my daily requirement from myself. Maybe that means going back to blogging every day, which is something I told myself I would do anyway. Maybe it means working on some short stories for a while.
But going back to my original point, on being done and the feeling of completion. It's been a long, long time since I reached "the end" in novel writing; I wrote my first novel when I was sixteen and the sequel to that has been an ongoing thing that's still incomplete. I've tried to think back to how I felt as I wrote the last line on that first work; did I know it was the end as I wrote it? Or did I feel then as I do now, that I feel empty instead of complete? That I feel like although I have this story, this work that I can be proud of, that I can soon show the world, part of me will never be able to recover that earlier time of wonder and joy as I wrote with reckless abandon?
I actually asked my mom about this, before I sat down to write this blog post, to reflect on how I feel. She told me that she understands, because she said it's a lot like being a parent. You put in all this work, you make sure you've done all that you can, and... then it's over. Your job is done and it's up to your child (or your book, in my case) to go on to have his or her or its own experiences.
It's a very poignant moment. I mean, I've always hated reaching the last page in a favorite story, because it means my time with the characters that I know and love has come to an end. But I guess for some reason I never imagined that the same would be true for the writer as well; I guess I imagined that the fact that those characters live on in his or her head means that the writer is never truly removed from the creations. But I've begun to realize that this is false, and that the writer feels just as much disconnect and detachment when he or she reaches the end.
I mentioned before that I tried to think about what I experienced the first time I reached the end, if I felt fulfilled, if I felt something wonderful and life affirming. I think that perhaps maybe I did, because I was younger then (although I do not pretend to be an old veteran at 22) and more inexperienced, and I did not know then all of the things that I know now. I think perhaps I wrote then because I wanted the reward for the effort, the gold star that is being able to say truthfully "that I've written a book."
That hasn't been my motivation for this work. I write now not for want of reward or recognition or praise, but because it is in my nature to do this thing, because the years I stayed away from my craft were some of the darkest moments of my life and I can only truly feel at peace with myself when I am creating.
I think that, perhaps, though I do not have the urge to bust out a bottle of wine or smoke a cigar in celebration, I nevertheless do feel pleased with myself and with my achievement. Because for the last month and a half, I've written every single day, through sickness, intoxication, sleep deprivation, being overworked. I've forced myself to find time to write in the early hours of the morning, in brief slivers of time between here and there, and even on days when I really, really didn't want to make the effort, when it was easier to just be lazy.
I did what I aspired to do, and I have a new novel to show for it. And that makes me very, very happy.
At first, I thought this was because I had begun to realize that NaNoWriMo is over and that now, I have a sense of the amount of work behind me, I was less willing to just let myself fall into the work, let myself write without fear of failure. But more and more, I think that it's not because NaNoWriMo has come and gone, but because I've been approaching the end of the story not with elation, but with trepidation.
It seems weird, that I actually finished the story last night, and there wasn't this sense of satisfaction or completion, only a vague sense of emptiness, a feeling that I had lost something. At first, I thought it just meant that I wasn't quite done with the story, that maybe there was more to the epilogue than I had written. But when I sat down to write tonight, I realized that I had nothing to add, nothing more to say at this point. The story felt done.
Well, not done, because this is only a first draft and I know that there's still a great deal of work ahead of me. And of course, I've got a lot of ideas for a sequel that I didn't include, because then the pacing would have been totally thrown off. So it's not like this is the end, or even that this is the only story I'm ever going to write. NaNoWriMo showed me how to make the effort to right a lot, to write every day. It's up to me, now, to take that knowledge and apply it, to not allow myself to slip back into the lax and easy life of "oh, I don't feel like writing tonight, I'll do it tomorrow." That's one thing that I cannot allow to happen, even if this story is done. Even if there's no novel writing for a while as I let the current project simmer for a bit before I begin the editting process, that can't be an excuse to skip out on what has become my daily ritual, my daily requirement from myself. Maybe that means going back to blogging every day, which is something I told myself I would do anyway. Maybe it means working on some short stories for a while.
But going back to my original point, on being done and the feeling of completion. It's been a long, long time since I reached "the end" in novel writing; I wrote my first novel when I was sixteen and the sequel to that has been an ongoing thing that's still incomplete. I've tried to think back to how I felt as I wrote the last line on that first work; did I know it was the end as I wrote it? Or did I feel then as I do now, that I feel empty instead of complete? That I feel like although I have this story, this work that I can be proud of, that I can soon show the world, part of me will never be able to recover that earlier time of wonder and joy as I wrote with reckless abandon?
I actually asked my mom about this, before I sat down to write this blog post, to reflect on how I feel. She told me that she understands, because she said it's a lot like being a parent. You put in all this work, you make sure you've done all that you can, and... then it's over. Your job is done and it's up to your child (or your book, in my case) to go on to have his or her or its own experiences.
It's a very poignant moment. I mean, I've always hated reaching the last page in a favorite story, because it means my time with the characters that I know and love has come to an end. But I guess for some reason I never imagined that the same would be true for the writer as well; I guess I imagined that the fact that those characters live on in his or her head means that the writer is never truly removed from the creations. But I've begun to realize that this is false, and that the writer feels just as much disconnect and detachment when he or she reaches the end.
I mentioned before that I tried to think about what I experienced the first time I reached the end, if I felt fulfilled, if I felt something wonderful and life affirming. I think that perhaps maybe I did, because I was younger then (although I do not pretend to be an old veteran at 22) and more inexperienced, and I did not know then all of the things that I know now. I think perhaps I wrote then because I wanted the reward for the effort, the gold star that is being able to say truthfully "that I've written a book."
That hasn't been my motivation for this work. I write now not for want of reward or recognition or praise, but because it is in my nature to do this thing, because the years I stayed away from my craft were some of the darkest moments of my life and I can only truly feel at peace with myself when I am creating.
I think that, perhaps, though I do not have the urge to bust out a bottle of wine or smoke a cigar in celebration, I nevertheless do feel pleased with myself and with my achievement. Because for the last month and a half, I've written every single day, through sickness, intoxication, sleep deprivation, being overworked. I've forced myself to find time to write in the early hours of the morning, in brief slivers of time between here and there, and even on days when I really, really didn't want to make the effort, when it was easier to just be lazy.
I did what I aspired to do, and I have a new novel to show for it. And that makes me very, very happy.
Wednesday, December 9, 2009
Things You Only Think About When Your House is on Fire
A few notes. First of all, I do feel very badly that I haven't had any time to write in my blog over the past few weeks, especially when I promised that I would. Ultimately, however, it came down to the fact that I had a ton of things that I needed to be working on, and I was already spending about an hour a night writing my novel, which, of course, meant an hour spent writing things that were not my various essays.
But now those essays are done, finals are upon us, which means that for a Creative Writing major like me, the semester is nearly over. Which means more time to write things that are not essays, and hopefully more time to blog about the things that I'm thinking about. Because I don't know about you, but I like doing this. I was going back though the archive a few nights ago, trying to figure out which blog entries to include for my portfolio, and for a while, I just sat there and read my own stuff. It's probably horribly narcissistic to do that, read your own work, but I found myself greatly inspired as I read my thoughts at the beginning of November, when NaNoWriMo was still just one great big source of ambition and anxiety. Or the thoughts of me in mid-October, still getting over a breakup and wondering why the hell it would be a good idea to try to write a novel in thirty days, in the busiest month of the year.
We lose those thoughts if we don't take steps to preserve them. We lose the day to day details, the minutia, the things we thought about last week. Sometimes that's a good thing, and sometimes, I find myself wondering what was going through my head when I sat down to write three months ago. I feel like I've come a long way in a short time, and at times, it seems to be happening too fast for me to even catch my breath. And that's why I'm glad that I have this record, why I will continue to work on keeping this blog updated. Because it's nice to look back and see my own personal little narrative, written not as some epic tale or idealized chronicle, but as the day to day experiences of the real me.
Now, there's one other thing I wanted to do with tonight's entry. While I was at the Essay Reading Night (congratulations to all the winners, by the way), I was asked if I would share my own essay here on my blog. So I've decided to do that, because I was asked, and I always like to be accommodating, but also because I'm actually rather proud of this piece and I think it deserves to be shared. So if you're interested in hearing about what happened during the Great House Fire of 2007, keep reading after the jump. If not, well, um... I guess I'll see you tomorrow.
But now those essays are done, finals are upon us, which means that for a Creative Writing major like me, the semester is nearly over. Which means more time to write things that are not essays, and hopefully more time to blog about the things that I'm thinking about. Because I don't know about you, but I like doing this. I was going back though the archive a few nights ago, trying to figure out which blog entries to include for my portfolio, and for a while, I just sat there and read my own stuff. It's probably horribly narcissistic to do that, read your own work, but I found myself greatly inspired as I read my thoughts at the beginning of November, when NaNoWriMo was still just one great big source of ambition and anxiety. Or the thoughts of me in mid-October, still getting over a breakup and wondering why the hell it would be a good idea to try to write a novel in thirty days, in the busiest month of the year.
We lose those thoughts if we don't take steps to preserve them. We lose the day to day details, the minutia, the things we thought about last week. Sometimes that's a good thing, and sometimes, I find myself wondering what was going through my head when I sat down to write three months ago. I feel like I've come a long way in a short time, and at times, it seems to be happening too fast for me to even catch my breath. And that's why I'm glad that I have this record, why I will continue to work on keeping this blog updated. Because it's nice to look back and see my own personal little narrative, written not as some epic tale or idealized chronicle, but as the day to day experiences of the real me.
Now, there's one other thing I wanted to do with tonight's entry. While I was at the Essay Reading Night (congratulations to all the winners, by the way), I was asked if I would share my own essay here on my blog. So I've decided to do that, because I was asked, and I always like to be accommodating, but also because I'm actually rather proud of this piece and I think it deserves to be shared. So if you're interested in hearing about what happened during the Great House Fire of 2007, keep reading after the jump. If not, well, um... I guess I'll see you tomorrow.
Saturday, December 5, 2009
Project Procastination
Despite all my promises to not leave this space unattended, the Mirror has been silent and still for almost a week now. Um. Whoops?
The truth is that this has been the last week, the final push before all the cards have to be laid down, all bets have to been, the dice are thrown, and all those other tired gambling metaphors. Ultimately, it became a question of which projects matter and which ones are just interesting, and I decided that the little time I did have for "none-essay writing" writing would be better spent getting that novel finished. It's still not done, by the way, that project I've been working on and talking about for the last month. But it's getting close, I think and I'm eager to reach the conclusion and... well, maybe eager isn't quite the proper word. I would like very much to be done, yes, but part of me is also terrified that I won't be able to ignore all the mistakes I made with the first draft once it's time to revise. Right now, I'm forcing myself to keep plunging forward, ignoring what I'm sure are a host of errors that are to be expected as I discover more about my world and my characters.
The weird thing, however? Despite the fact that I've really only been working on the novel, in order to give myself as much time as possible to get my projects done, the truth is I haven't made much progress on any of them. I've had this entire week and I've whittled it away worrying and stressing and not working, and, rather ironically I might add, delaying work on those projects by distracting myself with other things like the novel. I'm honestly surprised that I didn't use this blog as an excuse to spend more time not writing my essays.
It feels like a physical pressure on my chest. I know that, one way or another, for better or worse, this feeling won't persist. I know that I'll knuckle down and just freaking do the work that needs to get done. But I guess for some strange reason, part of me is looking ahead and would rather feel intimidated than motivated. I don't know why that is. Burn out, maybe. Perhaps just a little bit of laziness, some good old procrastination.
Writing out my thoughts about it all has helped somewhat, though I'm sure this is not making for particularly interesting reading. My apologies. I will endeavor to return to a more engaging style of posting, perhaps after my massive "to-do" list has been whittled down appropriately.
I'm pretty sure that means another few days without posting in the blog. Unless I feel the need to stall, in which case, um, see you tomorrow, I guess?
The truth is that this has been the last week, the final push before all the cards have to be laid down, all bets have to been, the dice are thrown, and all those other tired gambling metaphors. Ultimately, it became a question of which projects matter and which ones are just interesting, and I decided that the little time I did have for "none-essay writing" writing would be better spent getting that novel finished. It's still not done, by the way, that project I've been working on and talking about for the last month. But it's getting close, I think and I'm eager to reach the conclusion and... well, maybe eager isn't quite the proper word. I would like very much to be done, yes, but part of me is also terrified that I won't be able to ignore all the mistakes I made with the first draft once it's time to revise. Right now, I'm forcing myself to keep plunging forward, ignoring what I'm sure are a host of errors that are to be expected as I discover more about my world and my characters.
The weird thing, however? Despite the fact that I've really only been working on the novel, in order to give myself as much time as possible to get my projects done, the truth is I haven't made much progress on any of them. I've had this entire week and I've whittled it away worrying and stressing and not working, and, rather ironically I might add, delaying work on those projects by distracting myself with other things like the novel. I'm honestly surprised that I didn't use this blog as an excuse to spend more time not writing my essays.
It feels like a physical pressure on my chest. I know that, one way or another, for better or worse, this feeling won't persist. I know that I'll knuckle down and just freaking do the work that needs to get done. But I guess for some strange reason, part of me is looking ahead and would rather feel intimidated than motivated. I don't know why that is. Burn out, maybe. Perhaps just a little bit of laziness, some good old procrastination.
Writing out my thoughts about it all has helped somewhat, though I'm sure this is not making for particularly interesting reading. My apologies. I will endeavor to return to a more engaging style of posting, perhaps after my massive "to-do" list has been whittled down appropriately.
I'm pretty sure that means another few days without posting in the blog. Unless I feel the need to stall, in which case, um, see you tomorrow, I guess?
Monday, November 30, 2009
The Day After
After an interesting deviation on Saturday from my usual subject, we're back to the usual reflecting that you've all come to know and love, or at the very least, expect from me in my self-serving little slice of the Internet.
A lot of my posts over the past few weeks dealt with my anxiety that it would be hard to will myself to write once the blog requirement and NaNoWriMo had both passed. Now, I don't really feel like I have anything further to add on those subjects, since I talked about them at length, perhaps even longer than I really needed. If that's the case, well, that's unfortunate, because tonight I want to talk a bit about what it's like writing in my post NaNoWriMo, post-required blog world.
It's definitely harder. Not to write so much, because the difficult of writing is a laughably complex thing to considers. Some days, the writing is easy. Some days, it isn't, and there are a whole slew of reasons why that may be, all of which may be different, related to each other or not, justified or insane, in whatever absurd combination life decides is the most amusing. What was I saying?
