I didn’t die. Just took a break. Most of it, unintentional. I planned on writing more during the last, er, um, month or so, it just didn’t work out. August is funny that way. You look around and start to realize that summer is almost over and there’s like, I don’t know, a zillion things that you wanted to do that you were absolutely, totally going to do this summer, and now it’s August and you’ve done one, maybe two if you’re lucky and, well…
I have a friend who made a list of 20 fun things she wanted to do this summer. She managed to hit them all.
Me? Not so much.
I took a road trip which was pretty awesome. Stories to follow. And probably pictures. I also stayed off the Internet. Which was also pretty awesome. Every time I looked it was just more bad news and more awfulness and it was too depressing.
I fed giraffes instead. Also, thoughts and stories to follow.
But, August is basically over and I’ve done all I can do in terms of cramming summer fun in. It is, in my world, fall and that means it’s time to get back to work. With the new work schedule, I’m hopeful I’ll make decent progress.
The goal is to have something ready to go out in early 2015. Yeesh. Just typing that is daunting but that makes the goal real, right?
If only I could remember where I left off in the WIP. I guess that’s what outlines are for.
I’ll leave you with a picture of the giraffe I fed. His name is Ziggy.
One of the coolest parts of being a writer is that you can work anywhere. Home, coffee shop, library, beach. Wherever.
Presuming you actually get work done.
I’ve learned I can’t work from home. I’ve had an inordinate amount of time the last few days to write while at home, but I haven’t written. Too many distractions. Or excuses. Whatever you want to call them.
So, I’m at the coffee shop, writing. I’ve got the essentials: coffee, cake, bathrooms and a ridiculous amount of people to watch. That could be the downfall. I’m busy composing character sketches in my head, wondering if I can fit them into the WIP.
I can see the corporate office is here, monitoring, watching, timing. That’s got to be nerve racking. They’re just staring at the baristas, timing them, looking at manuals, monitoring them. Not saying anything. Just looking cheery and bright. It’s all a ruse. I just know it. Underneath lurks the cold, dark heart of a corporate cost-cutter, looking for ways to improve efficiency, without any regards to the humanity of the situation.
There’s the guy I only glanced at. I could only see his white shoes and white socks. Bright white. Blinding white.
The guy in the corner is creeping me out. This place is longer that it is wider and on the back wall, there’s a little seating area consisting of two comfy looking chairs, and a little table. What’s odd is that just in front of this seating area is a few display racks. They’re open shelves, but chock full of stuff, so you can’t really see behind it and, really, who’s looking behind the display rack?
This guy is essentially hiding back there. Is it on purpose? This place is very crowded today (it usually is in the AM), so maybe he didn’t have a choice, but he’s hunkered down in the chair, typing furiously into a lap top. Or is he? The way his glasses sit on his face, his eyes are somewhat obscured and it’s hard to tell if he’s looking at the screen or around the cafe, taking inventory of all of us. Plotting something.
I’m at the communal table and the corporate people sat down at the other end. I’m plugged into headphones and really trying not to overhear, but, they don’t know that. They can’t tell that Pandora is on and I don’t care what they have to say. I could be listening, gleaning corporate secrets on the best way to brew coffee (I really would like that information) or learning about personnel secrets I can leverage for blackmail.
Man! Too many distractions! At least there are fun and possibly useful for the WIP. But, we’ll see what I get done.
Which leads me to ask: Where do you work? Where are you most productive and least distracted? Am I the only one that creates back stories for everyone I meet?
Edited to add: The irony of this post is that while I got a lot done today, I had to come home to retype this into WordPress because something was messed up and I couldn’t copy and paste!
I’m switching it up a bit today and writing first, everything else. Except the laundry. That can never wait and it’s easy to do while writing unlike, say, a shower.
My first writing exercise was a review of my recent dentist visit (the one with the scheduled in advance “family emergency”).
This sounds a bit lame, but I actually liked it. Thinking of it as an exercise. It’s hard to give negative feedback in a positive way. To turn the feedback into a learning opportunity or whatever. So, this was a good chance for me to practice. As a writer, (and a reader) it’s important to be able to give and receive this sort of thing. It was nice to have a chance to practice. Also, I was able to do it anonymously, so that helps. I can hide behind the Internet in case the feedback was too harsh.
Which is kind of a funny thing to say. Shouldn’t I be willing to stand by my review? To sign my name proudly to it and to say, Yup, this is what I think? Especially since I was trying to be nice about it (mostly. I’ll admit to one or two snarky parts, but they were well earned on their part. Most stuff I can let slide, but every now and then…).
So, why do you care that I reviewed a dentist today?