Oh, right, forcing myself to sit down and write. You've already seen this a little bit with the blog, that I fell off my usual schedule a little bit after the requirement had passed. I wouldn't say I've failed to remain consistent, however, after all, I'm here now, aren't I, and if you look back at the archives, 21 posts a month seems to be the target goal. Not sure why it turned out to be twenty-one for both September and October. One would assume that since the goal was five posts a week, and those months have different numbers of days, then... you know what, never mind. Post count isn't the point here.
Tonight was the first night post-NaNoWriMo, although, yes, I realize that since today is still November, it won't actually end until tomorrow. But tonight was the first night for me after reaching that goal of 50,000 words, so tonight was really the first night where I didn't "have" to write any longer. The crunch time is over, right? The story may not be done, but that's okay, now I can go at whatever pace I want, right? I can relax, and all that.
Sounds reasonable, except that I know that I really, really can't. Because if I relax, I'll backslide. I haven't missed a day of writing yet, and it makes me feel great, it makes me feel like the genuine article, a writer plying his trade as opposed to a pirate who doesn't do anything. That's a metaphor, by the way, well, technically a trope; I'm not actually trying to suggest that I was in danger of being a digital pirate or anything.
I think that the biggest reason why today was so much harder than yesterday is because now my goal has changed. I reached that 50k milestone, that 50k in 30 days, and just like that, suddenly all the pressure is off, all the constraints that forced me to work even when I was sick, that made me sit here and do work when I wanted to slack off and play Dragon Age on my Xbox, that's all gone. When I had the 50k looming over me, I knew if I was behind or not, if I was getting as much work done as I needed to be doing on any given day. I always knew that I had a target number to shoot for, roughly 1670 words per day, which meant that I knew when I was under for the daily requirement, and what days I surpassed it.
I don't think I can exist under this new deadline; instead of "write 50,000 words in thirty days," it seems to be now that I have to "okay, now write words until the story is finished." But that's an empty goal, it's unfocused, it's a race where I don't really know where the finish line is. How do I know if I'm getting close? How do I know if I'm doing well? I'm not going to allow myself to read back over what I've done, because then I start to self-edit and the project dies. I need those milestones to strive towards, I need those bulls-eyes to aim at. It can't just be "write till the story is done."
The problem is, I don't really know what the new goal should be. Do I try for another 50k in 30 days? I don't know if "Fallen" has enough story left to be told in another 50,000 words, I mean, it's entirely possible, but I don't know if it'll mesh with the story arc if this point that was supposed to be near the climax instead just becomes the half-way point. On the other hand, I do still have a lot of ideas, some of which I haven't even begun to explore in this current work. On the other other hand (because I totally have three hands) those ideas might be better served in, say, a sequel to the current story, rather than just adding it on to this one.
It's annoying to be in this strange little place, because it's at once both complicated and simple. I'll be the first to say that it shouldn't matter whether I'm trying to write 1670 words a day or just reach 50,000 in thirty days, because it still produces the same result. The problem, however, is that my mind is a very, very weird thing and it needs all kinds of cajoling and elaborate mental games in order to be as productive as it has been. Clearly, the 50k in 30 days was a good idea, because it worked. Will telling myself that I have a daily goal of 1670 words work as well? I don't know. I've tried it before, and I always gave up after a few days. But that was also before I began this blog and this novel. Maybe now, I'm different enough that it won't make a difference?
This post has already run on for longer than I intended, but that's the problem when I write about a problem that I don't yet have an answer for. At the moment, I think a weekly goal is a good medium, since I don't quite know whether or not Fallen will make it to 100,000 words (God, can you even imagine? My first book, which remains the single largest thing I've ever done clocked in at about 88,000 words and the sequel was somewhere around 76,000 words, the latter of which remains unfinished at the moment.) So perhaps a modest goal of 10,000 words per week, which is a little bit less than the NaNoWriMo pace will suffice. I do think I need the target number, since for some reason, over this past month, I found it very helpful for getting my ass into gear when I'd look at a calendar and be able to tell myself "okay, by November 24th, I should have this many words written for the story."
I don't know why my brain forces me to do this. And on an unrelated, I actually had no idea that I'd reached 76k in the sequel to my first novel. I thought it was like 50 or 60k. Man, I should really go back and try to finish that, at some point. Or maybe not, I don't know... I'm not sure whether it would be better to let that old relic remain in my past, or whether it'd be worth it to try and finish it.
We'll see what happens. For the immediate future, however, I know what my current priority is: finishing my current novel!
It feels really, really good to say that again.
A lot of my posts over the past few weeks dealt with my anxiety that it would be hard to will myself to write once the blog requirement and NaNoWriMo had both passed. Now, I don't really feel like I have anything further to add on those subjects, since I talked about them at length, perhaps even longer than I really needed. If that's the case, well, that's unfortunate, because tonight I want to talk a bit about what it's like writing in my post NaNoWriMo, post-required blog world.
It's definitely harder. Not to write so much, because the difficult of writing is a laughably complex thing to considers. Some days, the writing is easy. Some days, it isn't, and there are a whole slew of reasons why that may be, all of which may be different, related to each other or not, justified or insane, in whatever absurd combination life decides is the most amusing. What was I saying?
Oh, right, forcing myself to sit down and write. You've already seen this a little bit with the blog, that I fell off my usual schedule a little bit after the requirement had passed. I wouldn't say I've failed to remain consistent, however, after all, I'm here now, aren't I, and if you look back at the archives, 21 posts a month seems to be the target goal. Not sure why it turned out to be twenty-one for both September and October. One would assume that since the goal was five posts a week, and those months have different numbers of days, then... you know what, never mind. Post count isn't the point here.
Tonight was the first night post-NaNoWriMo, although, yes, I realize that since today is still November, it won't actually end until tomorrow. But tonight was the first night for me after reaching that goal of 50,000 words, so tonight was really the first night where I didn't "have" to write any longer. The crunch time is over, right? The story may not be done, but that's okay, now I can go at whatever pace I want, right? I can relax, and all that.
Sounds reasonable, except that I know that I really, really can't. Because if I relax, I'll backslide. I haven't missed a day of writing yet, and it makes me feel great, it makes me feel like the genuine article, a writer plying his trade as opposed to a pirate who doesn't do anything. That's a metaphor, by the way, well, technically a trope; I'm not actually trying to suggest that I was in danger of being a digital pirate or anything.
I think that the biggest reason why today was so much harder than yesterday is because now my goal has changed. I reached that 50k milestone, that 50k in 30 days, and just like that, suddenly all the pressure is off, all the constraints that forced me to work even when I was sick, that made me sit here and do work when I wanted to slack off and play Dragon Age on my Xbox, that's all gone. When I had the 50k looming over me, I knew if I was behind or not, if I was getting as much work done as I needed to be doing on any given day. I always knew that I had a target number to shoot for, roughly 1670 words per day, which meant that I knew when I was under for the daily requirement, and what days I surpassed it.
I don't think I can exist under this new deadline; instead of "write 50,000 words in thirty days," it seems to be now that I have to "okay, now write words until the story is finished." But that's an empty goal, it's unfocused, it's a race where I don't really know where the finish line is. How do I know if I'm getting close? How do I know if I'm doing well? I'm not going to allow myself to read back over what I've done, because then I start to self-edit and the project dies. I need those milestones to strive towards, I need those bulls-eyes to aim at. It can't just be "write till the story is done."
The problem is, I don't really know what the new goal should be. Do I try for another 50k in 30 days? I don't know if "Fallen" has enough story left to be told in another 50,000 words, I mean, it's entirely possible, but I don't know if it'll mesh with the story arc if this point that was supposed to be near the climax instead just becomes the half-way point. On the other hand, I do still have a lot of ideas, some of which I haven't even begun to explore in this current work. On the other other hand (because I totally have three hands) those ideas might be better served in, say, a sequel to the current story, rather than just adding it on to this one.
It's annoying to be in this strange little place, because it's at once both complicated and simple. I'll be the first to say that it shouldn't matter whether I'm trying to write 1670 words a day or just reach 50,000 in thirty days, because it still produces the same result. The problem, however, is that my mind is a very, very weird thing and it needs all kinds of cajoling and elaborate mental games in order to be as productive as it has been. Clearly, the 50k in 30 days was a good idea, because it worked. Will telling myself that I have a daily goal of 1670 words work as well? I don't know. I've tried it before, and I always gave up after a few days. But that was also before I began this blog and this novel. Maybe now, I'm different enough that it won't make a difference?
This post has already run on for longer than I intended, but that's the problem when I write about a problem that I don't yet have an answer for. At the moment, I think a weekly goal is a good medium, since I don't quite know whether or not Fallen will make it to 100,000 words (God, can you even imagine? My first book, which remains the single largest thing I've ever done clocked in at about 88,000 words and the sequel was somewhere around 76,000 words, the latter of which remains unfinished at the moment.) So perhaps a modest goal of 10,000 words per week, which is a little bit less than the NaNoWriMo pace will suffice. I do think I need the target number, since for some reason, over this past month, I found it very helpful for getting my ass into gear when I'd look at a calendar and be able to tell myself "okay, by November 24th, I should have this many words written for the story."
I don't know why my brain forces me to do this. And on an unrelated, I actually had no idea that I'd reached 76k in the sequel to my first novel. I thought it was like 50 or 60k. Man, I should really go back and try to finish that, at some point. Or maybe not, I don't know... I'm not sure whether it would be better to let that old relic remain in my past, or whether it'd be worth it to try and finish it.
We'll see what happens. For the immediate future, however, I know what my current priority is: finishing my current novel!
It feels really, really good to say that again.
Saturday, November 28, 2009
Holiday Reflection
There's something on than writing on my mind tonight. Just thought I'd throw that out there, so that you won't be disappointed later. I don't really know why you're reading this, to be honest, but I like to think it's because you either care about what I have to say, or you think that I know what I'm talking about, and that what I'm saying is useful. Those may or may not be the same things, I'm not really sure.
Let me rephrase: there will be no keen observations about the craft tonight. But wait, before you skip on to the next blog in your RSS feed or bookmark list (because I'm arrogant enough to assume that I warrant either of those things, totally true) I do have something else that I think is worth dwelling on, for a time. Are you still here? Wonderful. Let's get to it.
So, it was Thanksgiving this past week. Thanksgiving is a holiday that I've always had mixed emotions about. As a younger individual, I was mostly just ambivalent. When I became a vegetarian, the first few Thanksgivings were a source of trepidation, albeit unnecessarily so; my mom and dad made sure I wouldn't be left out in the cold when it came to food options. This past dinner was especially wonderful, although I'm not really one to talk about what I eat so I won't go into details, but it involved banana squash, cheese, something that was kind of like spinach but wasn't spinach... look, I don't know, all I know is that it was wonderful. Where was I? Oh yes.
So aside from food, Thanksgiving is about family. More specifically, it's about seeing your family. Now, don't get me wrong, I like my family well enough; you might even say I love them. I'd say that myself. I never really considered myself to be a moody teenager growing up, never felt I really went through any sort of "rebellion" period where I was all "omg, my family's so lame and I hate them, blargh." But I guess I must have, because all of my memories of Thanksgiving in years past were associated with a sort of "tolerance" rather than me actually enjoying myself. So I guess I must have gone through some sort of teenage angst thing, right?
This year, however, I felt different. I played with my cousin's kids (they're four and two, I believe. So, you know, little.) I didn't look for a way to make a snide political comment. I had a good time even though I knew it wasn't really about me, that the attention would go to the little ones because when you're four and two, everything you do is either adorable, or if not adorable, certainly attention-grabbing.
It's weird: I felt like an adult, which isn't something I'm used to feeling when I'm with my family. I don't know what it is, what changed about me, why I'm suddenly this different person who had a great time, who enjoyed doing "uncle" stuff (even though I'm technically a second cousin). All I know is that two years ago, I couldn't stand being around kids, didn't know how to talk to them, and now it's just... so very different.
I guess the reason why I felt compelled to write about is because I think it's a rare thing, that we see in any tangible way how our attitudes, thoughts and opinions shift as we grow older, as we mature and move further and further away from childish things. I know that I'm not the same person I was five years ago, not really, and that I'm even a different person now compared to who I was a year ago, but even when that change happens quickly, even when it happens overnight, I don't think we often have a chance to realize it the way I did on Thursday.
Thursday was a Thanksgiving dinner very much like the one last year, and the one the year before that, but for some reason, this year I felt like I really was received by my family and really felt as though I had come into my own as an adult in their eyes, and maybe even my own.
Let me rephrase: there will be no keen observations about the craft tonight. But wait, before you skip on to the next blog in your RSS feed or bookmark list (because I'm arrogant enough to assume that I warrant either of those things, totally true) I do have something else that I think is worth dwelling on, for a time. Are you still here? Wonderful. Let's get to it.
So, it was Thanksgiving this past week. Thanksgiving is a holiday that I've always had mixed emotions about. As a younger individual, I was mostly just ambivalent. When I became a vegetarian, the first few Thanksgivings were a source of trepidation, albeit unnecessarily so; my mom and dad made sure I wouldn't be left out in the cold when it came to food options. This past dinner was especially wonderful, although I'm not really one to talk about what I eat so I won't go into details, but it involved banana squash, cheese, something that was kind of like spinach but wasn't spinach... look, I don't know, all I know is that it was wonderful. Where was I? Oh yes.
So aside from food, Thanksgiving is about family. More specifically, it's about seeing your family. Now, don't get me wrong, I like my family well enough; you might even say I love them. I'd say that myself. I never really considered myself to be a moody teenager growing up, never felt I really went through any sort of "rebellion" period where I was all "omg, my family's so lame and I hate them, blargh." But I guess I must have, because all of my memories of Thanksgiving in years past were associated with a sort of "tolerance" rather than me actually enjoying myself. So I guess I must have gone through some sort of teenage angst thing, right?
This year, however, I felt different. I played with my cousin's kids (they're four and two, I believe. So, you know, little.) I didn't look for a way to make a snide political comment. I had a good time even though I knew it wasn't really about me, that the attention would go to the little ones because when you're four and two, everything you do is either adorable, or if not adorable, certainly attention-grabbing.
It's weird: I felt like an adult, which isn't something I'm used to feeling when I'm with my family. I don't know what it is, what changed about me, why I'm suddenly this different person who had a great time, who enjoyed doing "uncle" stuff (even though I'm technically a second cousin). All I know is that two years ago, I couldn't stand being around kids, didn't know how to talk to them, and now it's just... so very different.
I guess the reason why I felt compelled to write about is because I think it's a rare thing, that we see in any tangible way how our attitudes, thoughts and opinions shift as we grow older, as we mature and move further and further away from childish things. I know that I'm not the same person I was five years ago, not really, and that I'm even a different person now compared to who I was a year ago, but even when that change happens quickly, even when it happens overnight, I don't think we often have a chance to realize it the way I did on Thursday.
Thursday was a Thanksgiving dinner very much like the one last year, and the one the year before that, but for some reason, this year I felt like I really was received by my family and really felt as though I had come into my own as an adult in their eyes, and maybe even my own.
Friday, November 27, 2009
Something To Say To The World
Here I am once again, because I want to be.
I've been thinking a lot about publishing lately, and I think it's something of a personal failure that I haven't allowed myself to blog about it before. Part of it... all of it, actually, comes from this strange anxiety I have towards the subject, something that is equal parts hope, fear, love and loathing.
Publishing has always been for me the one big milestone. I've told people that my dream is not to be a best selling author and on the New York Times list, but simply to go into Barnes & Nobles (or any book store, really), walk into the fiction section, grab a copy of my own book, take it up to the counter and buy it. I don't care if the clerk recognizes me, don't care if he or she sees that the name on the cover and the name on the debit card are the same. I just want to buy my own book. That's been the dream.
Because of that dream, there's always been the feeling that publishing equals success, and thus, the fact that I've never been published means that I haven't been successful as a writer. This has been something that I've grappled with for a while. On the one hand, part of the reason I haven't been published is because I've never really tried... I only ever sent a novel manuscript off to one publisher, and only ever submitted two of my short stories. So I can't say that I've given it a fair shake and was rejected every time.
I think the fear is that I'm not sure what to do if I go through all that hard work and I fail anyway. What happens then? Do I start rationalizing that publishing isn't a milestone of success, even though I've told myself over and over again that it is? I recognize, of course, that success means different things to different people, that many great writers were completely ignored during their entire lives, and that ultimately, it's not even supposed to be about something as silly as my little vanity dream. Writing isn't about getting your name on a book. It's not even about being a writer, which sounds strange, but let me explain. There was an article I read once that was completely unrelated to what I'm talking about now but contained this amusing little story I'd like to share with you:
According to his own site, when Dylan Avery was 18, he was doing construction work on a bar owned by James "Tony Soprano" Gandolfini. No, I didn't make that up. Anyway, Avery wanted to be a movie director. At a party he seized the opportunity to buttonhole Gandolfini, and the two had this conversation:
Avery: Mr. Soprano! I'm a huge fan!
Soprano: That's great, kid.
Avery: You know, I want to be a director...
Soprano: Like I give a shit. The deformed kid who cleans my fuckin' gutters wants to be a director. You got an idea for a movie?
Avery: Well, no...
Soprano: Then what the fuck are you comin' up to me talkin' about bein' a director? Let me tell you the problem with kids like you. You don't wanna direct. You don't wanna tell stories. You wanna be a director. You wanna walk down red carpets with a fuckin' starlet on your arm. You ain't got nothin' to say to the world. For you, the movies, the work, it's just a means to an end. The people who make it, the people who deserve to make it, the ones who get respect... they're the ones who got something to say to the world.
That's the point that I'm trying to make here; that it's not even supposed to be about being a writer, but about telling stories, about having something to say to the world. And believe me, if that's what it means to be successful, well, no wonder I'm anxious, no wonder I'm just this little ball of insecurity when it comes to my dream. It's not easy to have something to say to the world, to come up with this story that you feel needs to be told, not because you want the book deal, but because it's something worth telling.
And yet, that's what it really means, to be successful. It's not about having your name on a cover, or getting paid, or even getting to tell people "oh, yeah, I'm a writer and yeah, I've been published."
It's about having something to say to the world, and getting the opportunity to say it. The same is true of every creative person, every writer, every artist, every director.
No matter what anybody else might think, I do know one thing; I want to be the kind of writer who has something to say, not just one who wants all the acclaim that comes with "making it."
I've been thinking a lot about publishing lately, and I think it's something of a personal failure that I haven't allowed myself to blog about it before. Part of it... all of it, actually, comes from this strange anxiety I have towards the subject, something that is equal parts hope, fear, love and loathing.
Publishing has always been for me the one big milestone. I've told people that my dream is not to be a best selling author and on the New York Times list, but simply to go into Barnes & Nobles (or any book store, really), walk into the fiction section, grab a copy of my own book, take it up to the counter and buy it. I don't care if the clerk recognizes me, don't care if he or she sees that the name on the cover and the name on the debit card are the same. I just want to buy my own book. That's been the dream.
Because of that dream, there's always been the feeling that publishing equals success, and thus, the fact that I've never been published means that I haven't been successful as a writer. This has been something that I've grappled with for a while. On the one hand, part of the reason I haven't been published is because I've never really tried... I only ever sent a novel manuscript off to one publisher, and only ever submitted two of my short stories. So I can't say that I've given it a fair shake and was rejected every time.
I think the fear is that I'm not sure what to do if I go through all that hard work and I fail anyway. What happens then? Do I start rationalizing that publishing isn't a milestone of success, even though I've told myself over and over again that it is? I recognize, of course, that success means different things to different people, that many great writers were completely ignored during their entire lives, and that ultimately, it's not even supposed to be about something as silly as my little vanity dream. Writing isn't about getting your name on a book. It's not even about being a writer, which sounds strange, but let me explain. There was an article I read once that was completely unrelated to what I'm talking about now but contained this amusing little story I'd like to share with you:
According to his own site, when Dylan Avery was 18, he was doing construction work on a bar owned by James "Tony Soprano" Gandolfini. No, I didn't make that up. Anyway, Avery wanted to be a movie director. At a party he seized the opportunity to buttonhole Gandolfini, and the two had this conversation:
Avery: Mr. Soprano! I'm a huge fan!
Soprano: That's great, kid.
Avery: You know, I want to be a director...
Soprano: Like I give a shit. The deformed kid who cleans my fuckin' gutters wants to be a director. You got an idea for a movie?
Avery: Well, no...
Soprano: Then what the fuck are you comin' up to me talkin' about bein' a director? Let me tell you the problem with kids like you. You don't wanna direct. You don't wanna tell stories. You wanna be a director. You wanna walk down red carpets with a fuckin' starlet on your arm. You ain't got nothin' to say to the world. For you, the movies, the work, it's just a means to an end. The people who make it, the people who deserve to make it, the ones who get respect... they're the ones who got something to say to the world.
That's the point that I'm trying to make here; that it's not even supposed to be about being a writer, but about telling stories, about having something to say to the world. And believe me, if that's what it means to be successful, well, no wonder I'm anxious, no wonder I'm just this little ball of insecurity when it comes to my dream. It's not easy to have something to say to the world, to come up with this story that you feel needs to be told, not because you want the book deal, but because it's something worth telling.
And yet, that's what it really means, to be successful. It's not about having your name on a cover, or getting paid, or even getting to tell people "oh, yeah, I'm a writer and yeah, I've been published."
It's about having something to say to the world, and getting the opportunity to say it. The same is true of every creative person, every writer, every artist, every director.
No matter what anybody else might think, I do know one thing; I want to be the kind of writer who has something to say, not just one who wants all the acclaim that comes with "making it."
Thursday, November 26, 2009
After The End
And so here we are. The requirement has passed and yet, as I said, I remain here in this digital space, to write and reflect and perhaps rant, all depending on what thoughts are in my head. It's not about grades now or meeting the quota, although to be honest, it's not like I wrote every previous entry thinking "hmmm, how can I get an A with this?" From the very beginning, I've written what I wanted to write, written what's been in my mind. That it meets the requirements has actually been, to be perfectly honest, rather incidental. I don't know that I'd change anything that I've done even if I'd been told I was doing it wrong.
I must admit, the urge to not work is stronger now than I would have anticipated. Several times, while I've sat here and wondered what to say, my mind has had the damnably tempting idea of "why bother saying anything? It's not like you need to, now." That's exactly why I can't stop doing this, of course, because I know that once the impetus of requirement is lifted, there is nothing to force the writing discipline that I've cultivated over these past few months. That's the tricky thing about discipline, I've noticed: if you manage to learn it while you're being told to, the real struggle comes from adhering to it when there's nobody else around to tell you want to do.
So I have to blog now. I have to blog as much as I have been, because if I don't, I'll lose the discipline. I have to blog just like I have to tell me to not stop writing just because NaNoWriMo is almost over. I have to do these things, and I have to force myself, because pretty soon, all the lights will turn off, the music will play, show will be over and everybody gets to go home, except for me, because I won't let myself.
Going home means not coming into work tomorrow. Skipping a day means falling back into old habits.
You know one other thing I've noticed? I wrote yesterday about how all of us who wish to be novelists are secretly terrified of being one of those people who walks around for forty years talking about that idea for a novel we have, but never actually doing it. There's even a Family Guy skit about that, between Brian and Stewie, the whole "how's that novel you're working on? Been, uh, been working on that for about three years now?"
Well, one thing I noticed is that forcing myself to write every day means inevitably telling people "oh, I can't do that tonight, I have to go home and write first." It was a little annoying, actually, when sticking to my goal meant interrupting or not committing to other plans. But now, I take a certain measure of pleasure in it, actually; I feel more like the genuine article, when I say I can't do something because I'm dedicated to my work.
It could just be some sort of ego stroking on my part, some little pride thing gleaned from getting that whole "oh, I'm a serious writer" vibe out there for people to appreciate, since, let's face it, it won't come up very often unless you tell people what it is that you like to do. If that's true, I'm completely fine with that. Because aside from ego stroking, there's also the sense, in my own mind, that this is me proving to myself that I'm serious about this thing. Because it's really easy to say, oh, I'm a writer and I have nothing else to do, so I guess I'll do that writing thing. It's something else, something considerably more meaningful, in my opinion, when you make the decision to write when you could be doing something else.
I'm not saying that it makes me a better person. I am saying, however, that it makes me feel like I'm more dedicated to my craft than ever before.
I must admit, the urge to not work is stronger now than I would have anticipated. Several times, while I've sat here and wondered what to say, my mind has had the damnably tempting idea of "why bother saying anything? It's not like you need to, now." That's exactly why I can't stop doing this, of course, because I know that once the impetus of requirement is lifted, there is nothing to force the writing discipline that I've cultivated over these past few months. That's the tricky thing about discipline, I've noticed: if you manage to learn it while you're being told to, the real struggle comes from adhering to it when there's nobody else around to tell you want to do.
So I have to blog now. I have to blog as much as I have been, because if I don't, I'll lose the discipline. I have to blog just like I have to tell me to not stop writing just because NaNoWriMo is almost over. I have to do these things, and I have to force myself, because pretty soon, all the lights will turn off, the music will play, show will be over and everybody gets to go home, except for me, because I won't let myself.
Going home means not coming into work tomorrow. Skipping a day means falling back into old habits.
You know one other thing I've noticed? I wrote yesterday about how all of us who wish to be novelists are secretly terrified of being one of those people who walks around for forty years talking about that idea for a novel we have, but never actually doing it. There's even a Family Guy skit about that, between Brian and Stewie, the whole "how's that novel you're working on? Been, uh, been working on that for about three years now?"
Well, one thing I noticed is that forcing myself to write every day means inevitably telling people "oh, I can't do that tonight, I have to go home and write first." It was a little annoying, actually, when sticking to my goal meant interrupting or not committing to other plans. But now, I take a certain measure of pleasure in it, actually; I feel more like the genuine article, when I say I can't do something because I'm dedicated to my work.
It could just be some sort of ego stroking on my part, some little pride thing gleaned from getting that whole "oh, I'm a serious writer" vibe out there for people to appreciate, since, let's face it, it won't come up very often unless you tell people what it is that you like to do. If that's true, I'm completely fine with that. Because aside from ego stroking, there's also the sense, in my own mind, that this is me proving to myself that I'm serious about this thing. Because it's really easy to say, oh, I'm a writer and I have nothing else to do, so I guess I'll do that writing thing. It's something else, something considerably more meaningful, in my opinion, when you make the decision to write when you could be doing something else.
I'm not saying that it makes me a better person. I am saying, however, that it makes me feel like I'm more dedicated to my craft than ever before.
Wednesday, November 25, 2009
Life Is A Mirror
According to the requirements of the class that spawned this blog, this will be my last entry. That's it, all done, time to pack it up and go home. Good game, and all that. You're done! You made the grade!
So why don't I feel done? Why do I feel like the fact that the requirement is over is the worst thing that could happen, instead of the best? After all, we spend our entire academic lives looking ahead to those moments when we can be done, when we can be finished and get our grade and move on. I know that I'm looking forward to the last day of the semester from the very first time I step into the classroom at the beginning of the term. And it's not because I don't like being a student, that I don't like this class or any class (well, there's some classes I haven't liked, but those are another story.) It's simply because I like the feeling of being done, I like not having to worry about this paper or that essay or these tests.
So why do I hate the fact that it feels like the blog is supposed to be done?
That's a rhetorical question, of course, because I know why. I don't want to be done because I've come to look forward to this time that I spend reflecting. I'm proud of the consistency I've learned and the progress I've made. Most of all, I like the fact that I feel like a real writer again. I like being able to look back at my archive and see the road that brought me to this moment.
I've talked about NaNoWriMo and how it's affected me. I can honestly say that if I hadn't done this blog, hadn't learned to force myself to sit here each night even when I really, really didn't want to, there is absolutely no way I could have come as far on that novel as I have. I know this, because I tried NaNoWriMo last year. Got to about 10,000 words or so before I missed a day, and then another, and just like that, my whole drive was torpedoed and I gave up.
In working on this blog, however, I've learned how to deal with missing a day. Falling behind on the requirement, having to work harder just to get caught up. With last year's NaNoWriMo, once I fell behind, I just said "fuck it," and gave up. This blog didn't allow for that; well, technically, I suppose I could have, but I know I wouldn't have been a happy camper. I don't know about you, but I'm sort of depending on these points for my final grade, since not all of my essay work has been stellar.
I've put a lot of thought into what makes a good writer, or hell, what makes a decent writer: really, what makes any kind of writer. At different points during my life, I've had different ideas: talent, certainly, that some people just have this special little sense in their heads for feeling out the flow of a sentence the way musicians feel their music. I don't think that's it, though, not any more: certainly it's useful if you have some sort of natural talent, but it's not going to take you all the way.