It got me thinking about reviews in general and how people process them. I started reading a book that was widely praised and positively reviewed in a bunch of publications. Cool. I’ll read almost anything that gets decent reviews. I started it. I lost interest. I kept trying to get through it. Not so much because I cared about the character (I don’t) or I wanted to see how it ended (doesn’t matter) but because the writing is quiet good. It’s the literary writing that might be described as “beautiful prose with wonderful turns of phrase.” Or something equally flowery.
But I don’t really care for the book, the characters, the plot (which isn’t exactly a plot, per se. More like a series of vignettes about this character which also don’t have much of a plot), none of it. There’s no tension, no action, no nothing. I’m not saying all stories need to have guns and cars and murders and whatever, but there’s no tension in this story. Nothing interesting or scary or curious happens. It’s just the character, living her life, and here’s what happens. Happy reading!
OK, fine, whatever, it’s not for me. But, then I got curious. Who else doesn’t like this book? Is it just me? Am I a philistine? An uncultured clod? (Both of these things are entirely possible.) So, I looked up reviews for these books on Amazon and Goodreads.
Discarding the reviews that were clearly biased (like the one star review on Amazon that tore apart the author’s character and personality and said nothing about the actual book), there were a fair amount of negative reviews. Both sites gave this highly recommended by professional reviewers, well blurbed book an average of 3 stars. Which is fine and nothing to sneeze at, but… Still…
Ignoring the fact that it sort of proves the point that just because a book is published by a well-respected big 5 (that’s what we’re down to now, right? Five?) publisher, doesn’t necessarily mean anything these days. A traditionally published book could be just as awesome or as sucky as a self-published indie book. I think that’s been the case for a while now.
I more wonder about the author. Here’s this book that she probably slaved away at for at least a year, if not more. And she achieved the dream! (My dream, at least.) An agent, a traditional publishing contract, probably a promotional budget (I hope), and validation! Someone else, probably a bunch of someone else’s, think your writing is worthy of print. And those blurbs that talk about how great your writing is and how great the book is. How amazing! It all reinforces the fact that you have arrived! You are not just a writer, but an author of books!
I’m not going to lie. I live this fantasy often.
But. But. But. And I hate saying this. It’s great that there’s all that validation, but what about the comments? I know they say, never read the comments. No good can come from it. But, what about all those Amazon and Goodreads people? Don’t their opinions count for anything? Aren’t they just as important and affirming and validating? Doesn’t the fact that they think you aren’t that great count for anything? Because, I mean, it wasn’t just one or two people. It was enough people that it brought your rating to 3 stars. Which is just average.
Don’t get me wrong. I’d probably take a 3 star rating, because at least I’d be getting rated. Which would mean my book is out there. Being read. By other people. Not just my mother. And that would be spectacular.
But, the reviews for this book… Much of what was written was exactly what I was thinking. Writing is good it’s just the story is blah. I suppose you could make the argument, it was her story to tell and she told it as she wanted to. Also, she doesn’t work for me, so what I think doesn’t matter. All though, it kind of does since I won’t buy another of her books, so, where does that leave her? What is she thinking? Is she ignoring the nay sayers? Changing her writing style? Crying?
And how would I handle something like that? After all that slaving and pouring my heart out on the page, and tearing my hair out and whatever else I do to motivate myself, how would I feel if it turns out my writing is only average? I mean, it probably is, but it’s one thing for me to say it. It’s another thing for everyone else to say it.
So, today, I throw this question out there. How do you (or would you) handle negative reviews of your writing? I mean, the nice ones, not the “You totally suck,” non-specific reviews. It could be Amazon or a professional reviewer or someone who’s opinion you trust/respect (but not your Mom’s). Do you ignore them? Say the reviewer doesn’t know what they’re talking about? Internalize it? Take it to heart and adjust your writing accordingly? Drink heavily?
I guess this blogging every day thing isn’t going to work out like I planned because, it would seem, I haven’t written anything in five days.
That happens from time to time. Stuff gets in the way. You know, life and all. And, as a writer, it doesn’t really bother me. I fully believe that writing every day isn’t something I can do. I don’t think it’s something anyone should do (but that’s just me). Too easy to get frustrated and to tear out hair screaming “Why me, damn it? Where are all the ideas?”
Maybe that’s just me.
In any event, the fact that it’s been five days does make me wonder how serious I am about this whole writing as a job thing. My day job is part-time for the express purpose of allowing me to write (and to bring in money). Yet, since March, when I started, I haven’t exactly worked on the WIP too much. Here and there I have, and I do feel like I’ve made some solid progress, but nothing really substantial. Each time I do write, I manage to pound out about 2000 words. Which (ball parking numbers here) would mean I should have a completed novel (rough first draft, of course!) in about 40 days. Forty days! Which would mean, and I don’t really write on weekends, I should have completed a rough draft of this sucker by, give or take, the first week of May!