That was my biggest problem, for such a long time: I believed that I was talented and I thought that sooner or later, the rest would just sort of happen to me. That a book would just, I don't know, write and publish itself so I could go on with living my dream. Funny how we don't ever say "go out and work your dream." You're always told to just live it.
Okay, so it's not talent. Luck, maybe? Some people are just lucky and get to be writers. They know publishers or agents or people who know people who know publishers or agents, and some how, that little chain of connection produces work. It's interesting to me that at various times, I've equated being a writer with being published. I don't feel that way any more, although I did, for a long time, and in moments of weakness, still do and still will.
So maybe it's not talent and not luck, what about time? I just don't have the time to write. Well, that one was a bullshit idea. Because I did have time. I do. I might not have wanted to cut out chunks of my leisure time, not when I could be playing a video game or watching another episode of Lost, but the truth is, I had the time. I have too much time, in fact. And really, I've found that it only takes me about an hour a night now, working on this novel. Surely I can find an hour during each day to do this! Well, I mean, I guess I can, because I have been.
At different points in my life, I've had different ideas about what makes a writer. I have a new idea today, and hopefully a better one than those of my past self, though I know it won't always be the best one, and that in a year from now, I'll have new ideas, different ideas, hopefully better ones.
But for today, I think what makes a writer is discipline. It's about showing up, it's about working for it and wanting it and telling yourself that you'll do it, because it's never, ever, ever going to just happen to you. I wrote a book when I was sixteen (or was I fifteen?) and for a long time after that, I wondered about how I managed to do it. I told myself that I didn't know, that it had just sort of "happened," and so I spent the next six (or maybe seven) years of my life thinking that writing will just happen. That it happened to me once and it'll happen to me again.
Of course, it didn't happen to me again, at least not in the same spurt it had that first time.
I wish like hell I could have learned this important lesson five years ago. And I'm grateful even more than I learned it now, and not in ten years, or worse, never. Because we all know somebody who "has an idea for a novel, someday." And all of us in these English and Creative Writing majors, all of us aspiring novelists, at least, are secretly terrified that we'll be that person some day, only we'll be that person who also has an unused college degree to go along with that unwritten masterpiece.
So, is the blog done? No. I've told you about what this project has taught me and how it's shaped new ideas and new attitudes. It would be wrong to stop now, however, just because the class no longer requires it. Because if this is what I can learn about myself and my craft from writing for five days a week in three months, can I even imagine what I'll learn after six months? Or a year?
I don't want to imagine it. I'd rather find out for myself.
See you all tomorrow. And the next day. And the next. Because there's more to this mirror than just the requirements of the class that began it. It goes deeper than that, even if it's not always kind, or easy.
Life is a mirror and will reflect back to the thinker what he thinks into it. ~Ernest Holmes
So why don't I feel done? Why do I feel like the fact that the requirement is over is the worst thing that could happen, instead of the best? After all, we spend our entire academic lives looking ahead to those moments when we can be done, when we can be finished and get our grade and move on. I know that I'm looking forward to the last day of the semester from the very first time I step into the classroom at the beginning of the term. And it's not because I don't like being a student, that I don't like this class or any class (well, there's some classes I haven't liked, but those are another story.) It's simply because I like the feeling of being done, I like not having to worry about this paper or that essay or these tests.
So why do I hate the fact that it feels like the blog is supposed to be done?
That's a rhetorical question, of course, because I know why. I don't want to be done because I've come to look forward to this time that I spend reflecting. I'm proud of the consistency I've learned and the progress I've made. Most of all, I like the fact that I feel like a real writer again. I like being able to look back at my archive and see the road that brought me to this moment.
I've talked about NaNoWriMo and how it's affected me. I can honestly say that if I hadn't done this blog, hadn't learned to force myself to sit here each night even when I really, really didn't want to, there is absolutely no way I could have come as far on that novel as I have. I know this, because I tried NaNoWriMo last year. Got to about 10,000 words or so before I missed a day, and then another, and just like that, my whole drive was torpedoed and I gave up.
In working on this blog, however, I've learned how to deal with missing a day. Falling behind on the requirement, having to work harder just to get caught up. With last year's NaNoWriMo, once I fell behind, I just said "fuck it," and gave up. This blog didn't allow for that; well, technically, I suppose I could have, but I know I wouldn't have been a happy camper. I don't know about you, but I'm sort of depending on these points for my final grade, since not all of my essay work has been stellar.
I've put a lot of thought into what makes a good writer, or hell, what makes a decent writer: really, what makes any kind of writer. At different points during my life, I've had different ideas: talent, certainly, that some people just have this special little sense in their heads for feeling out the flow of a sentence the way musicians feel their music. I don't think that's it, though, not any more: certainly it's useful if you have some sort of natural talent, but it's not going to take you all the way.
That was my biggest problem, for such a long time: I believed that I was talented and I thought that sooner or later, the rest would just sort of happen to me. That a book would just, I don't know, write and publish itself so I could go on with living my dream. Funny how we don't ever say "go out and work your dream." You're always told to just live it.
Okay, so it's not talent. Luck, maybe? Some people are just lucky and get to be writers. They know publishers or agents or people who know people who know publishers or agents, and some how, that little chain of connection produces work. It's interesting to me that at various times, I've equated being a writer with being published. I don't feel that way any more, although I did, for a long time, and in moments of weakness, still do and still will.
So maybe it's not talent and not luck, what about time? I just don't have the time to write. Well, that one was a bullshit idea. Because I did have time. I do. I might not have wanted to cut out chunks of my leisure time, not when I could be playing a video game or watching another episode of Lost, but the truth is, I had the time. I have too much time, in fact. And really, I've found that it only takes me about an hour a night now, working on this novel. Surely I can find an hour during each day to do this! Well, I mean, I guess I can, because I have been.
At different points in my life, I've had different ideas about what makes a writer. I have a new idea today, and hopefully a better one than those of my past self, though I know it won't always be the best one, and that in a year from now, I'll have new ideas, different ideas, hopefully better ones.
But for today, I think what makes a writer is discipline. It's about showing up, it's about working for it and wanting it and telling yourself that you'll do it, because it's never, ever, ever going to just happen to you. I wrote a book when I was sixteen (or was I fifteen?) and for a long time after that, I wondered about how I managed to do it. I told myself that I didn't know, that it had just sort of "happened," and so I spent the next six (or maybe seven) years of my life thinking that writing will just happen. That it happened to me once and it'll happen to me again.
Of course, it didn't happen to me again, at least not in the same spurt it had that first time.
I wish like hell I could have learned this important lesson five years ago. And I'm grateful even more than I learned it now, and not in ten years, or worse, never. Because we all know somebody who "has an idea for a novel, someday." And all of us in these English and Creative Writing majors, all of us aspiring novelists, at least, are secretly terrified that we'll be that person some day, only we'll be that person who also has an unused college degree to go along with that unwritten masterpiece.
So, is the blog done? No. I've told you about what this project has taught me and how it's shaped new ideas and new attitudes. It would be wrong to stop now, however, just because the class no longer requires it. Because if this is what I can learn about myself and my craft from writing for five days a week in three months, can I even imagine what I'll learn after six months? Or a year?
I don't want to imagine it. I'd rather find out for myself.
See you all tomorrow. And the next day. And the next. Because there's more to this mirror than just the requirements of the class that began it. It goes deeper than that, even if it's not always kind, or easy.
Life is a mirror and will reflect back to the thinker what he thinks into it. ~Ernest Holmes
Monday, November 23, 2009
Winning at Irony
It's the last full week in November, isn't it? Wow.
I can't believe it's gone by so quickly, and I can't believe how much this past month has changed me. I've written about it here, my various concerns and meditations and anxieties, and lately, it seems like I've been spending too much time worrying about what December will be like, if I'll be able to continue once the mandatory blog is over, once the NaNoWriMo is completed. There have been a lot of great comments, too, things that people have said that made me think, words of encouragement that made me smile.
You want to know the main reason why I don't see myself stopping just because the "deadline" has passed?
It's because now I feel like I have a story to tell. I feel like I have something to say. I don't think I'll be at the end in my little tale by 50,000 words and I very much want to finish this journey, so that I can share it. Many, many times, when I sat down to write, I worry that I didn't have anything to say. And a lot of times, I still feel that way, especially when I'm just getting started, when the page before me is blank and I'm trying to think about how to begin.
But I have something to say now. I have a story to tell, and I know that there will be another one after that, and one after that, and so on. I know that it won't be easy, but hasn't that been the entire point of November? Hasn't that been the number one lesson that we've learned together? That talent is a nice thing to have, a great little incentive to get you started, but hard work is what writes books, fills blogs, gets you away from that point in your life where you tell people "oh, I want to be a writer, it's totally my dream," even as you both wonder about the fact that you haven't written anything in six months. Hard work gets you to this point, and not to sound like a smug, arrogant jerk, but I'm pretty happy at this point right now. I feel good. I feel, well... I feel right.
You know, on a totally unrelated, it strikes me as amusing that I'm talking about how good I feel about my fiction writing and how I've got this great sense of purpose now and the whole world is just out there, and yet, I'm completely dreading the rhetoric project that's due tomorrow in the class that I'm doing this blog for. It'll be done, of course, it'll be ready, but I have this intense feeling of anxiety since I missed an entire week due to my on-again, off-again sickness, and I just don't feel good about the work, and... I don't really know where I'm going with that, I just wanted to mention it. Especially since it's truly ironic, and not just an amusing coincidence. Which means I totally win at irony. And everything, forever!
You will absolutely not get that joke unless you know what Power Thirst is.
I can't believe it's gone by so quickly, and I can't believe how much this past month has changed me. I've written about it here, my various concerns and meditations and anxieties, and lately, it seems like I've been spending too much time worrying about what December will be like, if I'll be able to continue once the mandatory blog is over, once the NaNoWriMo is completed. There have been a lot of great comments, too, things that people have said that made me think, words of encouragement that made me smile.
You want to know the main reason why I don't see myself stopping just because the "deadline" has passed?
It's because now I feel like I have a story to tell. I feel like I have something to say. I don't think I'll be at the end in my little tale by 50,000 words and I very much want to finish this journey, so that I can share it. Many, many times, when I sat down to write, I worry that I didn't have anything to say. And a lot of times, I still feel that way, especially when I'm just getting started, when the page before me is blank and I'm trying to think about how to begin.
But I have something to say now. I have a story to tell, and I know that there will be another one after that, and one after that, and so on. I know that it won't be easy, but hasn't that been the entire point of November? Hasn't that been the number one lesson that we've learned together? That talent is a nice thing to have, a great little incentive to get you started, but hard work is what writes books, fills blogs, gets you away from that point in your life where you tell people "oh, I want to be a writer, it's totally my dream," even as you both wonder about the fact that you haven't written anything in six months. Hard work gets you to this point, and not to sound like a smug, arrogant jerk, but I'm pretty happy at this point right now. I feel good. I feel, well... I feel right.
You know, on a totally unrelated, it strikes me as amusing that I'm talking about how good I feel about my fiction writing and how I've got this great sense of purpose now and the whole world is just out there, and yet, I'm completely dreading the rhetoric project that's due tomorrow in the class that I'm doing this blog for. It'll be done, of course, it'll be ready, but I have this intense feeling of anxiety since I missed an entire week due to my on-again, off-again sickness, and I just don't feel good about the work, and... I don't really know where I'm going with that, I just wanted to mention it. Especially since it's truly ironic, and not just an amusing coincidence. Which means I totally win at irony. And everything, forever!
You will absolutely not get that joke unless you know what Power Thirst is.
Saturday, November 21, 2009
When It's Good
After so many posts over the past week that focused on anxiety and how hard it's been, I thought it might be nice if tonight, I talked about the times when it's good. Because it is good, sometimes, even when it's hard. By it, of course, I mean writing, but really, unless this is the first post you've ever read of mine, you probably already knew that.
In keeping with the NaNoWriMo suggestion, I haven't gone back to read or edit anything in my story. I know why it's a rule; when the goal is speed and output, thinking about the little details slows you down. And when you hit those speed bumps, the enthusiasm drops and everything stalls. It's been hard to obey that rule a couple of times, however, even though I know it's a very good one to follow: more and more, as I find myself building towards the big climax, I wonder, did I introduce that plot point already? Is what I'm writing now going to fit with what I said a few chapters ago?
One thing that became particularly apparent to me as this project has progressed is how to choose where to leave off for the night. At first, I thought it might be a good idea to end each night in mid-scene, if possible, so that the next day, I can jump right in without having to worry about "hmmm, chapter 9, now what do I do?" Sometimes that's worked for me, but more and more, I realize that it's actually somewhat frustrating when I'm in the middle of a conversation, because then I'm not quite sure exactly what things have already been said, and what things are just things that I think will be said.
But I didn't mean to talk about difficulties; there's been enough griping for a while.
I said before that sometimes it's good, and that's true. Tonight was a good time. You can call it inspiration if you want, although I don't, because I don't feel particularly inspired, I just feel like I'm doing what I need to be doing and things are flowing along. Maybe that is inspiration, but in the past, I always associated it with a feeling of "eureka!" That's what I should do type of revelation.
Regardless of inspiration, however, the good moments are where you feel really happy with what you're doing. The anxieties don't go away, of course, and you'll still feel that nagging worry that maybe this isn't as epic as you think it is, but more and more, I find that I'm ignoring that feeling, writing through it and trusting in the moment. It may come to pass later that yes, I was wrong, it wasn't nearly as good as I thought it was. But what happens tomorrow does not and should not affect the story I'm telling right now.
That said, after tonight, I'm very eager to finish this story, because I want to share it. I want people to read it. I don't want to get ahead of myself, because I'm not quite done yet: indeed, I don't even know if 50,000 is going to be enough time to reach the end or not. But I do know that unless I draw this thing out to be 100,000 words, that there's more story behind me than ahead of me.
And really, I think I have something special here. Something that I'm proud of, something that I want to share. It's an exciting feeling; my first novel has only been read by a few people, and I don't think anybody's seen the mostly written sequel.
This time, it's going to be different. I'm not going to write this thing and then bury it in my hard drive, to never allow human eyes to fall upon it. This one, I'm going to put out there, whether by publishing or by putting it on some website or what. I want this story to be read.
And I'm going to do everything I can to make sure that it will be.
In keeping with the NaNoWriMo suggestion, I haven't gone back to read or edit anything in my story. I know why it's a rule; when the goal is speed and output, thinking about the little details slows you down. And when you hit those speed bumps, the enthusiasm drops and everything stalls. It's been hard to obey that rule a couple of times, however, even though I know it's a very good one to follow: more and more, as I find myself building towards the big climax, I wonder, did I introduce that plot point already? Is what I'm writing now going to fit with what I said a few chapters ago?
One thing that became particularly apparent to me as this project has progressed is how to choose where to leave off for the night. At first, I thought it might be a good idea to end each night in mid-scene, if possible, so that the next day, I can jump right in without having to worry about "hmmm, chapter 9, now what do I do?" Sometimes that's worked for me, but more and more, I realize that it's actually somewhat frustrating when I'm in the middle of a conversation, because then I'm not quite sure exactly what things have already been said, and what things are just things that I think will be said.
But I didn't mean to talk about difficulties; there's been enough griping for a while.
I said before that sometimes it's good, and that's true. Tonight was a good time. You can call it inspiration if you want, although I don't, because I don't feel particularly inspired, I just feel like I'm doing what I need to be doing and things are flowing along. Maybe that is inspiration, but in the past, I always associated it with a feeling of "eureka!" That's what I should do type of revelation.
Regardless of inspiration, however, the good moments are where you feel really happy with what you're doing. The anxieties don't go away, of course, and you'll still feel that nagging worry that maybe this isn't as epic as you think it is, but more and more, I find that I'm ignoring that feeling, writing through it and trusting in the moment. It may come to pass later that yes, I was wrong, it wasn't nearly as good as I thought it was. But what happens tomorrow does not and should not affect the story I'm telling right now.
That said, after tonight, I'm very eager to finish this story, because I want to share it. I want people to read it. I don't want to get ahead of myself, because I'm not quite done yet: indeed, I don't even know if 50,000 is going to be enough time to reach the end or not. But I do know that unless I draw this thing out to be 100,000 words, that there's more story behind me than ahead of me.
And really, I think I have something special here. Something that I'm proud of, something that I want to share. It's an exciting feeling; my first novel has only been read by a few people, and I don't think anybody's seen the mostly written sequel.
This time, it's going to be different. I'm not going to write this thing and then bury it in my hard drive, to never allow human eyes to fall upon it. This one, I'm going to put out there, whether by publishing or by putting it on some website or what. I want this story to be read.
And I'm going to do everything I can to make sure that it will be.
Friday, November 20, 2009
With the End in Sight
This has not been a good week for blogging.
Much of that has to do with the constant struggle between moments of sickness and coherency, which I've explained in posts below, along with Twitter updates. One thing that I'm glad about, even when I let my blog slip, is that I didn't forgo writing entirely during the past week; indeed, I still managed to make progress on the NaNoWriMo project, although such process came painfully, and with much struggle. But! That's not what I'd like to talk about tonight.
I must admit, with each day bringing us closer to the end of November, which also marks the end of mandatory composition blogging and NaNoWriMo, I find myself growing more anxious. Will I still manage to keep up the pace I've set for myself as a writer during this month? I haven't missed a day yet; can I hope to maintain this schedule of "writing every day?" What will I do if I miss a day?
It probably sounds strange, to fret so much about something so minor. Surely, one missed day will not eradicate all that I've accomplished over the past month, but I cannot help but worry that one missed day will eventually lead to the return of old, bad habits: "Oh, I don't feel like writing today." I hated being like that... what happens if I slide back into that mentality?
Of course, there is a very good chance that I won't, now that I have known the feeling of writing daily and experienced the pleasure of constant output. But I know that laziness is something I will need to battle constantly, that I will need to remember always that this is work and that if I ever want to really succeed at any of this, I need to show up to the job every day. I can't sit around and wait for inspiration.
I've mentioned that a couple of times, actually, my feelings towards inspiration. Don't get me wrong, I don't think that inspiration is a bad thing at all; in fact, I think it's a very, very good thing and I'm always grateful for those moments where it all seems to come together, because that is writing at its most pure, most primal and most pleasurable.
But inspiration is a siren's song, and one can too easily be lulled into waiting around for it to strike like a bolt of lightning, which means that the majority of one's time will be spent waiting and not spent writing. A better way, a more honest and productive way is to do it like I have been: showing up every day, writing as much as I can manage, without waiting for the inspiration to strike.
The advantage, of course, to this second method, is that when the inspiration does happen, it usually seems to happen when I'm already writing and so doesn't get wasted. That used to happen to me a lot, actually; I'd have this great idea in the shower or driving home, and it would evaporate in the brief time it would take me to make it to my computer or even to a notebook and pen.
Regardless of anxieties, however, time will march on and the end of these two mandatory projects is in sight. I know that I've worked hard and proven to myself that I can keep going even when I don't really want to, even when there are other things that would be easier and more fun to spend my time on.
I remain hopeful for the future, that the progress I have made towards the whole task of "being a writer" will not unravel in the coming days. But I do not imagine for a moment that it will be easy, that it will ever get easier. I know that it won't.
Interestingly, I don't think that it should, either.
Much of that has to do with the constant struggle between moments of sickness and coherency, which I've explained in posts below, along with Twitter updates. One thing that I'm glad about, even when I let my blog slip, is that I didn't forgo writing entirely during the past week; indeed, I still managed to make progress on the NaNoWriMo project, although such process came painfully, and with much struggle. But! That's not what I'd like to talk about tonight.
I must admit, with each day bringing us closer to the end of November, which also marks the end of mandatory composition blogging and NaNoWriMo, I find myself growing more anxious. Will I still manage to keep up the pace I've set for myself as a writer during this month? I haven't missed a day yet; can I hope to maintain this schedule of "writing every day?" What will I do if I miss a day?
It probably sounds strange, to fret so much about something so minor. Surely, one missed day will not eradicate all that I've accomplished over the past month, but I cannot help but worry that one missed day will eventually lead to the return of old, bad habits: "Oh, I don't feel like writing today." I hated being like that... what happens if I slide back into that mentality?
Of course, there is a very good chance that I won't, now that I have known the feeling of writing daily and experienced the pleasure of constant output. But I know that laziness is something I will need to battle constantly, that I will need to remember always that this is work and that if I ever want to really succeed at any of this, I need to show up to the job every day. I can't sit around and wait for inspiration.
I've mentioned that a couple of times, actually, my feelings towards inspiration. Don't get me wrong, I don't think that inspiration is a bad thing at all; in fact, I think it's a very, very good thing and I'm always grateful for those moments where it all seems to come together, because that is writing at its most pure, most primal and most pleasurable.
But inspiration is a siren's song, and one can too easily be lulled into waiting around for it to strike like a bolt of lightning, which means that the majority of one's time will be spent waiting and not spent writing. A better way, a more honest and productive way is to do it like I have been: showing up every day, writing as much as I can manage, without waiting for the inspiration to strike.
The advantage, of course, to this second method, is that when the inspiration does happen, it usually seems to happen when I'm already writing and so doesn't get wasted. That used to happen to me a lot, actually; I'd have this great idea in the shower or driving home, and it would evaporate in the brief time it would take me to make it to my computer or even to a notebook and pen.
Regardless of anxieties, however, time will march on and the end of these two mandatory projects is in sight. I know that I've worked hard and proven to myself that I can keep going even when I don't really want to, even when there are other things that would be easier and more fun to spend my time on.
I remain hopeful for the future, that the progress I have made towards the whole task of "being a writer" will not unravel in the coming days. But I do not imagine for a moment that it will be easy, that it will ever get easier. I know that it won't.
Interestingly, I don't think that it should, either.
Tuesday, November 17, 2009
Still Sick, Still Stressed, Still Writing
I would just like to preface this post by mentioning the fact that I still feel absolutely horrible. Not sure why I have this wonderful lingering sickness, but I do. And it's awesome, and I'm sure that it's made me an awesome person to be around lately, if you're unlucky enough to have to be around me.
At the moment, I feel very stressed. At the moment, I don't know if I'm going to be able to manage all the things that I've told myself I need to do, and the fact that my lungs are trying to secede via fits of coughing do not ameliorate the situation. It's like, goddamn, you know, I feel like I could manage this awesome pile of tasks if I was feeling my A game, feeling good, but in this state? It's hard enough to even find the will or the focus to do any work.
I realize that I'm whining and for that, I'm sorry. I would use these feelings in a more constructive way, but I already wrote on Sunday about how being sick and having deadlines are an extremely tense situation. Don't really have anything new to say on the topic.
Is it comforting or alarming to think about the fact that I'm down to the wire, that there's just about a month left? I guess on the one hand, it's reassuring to know that this, too, shall pass, but it's interrupted by that terrible sense of anxiety that time is running out, that there's so much to do and I'm wasting time by blogging about it, writing my stupid novel project, and so on and so on.
This is the part where I make some sort of keen insight, so that it's all worthwhile; most of all, that it's worth something to you to continue reading. I, sadly, do not have any such insight tonight. What I do know, however, is that even though my skull feels like it's going to explode, even though I feel completely swamped with work, I don't feel like I've made the wrong choice here. It's weighing heavily on my mind, this NaNoWriMo project. Should I really keep going, when I have so much to do? Or at the very least, shouldn't I put it off until I've done the other projects first, the writing that's going to count towards my grade?
And yet, I can't bring myself to stop, not when I've come so far. I don't want to stop. And that's something that, even as I write it, strikes me as a profound and amazing thing. I don't know if I've ever really felt this way before about a project, about writing. For so long, it's been "oh, I really should be writing" or "I really should be writing more." I don't think I've ever felt like I should stop, that I'm doing too much, that I need to refocus.
I think I like that feeling, actually. Sure, it means I'm still stressed as hell, swamped with things to do, but it also feels like a measure of success; a sign that I've really made strides against my tendency to say "oh, I don't feel like writing today, maybe I'll start that story tomorrow."
I do believe I will do anything to prevent myself from sliding back into that habit. Even if it means stressing myself out in the process.
No idea whether or not that's a healthy attitude.
At the moment, I feel very stressed. At the moment, I don't know if I'm going to be able to manage all the things that I've told myself I need to do, and the fact that my lungs are trying to secede via fits of coughing do not ameliorate the situation. It's like, goddamn, you know, I feel like I could manage this awesome pile of tasks if I was feeling my A game, feeling good, but in this state? It's hard enough to even find the will or the focus to do any work.
I realize that I'm whining and for that, I'm sorry. I would use these feelings in a more constructive way, but I already wrote on Sunday about how being sick and having deadlines are an extremely tense situation. Don't really have anything new to say on the topic.
Is it comforting or alarming to think about the fact that I'm down to the wire, that there's just about a month left? I guess on the one hand, it's reassuring to know that this, too, shall pass, but it's interrupted by that terrible sense of anxiety that time is running out, that there's so much to do and I'm wasting time by blogging about it, writing my stupid novel project, and so on and so on.
This is the part where I make some sort of keen insight, so that it's all worthwhile; most of all, that it's worth something to you to continue reading. I, sadly, do not have any such insight tonight. What I do know, however, is that even though my skull feels like it's going to explode, even though I feel completely swamped with work, I don't feel like I've made the wrong choice here. It's weighing heavily on my mind, this NaNoWriMo project. Should I really keep going, when I have so much to do? Or at the very least, shouldn't I put it off until I've done the other projects first, the writing that's going to count towards my grade?
And yet, I can't bring myself to stop, not when I've come so far. I don't want to stop. And that's something that, even as I write it, strikes me as a profound and amazing thing. I don't know if I've ever really felt this way before about a project, about writing. For so long, it's been "oh, I really should be writing" or "I really should be writing more." I don't think I've ever felt like I should stop, that I'm doing too much, that I need to refocus.
I think I like that feeling, actually. Sure, it means I'm still stressed as hell, swamped with things to do, but it also feels like a measure of success; a sign that I've really made strides against my tendency to say "oh, I don't feel like writing today, maybe I'll start that story tomorrow."
I do believe I will do anything to prevent myself from sliding back into that habit. Even if it means stressing myself out in the process.
No idea whether or not that's a healthy attitude.
Sunday, November 15, 2009
The Cruelty of Deadlines
I've had two important observations I'd like to share with you tonight, gleaned from my experience as I lay in bed coughing and hacking and wondering if I was cursed, or just very unlucky.
Why do I think I'm cursed? Hexed? Bewitched? Well, because it was my brother's birthday a few weeks ago, on Halloween. It was my mother's birthday last Friday, on the 13th. Yeah, I know, totally weird. But both days, while I was spending time with my family, I came down with an excruciatingly unpleasant illness that left me bedridden for at least a day. I thought at first I was allergic to my family, but I see them lots of times, and it only seems to be on birthdays that I get sick.
Ergo, it's a curse.
My second observation came from my experience last night as I tried to muster up the will to keep on writing, so that I didn't fall behind on my deadline. I just have this tremendous fear that if I skip a day, it will start the chain reaction that leads to "oh, I don't feel like it tonight, maybe tomorrow." I don't want to go back to that; I want to be able to say that I wrote even when I was lying in bed coughing out my lungs. Even though the writing probably wasn't very good and even though I didn't get very far, the fact was that I still forced myself to do it.
But goddamn, it was hard. I had a lot of time to reflect, throughout the day, during moments of lucidity, on this whole "should I, shouldn't I" thought process. I came to realize, as I said somewhere in an earlier post, that when you make a deadline, when you really, finally, truly commit to one, it becomes the most cruel and unforgiving task master you can possibly imagine.
There was nothing forcing me to work yesterday, except for me. Me, and the fact that if I didn't work yesterday, I'd have to do twice as much writing today just to get caught up. How many days could I allow myself to skip before the deficit became too much and I gave up hope of the project? I don't know and I don't really think I want to know.
My point is that writing is not easy. It's not always fun and it's not something that just "happens." For all the moments where we feel divine inspiration, all the times where it just seems to "flow," there are a whole lot more times where it's working even though you have a wonderful migraine and the thought of staring at a computer screen is as appealing as eating hot shards of glass.
I will admit, fully aware of my own pride in saying so, that I consider myself to be at least a little bit talented. But more and more, I realize that talent is something that's nice to have, it's a good place to start, but it doesn't really mean anything if you just wait around for it to kick in and do its thing. It'll just sit there, inert.
It's only after you've forced yourself to your keyboard and fought for every measly word over the course of two hours that you realize you have to do the work all of your own; that there's no muse to carry you. The muse only shows up to take everything you'd done on your own, and made it into something special.
Why do I think I'm cursed? Hexed? Bewitched? Well, because it was my brother's birthday a few weeks ago, on Halloween. It was my mother's birthday last Friday, on the 13th. Yeah, I know, totally weird. But both days, while I was spending time with my family, I came down with an excruciatingly unpleasant illness that left me bedridden for at least a day. I thought at first I was allergic to my family, but I see them lots of times, and it only seems to be on birthdays that I get sick.