Even allowing for the occasional illness, life event and shear laziness, I still should have finished by now.
I could come up with a million reasons why I haven’t finished, and they’d all be really, really, really good reasons. But they don’t matter, do they? Because I haven’t been working on it. Which makes me wonder, is it that I’m not devoted enough to my craft, this is just a hobby for me? Am I really as lazy as all that?
And yet, here I still sit in the bathroom (it’s quiet in here. Don’t judge me!), typing away, plotting and planning. And writing.
Just a bit of housekeeping before I get started today.
If you want to try to sneak through my spam filters by hiring people to actually write comments instead of using automated ones, fine. More power to you. However, I’d highly recommend you advise them not to write negative things about the blog. While I always welcome critiques of my work, being negative just for the sake of being negative with an obviously spammy identity will not get you moderated on to the blog comments.
Thank you for your cooperation and supporting my blog. Keep trying!
Hugs and Kisses,
Phew. I feel so much better.
I have a raging headache today. It’s better now (thank you, Starbucks), but I find it makes it harder for me to write. My brain gets foggy and while I enjoy a good bass beat, I’m not particularly a fan when it’s in my head. It reminds me of college after a Saturday night. Yet, somehow I managed to get up and study. Mostly. My grades wouldn’t necessarily reflect that, but I did graduate.
Given the MC of the WIP is a borderline alcoholic (that’s a thing, right?), with a sour temperament (I know that’s a thing.) you’d think this would be super helpful. No stretching myself to imagine (or remember) what the morning after a bender feels like, no digging deep for metaphors and descriptions. Just sit down and describe me in the present.
Probably not happening.
There’s been a bunch of quotes floating around on the web lately (probably not lately, I just seem to be finding them lately) about writing. They’re all about sitting in the chair and writing, not waiting for the muse, do it every day, set a goal, and so on. These are lovely platitudes. They are realistic and make sense (and come from successful folks who know what they’re talking about).
But none of these platitudes mention what happens when you put your butt in the chair and nothing happens. Absolutely nothing comes. I don’t know why it doesn’t come and it doesn’t really matter. But you can’t find the words. Maybe you get something going, maybe you’re able to put words on the page, but every single one of them suck. They do nothing to advance your story line, enhance your plot or improve your character. They are, literally, words on a page.
Then you get frustrated and stop, or feel like your wasting your time. Or worse, you go away from those words, come back later and realize how utterly crappy they are. Then you feel like you wasted all that time and effort. And for what? To pitch it all out. Or is that just me?
No one talks about that as much. Everyone has experienced this to some extent. But it’s always chalked up to an “Oh, well,” kind of moment. A learning experience. But I hate going in the wrong direction. If that’s the direction, I’d rather not go, I guess.
I don’t mind rewriting (well, I do, but that’s different here), and I don’t mind going in a new direction, away from my outline if it fits, but I don’t want to waste my time on nothing. Just putting words on a page doesn’t seem to help. Putting the right words on the page. That’s what I’d like to do every single time.
Maybe not today though. All I can muster is thump, thump, thump. Hopefully, I can do something with that.
I finished Mr. Mercedes by Stephen King a few minutes ago.
It’s not my intent to review the book except I will say it was an excellent read. (Of course, it was. It was written by Stephen freaking King.) Had three twists in there, two of which I saw coming but felt they went along naturally with the story line. The first twist I did not see coming. I should have as there were enough clues along the way, but I missed it and the twist was excellent. Not at all disappointing or obvious or contrived. Just well done. Because it’s Stephen King.
Which really is the crux of this. I like to write. I like to think I’m pretty good at it. I’ve been told I’m pretty good at it (and not by my mother or best friend, but total strangers!). But, I’ll never be as good as the likes of Stephen King. Or any one of a number of other current day authors. Or classic authors. Like Mark Twain.
That’s OK. I mean, we can’t all be awesome and number one (all though, to see the state of little league and kid’s soccer these days, you think we could be. That we should be), and I accept the fact that I’ll probably never reach that level of awesomeness as a writer.
But I wonder if I’ll ever be remotely that good. I mean, good enough to get an agent and a publishing contract. Or sell a bazillion self-published copies on Amazon or whatever. Success is how you define it (and I have no definition for my writing quite yet) and I think that definition for writers is rapidly changing in this digital age, but I sometimes think I’m waisting my time.
I’m sure we all do. Not just writers, but everyone that pursues a creative art. Painting, drawing, video game design. Are we good enough? Will our work every find a fan base? Will we have enough “success”? These thoughts haunt us on many an insomniac induced evening.
Yet, here I am, plugging away at it. I guess that means I’m crazy.
No, I think it means I just really want it. Enough to keep trying anonymously and unpaid and in the wee hours in the bathroom if that what it takes.
Scratch that. It is crazy. And totally worth it.