Ergo, it's a curse.
My second observation came from my experience last night as I tried to muster up the will to keep on writing, so that I didn't fall behind on my deadline. I just have this tremendous fear that if I skip a day, it will start the chain reaction that leads to "oh, I don't feel like it tonight, maybe tomorrow." I don't want to go back to that; I want to be able to say that I wrote even when I was lying in bed coughing out my lungs. Even though the writing probably wasn't very good and even though I didn't get very far, the fact was that I still forced myself to do it.
But goddamn, it was hard. I had a lot of time to reflect, throughout the day, during moments of lucidity, on this whole "should I, shouldn't I" thought process. I came to realize, as I said somewhere in an earlier post, that when you make a deadline, when you really, finally, truly commit to one, it becomes the most cruel and unforgiving task master you can possibly imagine.
There was nothing forcing me to work yesterday, except for me. Me, and the fact that if I didn't work yesterday, I'd have to do twice as much writing today just to get caught up. How many days could I allow myself to skip before the deficit became too much and I gave up hope of the project? I don't know and I don't really think I want to know.
My point is that writing is not easy. It's not always fun and it's not something that just "happens." For all the moments where we feel divine inspiration, all the times where it just seems to "flow," there are a whole lot more times where it's working even though you have a wonderful migraine and the thought of staring at a computer screen is as appealing as eating hot shards of glass.
I will admit, fully aware of my own pride in saying so, that I consider myself to be at least a little bit talented. But more and more, I realize that talent is something that's nice to have, it's a good place to start, but it doesn't really mean anything if you just wait around for it to kick in and do its thing. It'll just sit there, inert.
It's only after you've forced yourself to your keyboard and fought for every measly word over the course of two hours that you realize you have to do the work all of your own; that there's no muse to carry you. The muse only shows up to take everything you'd done on your own, and made it into something special.
Thursday, November 12, 2009
Disappointment and Rejection
When I sat down to write for the evening, I had to decide whether to work on my blog first, or my novel project. Before today, it has always been the novel first, since that usually puts me in a really good mood and makes for more positive reflection, than if I had started with the blog first. That was true today as well, although I'm particularly glad that I stuck to my usual method, since if I had blogged initially, it would have been extremely dark, somber and depressing. As it stands, I'm still sad now, but less so.
The reason why I'm sad, well... that's not quite the word; a better term would be "disappointed." The reason I'm disappointed is because I entered this fiction contest about a month ago, not for any real prize or anything, but simply because I liked the idea of having my writing read and judged. This is the second year that I've done this particular contest and the story that I submitted was one that I wrote over the summer. It was a speculative fiction piece titled "the Immortal" about a man who discovers one day, for seemingly no reason, that he cannot die, and the implications that follow from that discovery.
I thought, and still do think, that it's one of the better things that I've written. In particular, it was that story that started a lot of my thinking on the nature of God and Christian mythology and other such topics, a line of thinking that led directly into my current novel project.
Well, anyway, the award presentation is tomorrow night and I had not heard whether or not I should make plans to attend. Now, perhaps this is merely my hubris, but I honestly believed that I hadn't heard anything because of a break in communication somewhere. Such things always seem to happen to me, to be honest, and I'm always getting bills and letters late, or not at all. So I wrote off an email to a friend who was associated with the contest and asked what had happened.
My friend, of course, was polite in her response, but she was also honest, and the truth was that I hadn't made the cut. I won't really explain why I didn't make it, mostly because I don't know myself. All I know is that I had "a wide variety of opinions," and that one judge gave me a perfect score, while another gave me a very low score, and it was that low score that knocked me out of the running.
Disappointing. And I admit, I'm more disappointed than I should be, because I had really thought I was going to make the finalists, if not outright win. I felt that way because this story was something that I was proud of, something that, to me, was unique and original and interesting, which is actually pretty rare in the genres of sci-fi and fantasy these days. People like the old tropes best, it seems.
It's disappointing because I feel that I've improved over what I was writing last year, that my storytelling has improved and yet, it seems like the "new thing" that I'm doing isn't as good, isn't as well received, and that's unfortunate, because it calls into question all the conceptions I have about how I'm doing as a writer and whether or not I'm getting better at this whole thing.
Part of me feels that this whole thing was a mistake, because for a while, I've had the experience of writing in a bubble, in this nice little vacuum where I don't have to worry about being "good," and now it's all I can think about. Is this any good? Am I good? Maybe I'm getting worse? I don't really like thinking that way; at the very least, it's taken some of the raw pleasure out of things.
On the other hand, I know that disappointment is to be expected, and that even some of my literary heroes knew rejection even in the height of their success. I know that not everything will appeal to everyone, and there's a very strong chance (although this sounds arrogant for me to say) that my story was too high concept, was beyond what some people might be able to grasp. I don't know if that's actually true or not. All I know is that last year, I wrote a story about a writer who believed in his own fiction, and this year, I wrote a story about the nature of life, death, immortality, God and the universe itself.
Both stories are mine. I'm proud of both stories. And regardless, I'm going to keep writing.
Also, I really, really want to move. As in, to another apartment. But that's a rant for another evening.
The reason why I'm sad, well... that's not quite the word; a better term would be "disappointed." The reason I'm disappointed is because I entered this fiction contest about a month ago, not for any real prize or anything, but simply because I liked the idea of having my writing read and judged. This is the second year that I've done this particular contest and the story that I submitted was one that I wrote over the summer. It was a speculative fiction piece titled "the Immortal" about a man who discovers one day, for seemingly no reason, that he cannot die, and the implications that follow from that discovery.
I thought, and still do think, that it's one of the better things that I've written. In particular, it was that story that started a lot of my thinking on the nature of God and Christian mythology and other such topics, a line of thinking that led directly into my current novel project.
Well, anyway, the award presentation is tomorrow night and I had not heard whether or not I should make plans to attend. Now, perhaps this is merely my hubris, but I honestly believed that I hadn't heard anything because of a break in communication somewhere. Such things always seem to happen to me, to be honest, and I'm always getting bills and letters late, or not at all. So I wrote off an email to a friend who was associated with the contest and asked what had happened.
My friend, of course, was polite in her response, but she was also honest, and the truth was that I hadn't made the cut. I won't really explain why I didn't make it, mostly because I don't know myself. All I know is that I had "a wide variety of opinions," and that one judge gave me a perfect score, while another gave me a very low score, and it was that low score that knocked me out of the running.
Disappointing. And I admit, I'm more disappointed than I should be, because I had really thought I was going to make the finalists, if not outright win. I felt that way because this story was something that I was proud of, something that, to me, was unique and original and interesting, which is actually pretty rare in the genres of sci-fi and fantasy these days. People like the old tropes best, it seems.
It's disappointing because I feel that I've improved over what I was writing last year, that my storytelling has improved and yet, it seems like the "new thing" that I'm doing isn't as good, isn't as well received, and that's unfortunate, because it calls into question all the conceptions I have about how I'm doing as a writer and whether or not I'm getting better at this whole thing.
Part of me feels that this whole thing was a mistake, because for a while, I've had the experience of writing in a bubble, in this nice little vacuum where I don't have to worry about being "good," and now it's all I can think about. Is this any good? Am I good? Maybe I'm getting worse? I don't really like thinking that way; at the very least, it's taken some of the raw pleasure out of things.
On the other hand, I know that disappointment is to be expected, and that even some of my literary heroes knew rejection even in the height of their success. I know that not everything will appeal to everyone, and there's a very strong chance (although this sounds arrogant for me to say) that my story was too high concept, was beyond what some people might be able to grasp. I don't know if that's actually true or not. All I know is that last year, I wrote a story about a writer who believed in his own fiction, and this year, I wrote a story about the nature of life, death, immortality, God and the universe itself.
Both stories are mine. I'm proud of both stories. And regardless, I'm going to keep writing.
Also, I really, really want to move. As in, to another apartment. But that's a rant for another evening.
Wednesday, November 11, 2009
Thoughts on Dumb Genes (and the People that Have Them)
Today is Veteran's Day, which I think is a very important holiday to celebrate. If you are wondering what prompted this assertion, I would direct you back to a post I made last month about holidays I don't think are really worth celebrating, like Columbus Day. Veteran's Day, on the other hand, is a very good holiday and I'm glad that we take the time to recognize the sacrifices made by those who have fought on our collective behalf.
Anyway, that's not what I'm really here to talk about tonight, but I thought it was something that was worth saying, because I don't think it's something that gets said often enough. The sad truth is, for all of the good holidays that are out there, how many of us are cognizant of their meaning? Well, when I say us, I don't me us, like you and me, because readers of ALKM (my blog title's acronym) are all thoughtful, learned folk who think about these things on a regular basis. But I think we can all agree that we're probably not really representative of the larger community, because let's face it: there are a lot, and I mean a lot of dumb people in the world.
I attribute the rise in dumb people to two things. First of all, natural selection has been weakened, meaning that less dumb people die off from doing dumb things, and survive the pass along dumb genes to dumb offspring. Thankfully, the truly dumb among us still manage to harm themselves in spectacular ways, thus provided at least some measure of genetic protection. If you disagree, you've never really taken a good, hard look at a lot of the videos on YouTube. That might be a good thing, actually; it means that your mind is still uncorrupted, still pure. I'd try to hold on to that for as long as possible, if I were you.
But now that I've said that, you'll probably be curious, probably start wondering just how dumb people really are. And then you'll go off and look and learn, and then that innocence will be shattered, and it will be all my fault for bringing it up in the first place. Way to go, thanks a fucking lot.
The other observation I'd like to make is not that there are more dumb people in the world, or that the average dumb person is getting dumber (both are true, though) but that we're more aware of them now thanks to the advent of media. I mean, previously, you had the village idiot, and maybe the drunken sots who passed out in the stable, and that was about all the dumb anybody had to put up with.
Now, though, you have videos and the Internet and... well, pretty much videos, the Internet, and videos on the Internet.
On the other hand, people who were considered smart thought that it made sense that sick people just had too much fucking blood, which sounds pretty dumb to me, and I'm not even a doctor. So maybe there's hope for us, after all.
At the very least, it gives the rest of us a reason to be sarcastic, secure in the knowledge that many of the people we belittle, despite their superior strength, lack the awareness to perceive our mockery. So, really, it's more of a predator/prey relationship, than anything. Just not one that ends will the prey being devoured.
Well, it doesn't usually end like that, anyway.
Anyway, that's not what I'm really here to talk about tonight, but I thought it was something that was worth saying, because I don't think it's something that gets said often enough. The sad truth is, for all of the good holidays that are out there, how many of us are cognizant of their meaning? Well, when I say us, I don't me us, like you and me, because readers of ALKM (my blog title's acronym) are all thoughtful, learned folk who think about these things on a regular basis. But I think we can all agree that we're probably not really representative of the larger community, because let's face it: there are a lot, and I mean a lot of dumb people in the world.
I attribute the rise in dumb people to two things. First of all, natural selection has been weakened, meaning that less dumb people die off from doing dumb things, and survive the pass along dumb genes to dumb offspring. Thankfully, the truly dumb among us still manage to harm themselves in spectacular ways, thus provided at least some measure of genetic protection. If you disagree, you've never really taken a good, hard look at a lot of the videos on YouTube. That might be a good thing, actually; it means that your mind is still uncorrupted, still pure. I'd try to hold on to that for as long as possible, if I were you.
But now that I've said that, you'll probably be curious, probably start wondering just how dumb people really are. And then you'll go off and look and learn, and then that innocence will be shattered, and it will be all my fault for bringing it up in the first place. Way to go, thanks a fucking lot.
The other observation I'd like to make is not that there are more dumb people in the world, or that the average dumb person is getting dumber (both are true, though) but that we're more aware of them now thanks to the advent of media. I mean, previously, you had the village idiot, and maybe the drunken sots who passed out in the stable, and that was about all the dumb anybody had to put up with.
Now, though, you have videos and the Internet and... well, pretty much videos, the Internet, and videos on the Internet.
On the other hand, people who were considered smart thought that it made sense that sick people just had too much fucking blood, which sounds pretty dumb to me, and I'm not even a doctor. So maybe there's hope for us, after all.
At the very least, it gives the rest of us a reason to be sarcastic, secure in the knowledge that many of the people we belittle, despite their superior strength, lack the awareness to perceive our mockery. So, really, it's more of a predator/prey relationship, than anything. Just not one that ends will the prey being devoured.
Well, it doesn't usually end like that, anyway.
Tuesday, November 10, 2009
Anxieties, Old and New
It made me very sad today, when I realized that there are now more mandatory blog posts behind me than there are ahead of me for the composition class that spawned this project. Of course, I plan to continue to write in this blog even after it's no longer required, because, after all, it's my personal slice of the Internet, damn it, and it's my awesome T-Rex picture up there.
Still, when I realized that the time is fast approaching that this will no longer be required portion of my day, it made me sad. I have very much come to look forward to the time that we spend together, you and I. I like to look through the archives and see how I've been, night after night. I enjoy the record that has begun to accumulate.
Again, this is not to say that I'm going to stop once the assignment has ended. What makes me said is knowing that the safety net will be gone. The deadline will be passed, in one sense, and I'll go back to the old way; where my updating only happens because I want it to happen. I will not lie; I'm very fond of the way things are right now. The fact that this matters for a grade is an excellent motivator to keep me on task, to keep me updating even when I don't feel like it... especially when I don't feel like it. Because that's how it starts, that's how this new, wonderful habit of writing every day starts to revert back to the old ways of "meh, I'll write when I feel like it."
We all know this by now: very, very rarely, does one every truly "feel like it." Oh, sure, there are the times where I have a great idea and I think, "that might make a cool story," and I'll sit down, and start writing. Or I'll think about how much I want to blog every day and I'll do a few entries. But always, the fire goes out after a few days, everything fades once the "new" feeling wears off. And by the time it's work, my interest has gone to other things.
I don't like that. I don't like being that way, and that's why this has all been so important to me. That's why this blog has become so important to me and why the NaNoWriMo project has become so important to me. Because these two things show me that I can be the kind of writer that I dream of being. That I can be the person who writes every day, like my heroes do.
These things have shown me that I might have what it takes to live my dream.
It's not about being good, any more. I used to worry about that, in all of my writing classes and with every single thing that I set out to do. I used to worry, is this good? Is this something that's worthy of a "real writer?" I know why I think, or rather, why I thought that way for so long, for several years, in fact. I had a friend when I was younger, who, despite being a well meaning and caring individual, made a comment on one of the first short stories I ever wrote, that stuck with me to this very day. She read one of my early works, before she really knew me, and a few years later, we were talking about those first attempts, and she remarked how silly it seemed to her, that I had been this callow kid who thought he could be a writer with storytelling skills that were that poor and unfocused.
I know, of course, that she meant it as a compliment to how far I had come since those early days, but I know that I took some of what she said in a negative context, which became an anxiety throughout my life whenever I would tell people "oh, I'm a writer." And it's very possibly all in my head, but there was the worry that, upon telling somebody you want to make this thing your life, that you feel that it is your life in a sense, that you have a certain standard to meet. You better be good if you tell people you want to be a writer.
It's an anxiety that I carried with me for too long, and that I admit, still gnaws at me from time to time. But more and more, as I write for the pleasure of it and because I find that I am unhappy when I don't do it, I realize that it doesn't matter. Anxiety is my greatest opponent, I have realized. It is the source of my procrastination and it's what has held me back every time I allowed myself to stop, when I told myself "oh, I don't feel like writing tonight."
I do not pretend to think that the battle is over and that I'm suddenly this paragon of confidence. New anxieties replace old ones, after all; for instance, I worry now that I use the word "suddenly" far more often than I should. But just like courage is not the absence of fear, but the will to act in spite of it, so too is my resolve not wrought of a lack of anxiety, but the freedom to push beyond it.
Still, when I realized that the time is fast approaching that this will no longer be required portion of my day, it made me sad. I have very much come to look forward to the time that we spend together, you and I. I like to look through the archives and see how I've been, night after night. I enjoy the record that has begun to accumulate.
Again, this is not to say that I'm going to stop once the assignment has ended. What makes me said is knowing that the safety net will be gone. The deadline will be passed, in one sense, and I'll go back to the old way; where my updating only happens because I want it to happen. I will not lie; I'm very fond of the way things are right now. The fact that this matters for a grade is an excellent motivator to keep me on task, to keep me updating even when I don't feel like it... especially when I don't feel like it. Because that's how it starts, that's how this new, wonderful habit of writing every day starts to revert back to the old ways of "meh, I'll write when I feel like it."
We all know this by now: very, very rarely, does one every truly "feel like it." Oh, sure, there are the times where I have a great idea and I think, "that might make a cool story," and I'll sit down, and start writing. Or I'll think about how much I want to blog every day and I'll do a few entries. But always, the fire goes out after a few days, everything fades once the "new" feeling wears off. And by the time it's work, my interest has gone to other things.
I don't like that. I don't like being that way, and that's why this has all been so important to me. That's why this blog has become so important to me and why the NaNoWriMo project has become so important to me. Because these two things show me that I can be the kind of writer that I dream of being. That I can be the person who writes every day, like my heroes do.
These things have shown me that I might have what it takes to live my dream.
It's not about being good, any more. I used to worry about that, in all of my writing classes and with every single thing that I set out to do. I used to worry, is this good? Is this something that's worthy of a "real writer?" I know why I think, or rather, why I thought that way for so long, for several years, in fact. I had a friend when I was younger, who, despite being a well meaning and caring individual, made a comment on one of the first short stories I ever wrote, that stuck with me to this very day. She read one of my early works, before she really knew me, and a few years later, we were talking about those first attempts, and she remarked how silly it seemed to her, that I had been this callow kid who thought he could be a writer with storytelling skills that were that poor and unfocused.
I know, of course, that she meant it as a compliment to how far I had come since those early days, but I know that I took some of what she said in a negative context, which became an anxiety throughout my life whenever I would tell people "oh, I'm a writer." And it's very possibly all in my head, but there was the worry that, upon telling somebody you want to make this thing your life, that you feel that it is your life in a sense, that you have a certain standard to meet. You better be good if you tell people you want to be a writer.
It's an anxiety that I carried with me for too long, and that I admit, still gnaws at me from time to time. But more and more, as I write for the pleasure of it and because I find that I am unhappy when I don't do it, I realize that it doesn't matter. Anxiety is my greatest opponent, I have realized. It is the source of my procrastination and it's what has held me back every time I allowed myself to stop, when I told myself "oh, I don't feel like writing tonight."
I do not pretend to think that the battle is over and that I'm suddenly this paragon of confidence. New anxieties replace old ones, after all; for instance, I worry now that I use the word "suddenly" far more often than I should. But just like courage is not the absence of fear, but the will to act in spite of it, so too is my resolve not wrought of a lack of anxiety, but the freedom to push beyond it.
Monday, November 9, 2009
Creative Juices, Now In Stock At Your Local Juicery
And we're back, from the first break I've had from blogging in about a week.
It was never my intention to go for such a streak, mind you. It was just one of those things where I was a few posts behind and I really wanted to be at a point where I was doing 5 a week, so that it would give the archive a nice, even number divisible by five each week. Fifty posts for last week, fifty-five for this one, and so on. I am quite certain that nobody will care about this, except for me, and the only reason that I care about it at all is because I'm crazy.
Would it be weird to say that I actually thought really hard about my decision not to blog last night? Part of me wanted to, even though I was all caught up. You can get a head start on the week, I told myself, in case you miss a day or something.
But the real reason I felt like blogging, and the reason that I've been feeling good about things as I blog now, all goes back to that NaNoWriMo project. Are you sick of hearing about it yet? Too goddamn bad, it's my blog; more importantly, it's my blog for a writing class and this particular novel writing project has done so much for my attitude and motivation as a writer that it would take a far longer and more self-serving post than this one to explain it all.
You can probably expect to read such a post by Thursday or so.
The first thing I do when I get home now, after I take off the usual things (shoes, pants, etc) is sit down at my computer and start work on the novel. I am an absolutely terrible procrastinator, and it's always been a struggle for me to write when I'm at my computer. Which is a weird thing to say, but whenever I sit down and especially when I have to write something that I don't want to write, I check the usual time wasters: Twitter, Facebook, my email, Twitter again, the news, a web comic, Facebook, and that's already forty-five minutes I could have spent working now down the drain.
I'm glad to say that with the novel, I haven't really been doing that, aside from a quick tweet to say that I'm going to start working. Mostly, that's just so I see how long my writing sessions are going, if my habits are changing at all the more I do this.
The novel writing has pretty much been a very positive experience so far; I haven't felt myself get frustrated or anxious, although I have gotten close many, many times, especially when I think about "where do I go next" or "is that going to make sense?" I ignore those thoughts, however, and so far, it's working out well. But inevitably, I feel I hit a point where I can leave off for the night and have a good place to continue tomorrow, and by then, I've been writing like crazy for 45 minutes to an hour, and now the creative juices are really flowing!
So then I come here and blog about it. Like right now. What I'm doing this very moment.
Come to think of it, I wonder if maybe I should blog first, and then work on the novel. Might produce better work that way... but I probably won't, since I have this thing right here and now, and it's working well for me.
I don't want to monkey with it, since if I did, I'm quite certain that I'd break something.
Oh yes, and between all of my classes, I only have like four massive projects that are coming up, and that's not stressing me out at all. Okay, that's a lie, and it is, but only because I'm worried that I might have too much work and it'd make me miss a day on the novel.
Which, if you're still reading along at home, strikes me as totally weird.
And lastly, as a personal aside, I'm pretty sure I made up at least one of the words in the title for today's post. I challenge you to guess which one it is!
It was never my intention to go for such a streak, mind you. It was just one of those things where I was a few posts behind and I really wanted to be at a point where I was doing 5 a week, so that it would give the archive a nice, even number divisible by five each week. Fifty posts for last week, fifty-five for this one, and so on. I am quite certain that nobody will care about this, except for me, and the only reason that I care about it at all is because I'm crazy.
Would it be weird to say that I actually thought really hard about my decision not to blog last night? Part of me wanted to, even though I was all caught up. You can get a head start on the week, I told myself, in case you miss a day or something.
But the real reason I felt like blogging, and the reason that I've been feeling good about things as I blog now, all goes back to that NaNoWriMo project. Are you sick of hearing about it yet? Too goddamn bad, it's my blog; more importantly, it's my blog for a writing class and this particular novel writing project has done so much for my attitude and motivation as a writer that it would take a far longer and more self-serving post than this one to explain it all.
You can probably expect to read such a post by Thursday or so.
The first thing I do when I get home now, after I take off the usual things (shoes, pants, etc) is sit down at my computer and start work on the novel. I am an absolutely terrible procrastinator, and it's always been a struggle for me to write when I'm at my computer. Which is a weird thing to say, but whenever I sit down and especially when I have to write something that I don't want to write, I check the usual time wasters: Twitter, Facebook, my email, Twitter again, the news, a web comic, Facebook, and that's already forty-five minutes I could have spent working now down the drain.
I'm glad to say that with the novel, I haven't really been doing that, aside from a quick tweet to say that I'm going to start working. Mostly, that's just so I see how long my writing sessions are going, if my habits are changing at all the more I do this.
The novel writing has pretty much been a very positive experience so far; I haven't felt myself get frustrated or anxious, although I have gotten close many, many times, especially when I think about "where do I go next" or "is that going to make sense?" I ignore those thoughts, however, and so far, it's working out well. But inevitably, I feel I hit a point where I can leave off for the night and have a good place to continue tomorrow, and by then, I've been writing like crazy for 45 minutes to an hour, and now the creative juices are really flowing!
So then I come here and blog about it. Like right now. What I'm doing this very moment.
Come to think of it, I wonder if maybe I should blog first, and then work on the novel. Might produce better work that way... but I probably won't, since I have this thing right here and now, and it's working well for me.
I don't want to monkey with it, since if I did, I'm quite certain that I'd break something.
Oh yes, and between all of my classes, I only have like four massive projects that are coming up, and that's not stressing me out at all. Okay, that's a lie, and it is, but only because I'm worried that I might have too much work and it'd make me miss a day on the novel.
Which, if you're still reading along at home, strikes me as totally weird.
And lastly, as a personal aside, I'm pretty sure I made up at least one of the words in the title for today's post. I challenge you to guess which one it is!
Saturday, November 7, 2009
Saints and Sinners
I do believe I am going to rant this evening.
I've been talking a lot about writing over the past week, which I suppose is good since the purpose of this blog is primarily to reflect on my progress as a writer, but I like to think that it's important for me to focus, at times, on other matters aside from writing. Cultivate a wide variety of thoughts and experiences, you know; otherwise, all you'd ever see from me when I write fiction would be stories about writers who are writing things. How very meta that would be!
Work today was somewhat taxing, to say the least.
There is a particular patron who visits our branch every Saturday, almost without fail. She is somewhat handicapped, and you'll forgive me for describing her in tentative language, because I don't want this to sound like I hate her, or that I'm intolerant of the disabled, or whatever erroneous conclusion one might draw from my speech. I don't hate her. I don't hate many people, actually, although I'm sure I could think of a few names, if I tried, but the hate would be very well earned, I assure you.
This woman, however, pisses me off in ways that always seriously damage my calm.
She's rude in a very oblivious way. I know that it is not intentional, that it is not her intention to disrupt my calm, but that's the problem with rude people: they don't know that they are rude. Rude people who realize their rudeness stop being rude.
She isn't, however, talk on the cell phone in the library rude. She isn't "angry customer" rude. She's just... annoying. She'll chatter at me about things I don't care about when I have a line of people. She'll repeat the same thing, over and over again, whether I am actively responding or not.
Look, I am fully aware that the fact that I'm irritated by this makes me a selfish jerk. I know that she is most likely lonely, that she comes to us because there aren't many places where you can go to talk to people about things that they'll enjoy, and have them listen to you. I'm familiar with the idea of being important to somebody that I don't like. There was this kid when I was in high school that I thought was an absolute moron and the most annoying little twerp possible, especially since he would never leave me alone.
I found out after the fact, after he died, in fact, that he had something of a hero-worship thing going on. And believe me, for a long time, I regretted how I thought about him. Not about how I acted, specifically, because I always tried to be tolerant, but... no, I guess I regret that, too. I should have been more than tolerant. I should have been nice to him. It's important, I think, for your heroes to be what you think they are.
I do not mean to say that this woman hero-worships me, or any of my colleagues, but I know that we're probably the only place she really has, and that maybe for her, Saturday is the highlight of the week. And that all feeds back into my frustration. I can't help the fact that she annoys me, that I don't like to talk to her, or deal with her, or listen to her, and I feel that, or at least, part of me feels that I should. And part of me feels angry because I'm usually trapped by the fact that I have to man my post, that I can't just walk away from her or tell her to stop bothering me. Part of me feels angry that I'm the one who isn't heartless enough to tell her to leave me the fuck alone and I'm not saintly enough to see this as an opportunity to help somebody that maybe really needs it.
So what does that makes me? Aside from, you know, a jerk? Does that make me human? We're all saints and sinners, though some of us might lean further to one side than the other, but what about the rest of us? What are we?
I've been talking a lot about writing over the past week, which I suppose is good since the purpose of this blog is primarily to reflect on my progress as a writer, but I like to think that it's important for me to focus, at times, on other matters aside from writing. Cultivate a wide variety of thoughts and experiences, you know; otherwise, all you'd ever see from me when I write fiction would be stories about writers who are writing things. How very meta that would be!
Work today was somewhat taxing, to say the least.
There is a particular patron who visits our branch every Saturday, almost without fail. She is somewhat handicapped, and you'll forgive me for describing her in tentative language, because I don't want this to sound like I hate her, or that I'm intolerant of the disabled, or whatever erroneous conclusion one might draw from my speech. I don't hate her. I don't hate many people, actually, although I'm sure I could think of a few names, if I tried, but the hate would be very well earned, I assure you.
This woman, however, pisses me off in ways that always seriously damage my calm.
She's rude in a very oblivious way. I know that it is not intentional, that it is not her intention to disrupt my calm, but that's the problem with rude people: they don't know that they are rude. Rude people who realize their rudeness stop being rude.
She isn't, however, talk on the cell phone in the library rude. She isn't "angry customer" rude. She's just... annoying. She'll chatter at me about things I don't care about when I have a line of people. She'll repeat the same thing, over and over again, whether I am actively responding or not.
Look, I am fully aware that the fact that I'm irritated by this makes me a selfish jerk. I know that she is most likely lonely, that she comes to us because there aren't many places where you can go to talk to people about things that they'll enjoy, and have them listen to you. I'm familiar with the idea of being important to somebody that I don't like. There was this kid when I was in high school that I thought was an absolute moron and the most annoying little twerp possible, especially since he would never leave me alone.
I found out after the fact, after he died, in fact, that he had something of a hero-worship thing going on. And believe me, for a long time, I regretted how I thought about him. Not about how I acted, specifically, because I always tried to be tolerant, but... no, I guess I regret that, too. I should have been more than tolerant. I should have been nice to him. It's important, I think, for your heroes to be what you think they are.
I do not mean to say that this woman hero-worships me, or any of my colleagues, but I know that we're probably the only place she really has, and that maybe for her, Saturday is the highlight of the week. And that all feeds back into my frustration. I can't help the fact that she annoys me, that I don't like to talk to her, or deal with her, or listen to her, and I feel that, or at least, part of me feels that I should. And part of me feels angry because I'm usually trapped by the fact that I have to man my post, that I can't just walk away from her or tell her to stop bothering me. Part of me feels angry that I'm the one who isn't heartless enough to tell her to leave me the fuck alone and I'm not saintly enough to see this as an opportunity to help somebody that maybe really needs it.
So what does that makes me? Aside from, you know, a jerk? Does that make me human? We're all saints and sinners, though some of us might lean further to one side than the other, but what about the rest of us? What are we?
Friday, November 6, 2009
Thinking Ahead, Looking Back
It seems strange to me that the thing I'm dreading most is the fact that I have so many projects coming up in different classes, and I'm worried that any one of them might be so stressful that it kills off the awesome writing streak I've been having. How bizarre, that my academic career, which is entirely focused on honing my skills as a writer, might become an obstacle to what I feel is one of the most intense writing experiences that I've ever had!
I'm trying not to think about what I'm going to do with this story after I finish, because any time I think about its future, or even where it's going, I start to worry, and right now, the only goal remains to go, go, go, to write and write and not stop. I do know that I would like for people to read it, because I can tell that this is something special, this story, it's something new that I've never tried before, a type of story that I've never tried to write.
Also, I think that it's going to be epic. In scope, I mean, not in terms of genre; so far, there are no swords or sorcery of any kind.
I was going to blog earlier, between my classes this morning, but I found that I didn't feel comfortable with the idea. It was in that computer lab, in the cellar; any UA students will probably know what I'm talking about. It was strange to me that I felt that way, because while I was in a public setting, I just couldn't get relaxed enough to allow for the very raw sort of writing and reflecting that I've been doing lately. More and more, I find that I need closed doors, I need music, I need my space so that I can shut out the world and tune into whatever is inside of me.
Also, I think I've determined that I have the most comfortable keyboard in the entire world. The keys just click so very nicely as I dance over them, and I like that a lot, too. I don't know if I've ever mentioned it, but the sound of rapid typing is something that I really enjoy, especially when its my own. I don't know why, it probably just makes me feel cool or something.
I am going to make the effort to continue writing on my novel over the weekend. Originally, I was thinking about keeping it to a five day a week schedule, like this blog, but ultimately, given how much I need to do and how little time I have to do it, I think that I should push through. Also, I find that any time I take a break, even if it's just for a day of two, it becomes so much harder to get back into it when the weekend is over. I can tell you right now, I do not look forward to the first blog post of a week, especially if I'm behind.
I'm trying not to think about what I'm going to do with this story after I finish, because any time I think about its future, or even where it's going, I start to worry, and right now, the only goal remains to go, go, go, to write and write and not stop. I do know that I would like for people to read it, because I can tell that this is something special, this story, it's something new that I've never tried before, a type of story that I've never tried to write.
Also, I think that it's going to be epic. In scope, I mean, not in terms of genre; so far, there are no swords or sorcery of any kind.
I was going to blog earlier, between my classes this morning, but I found that I didn't feel comfortable with the idea. It was in that computer lab, in the cellar; any UA students will probably know what I'm talking about. It was strange to me that I felt that way, because while I was in a public setting, I just couldn't get relaxed enough to allow for the very raw sort of writing and reflecting that I've been doing lately. More and more, I find that I need closed doors, I need music, I need my space so that I can shut out the world and tune into whatever is inside of me.
Also, I think I've determined that I have the most comfortable keyboard in the entire world. The keys just click so very nicely as I dance over them, and I like that a lot, too. I don't know if I've ever mentioned it, but the sound of rapid typing is something that I really enjoy, especially when its my own. I don't know why, it probably just makes me feel cool or something.
I am going to make the effort to continue writing on my novel over the weekend. Originally, I was thinking about keeping it to a five day a week schedule, like this blog, but ultimately, given how much I need to do and how little time I have to do it, I think that I should push through. Also, I find that any time I take a break, even if it's just for a day of two, it becomes so much harder to get back into it when the weekend is over. I can tell you right now, I do not look forward to the first blog post of a week, especially if I'm behind.
Thursday, November 5, 2009
Writing With Abandon
If you've happened to glance at my Twitter feed over the past few days, you'll know that, so far, my NaNoWriMo is going quite well. I had a bit of a false start when I was sick on Sunday, but since Monday, I've managed a pretty solid pace, writing more than a thousand words every day. It's been very rewarding, most of all because I really feel like a writer again. That sounds a little bit weird, but prior to this project, and this blog, I wasn't doing much writing at all: over the summer, I only completed one short story.
Now, though, I have the feeling of writing every day, of taking the time to write and just really reconnecting with my craft and my identity. I know that I owe a very, very large debt to this blog assignment, because it's this blog that's taught me the discipline of writing even when I don't feel like it. There have been so many times over the past two months that I just really, really did not want to sit down in front of the computer and try to think of something to say so I could meet my requirement. But I did, and I'm glad that I did, because it's taught me a lot of how to focus and how to force myself to do the work even when I don't want to do so. I fully believe, evidenced by all the half-started projects and randomly updates blogs I've done in the past, that I wouldn't be here, in this state right now, if not for all of this.
You might say that makes me a little bit grateful. And also, oddly enough, a little bit nervous. What will happen when the semester ends and I know that I'm no longer being graded on this? Will my good habit revert back to my slothful, non-writing ways? I certainly hope not! I think, however, that I'm in a good position now, because even without the prospect of a grade, I've come to really look forward to this time spent writing and reflecting, and rambling, and trying to be funny.
Best of all, the combined projects of this blog and this NaNoWriMo thing have taught me how to keep writing through all the past fears and insecurities that would hamstring my story efforts. I can't even begin to count how many times I'd be working on a story, only to wonder "hmm, that doesn't sound as good" or "oh, I should go back and fix this one part." And then I'd never make any progress, because I'd be too busy worrying about how "good" something was, instead of how "done" it was getting.
Now, though? Now I'm just writing. I'm writing, knowing full well that there are some things I've written over the past week that are quite awful, that don't flow, or don't make sense, or repeat a word. And I don't care. Because I want to keep moving forward, I have to keep moving forward if I want to have any hope of finishing the story. It's a very exciting way to write, because it's a very gratifying way of writing. I'm not worried about being "good" or about living up to any expectations including and especially my own. I'm just exploring. I'm just doing. After so many years of writer's anxiety, it feels a lot like freedom.
I know that writers give each other all kinds of advice, and a lot of times, they give each other the same advice. And the problem with advice is that it's never as effective until you have that moment where you really grasp it on your own, the moment when you experience it and suddenly, everything clicks for you. So I know that by me telling you all to stop worrying and just write won't really amount to any real effect, because we've all been told that by the great writers who have answered when they were asked how they do it.
Even so, here's my advice: if you haven't tried it, write with abandon. Write without wearing any pants or shoes, write like crazy, write and absolutely do not care or stop or worry. Just go for it. Embrace it.
I don't know if this story will be any good. I don't even know if it will be readable. But what I do know is that I've never had this much fun in my life writing before, and that's not just something, in my opinion: it's everything.
Now, though, I have the feeling of writing every day, of taking the time to write and just really reconnecting with my craft and my identity. I know that I owe a very, very large debt to this blog assignment, because it's this blog that's taught me the discipline of writing even when I don't feel like it. There have been so many times over the past two months that I just really, really did not want to sit down in front of the computer and try to think of something to say so I could meet my requirement. But I did, and I'm glad that I did, because it's taught me a lot of how to focus and how to force myself to do the work even when I don't want to do so. I fully believe, evidenced by all the half-started projects and randomly updates blogs I've done in the past, that I wouldn't be here, in this state right now, if not for all of this.
You might say that makes me a little bit grateful. And also, oddly enough, a little bit nervous. What will happen when the semester ends and I know that I'm no longer being graded on this? Will my good habit revert back to my slothful, non-writing ways? I certainly hope not! I think, however, that I'm in a good position now, because even without the prospect of a grade, I've come to really look forward to this time spent writing and reflecting, and rambling, and trying to be funny.
Best of all, the combined projects of this blog and this NaNoWriMo thing have taught me how to keep writing through all the past fears and insecurities that would hamstring my story efforts. I can't even begin to count how many times I'd be working on a story, only to wonder "hmm, that doesn't sound as good" or "oh, I should go back and fix this one part." And then I'd never make any progress, because I'd be too busy worrying about how "good" something was, instead of how "done" it was getting.
Now, though? Now I'm just writing. I'm writing, knowing full well that there are some things I've written over the past week that are quite awful, that don't flow, or don't make sense, or repeat a word. And I don't care. Because I want to keep moving forward, I have to keep moving forward if I want to have any hope of finishing the story. It's a very exciting way to write, because it's a very gratifying way of writing. I'm not worried about being "good" or about living up to any expectations including and especially my own. I'm just exploring. I'm just doing. After so many years of writer's anxiety, it feels a lot like freedom.
I know that writers give each other all kinds of advice, and a lot of times, they give each other the same advice. And the problem with advice is that it's never as effective until you have that moment where you really grasp it on your own, the moment when you experience it and suddenly, everything clicks for you. So I know that by me telling you all to stop worrying and just write won't really amount to any real effect, because we've all been told that by the great writers who have answered when they were asked how they do it.
Even so, here's my advice: if you haven't tried it, write with abandon. Write without wearing any pants or shoes, write like crazy, write and absolutely do not care or stop or worry. Just go for it. Embrace it.
I don't know if this story will be any good. I don't even know if it will be readable. But what I do know is that I've never had this much fun in my life writing before, and that's not just something, in my opinion: it's everything.
Wednesday, November 4, 2009
It's Difficult to Write and Wear Pants at the Same Time
It's really difficult to write in a place or while I'm in a mood that one could describe as "uneasy."
These past few days, I've been writing from home, on my own computer, which is set in my own little lair of creative chaos and other junk. I've talked about the writing space before, which you can find in the archives if you want to look (I'm not motivated to create a link on my own, sorry.) But I don't want to talk about the writing space today, rather, I want to talk more about how writing is affected in an interesting way by my mood.
On the surface, it seems pretty obvious; if I'm upset, I write something that's dark or angry or bitterly sarcastic... although, to be honest, I seem to do the last one even when I'm in a good mood, so who knows. It gets a little more complicated when you consider the question one of "am I comfortable?"
I don't mean like my chair is comfortable or that it's too hot or too cold, or that I have a drink with me (the drink, I've found, is very, very important.) Rather, I mean it as a question of whether or not I'm feeling comfortable in my surroundings, whether or not I'm in a place and state of mind where I can afford to be unguarded for a bit, where I can be a little more honest and raw as I work.
It's tough to do in places that aren't home. Right now, for example, I'm typing this from a terminal at my job, before I clock in. And while this is my place of work, a place where I've been for almost two years, I can't entirely relax here, because this is a professional environment. I have a certain persona, a certain level of responsibility and professionalism that I need to maintain, and it's very hard to separate myself from that to create the sort of honesty that I prefer to place within my writing.
The reason for this experience, I think, and maybe this only happens to me, but it feels like I'm not really able to separate myself from my thoughts and my surroundings, even though those things may not have any real connection to each other. It's like, because I'm trying to maintain my guise of being a good employee, I'm not able to really give free rein to the part of my mind that's all weird, and twisted, and thoroughly disorganized, because that part of my mind would probably get me fired if I allowed it to manifest here.
So instead I write from the more responsible persona, which I think you can see here.
It could also be that I don't like to write while I'm wearing pants and I'm always forced to wear pants at work.
No, I'm not joking about that. At the very least, I always prefer to take my shoes off before I write, which I don't think would be appreciated here either.
So maybe that's it. Disregard everything that I said above. The reason I can't write as freely as I would like is not because I have to maintain a facade of being a normal person, but because I know I can't sit here at my desk without pants or shoes.
Personal revelations are awesome.
These past few days, I've been writing from home, on my own computer, which is set in my own little lair of creative chaos and other junk. I've talked about the writing space before, which you can find in the archives if you want to look (I'm not motivated to create a link on my own, sorry.) But I don't want to talk about the writing space today, rather, I want to talk more about how writing is affected in an interesting way by my mood.
On the surface, it seems pretty obvious; if I'm upset, I write something that's dark or angry or bitterly sarcastic... although, to be honest, I seem to do the last one even when I'm in a good mood, so who knows. It gets a little more complicated when you consider the question one of "am I comfortable?"
I don't mean like my chair is comfortable or that it's too hot or too cold, or that I have a drink with me (the drink, I've found, is very, very important.) Rather, I mean it as a question of whether or not I'm feeling comfortable in my surroundings, whether or not I'm in a place and state of mind where I can afford to be unguarded for a bit, where I can be a little more honest and raw as I work.
It's tough to do in places that aren't home. Right now, for example, I'm typing this from a terminal at my job, before I clock in. And while this is my place of work, a place where I've been for almost two years, I can't entirely relax here, because this is a professional environment. I have a certain persona, a certain level of responsibility and professionalism that I need to maintain, and it's very hard to separate myself from that to create the sort of honesty that I prefer to place within my writing.
The reason for this experience, I think, and maybe this only happens to me, but it feels like I'm not really able to separate myself from my thoughts and my surroundings, even though those things may not have any real connection to each other. It's like, because I'm trying to maintain my guise of being a good employee, I'm not able to really give free rein to the part of my mind that's all weird, and twisted, and thoroughly disorganized, because that part of my mind would probably get me fired if I allowed it to manifest here.
So instead I write from the more responsible persona, which I think you can see here.
It could also be that I don't like to write while I'm wearing pants and I'm always forced to wear pants at work.
No, I'm not joking about that. At the very least, I always prefer to take my shoes off before I write, which I don't think would be appreciated here either.
So maybe that's it. Disregard everything that I said above. The reason I can't write as freely as I would like is not because I have to maintain a facade of being a normal person, but because I know I can't sit here at my desk without pants or shoes.
Personal revelations are awesome.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
Posts
