May 30, 2012

“We don’t need more writers! We need more readers!”

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Somewhere back in Nanowrimo land, I read a commentary about the piles of dreck being produced through the month. The quote above comes from that commentary, but I can’t find the reference this morning, peering as I am through the slits of eyes produced by profound weeping as I realize another dream is lost, down the drain. That writing dream. You know. THAT one.

I’ve produced a lot of that dreck. I know. People have ever so sanctimoniously, kindly, gently, and viciously told me so. (Just GET all those -ly words in one sentence! That takes skill, that does!)

I’ve been “working on writing”, interspersed with sessions of intense parenting, higher education, day jobs that consume my soul, and fighting the urge to nap, for the past 20 years or so. Should I succeed now, I’d likely kill whoever called me an overnight success. Wait, that’s a good idea for a plot…

And therein lies the rub. Like many people, especially the insufferable woman who sat beside me the other day, plots are a dime a dozen. At least in the idea stage. The stories, the ones that grip your heart and make you sink into an alternate reality – well, those are harder. For me, anyway. I imagine insufferable woman could just whip them off in a second, or so she tells me.

There are hundreds of books produced every year. Many of them are simply awful. (see: 50 Shades of Grey) Some of the really bad ones get made into movies, even, and their authors lie about and eat bon bons forevermore. This leads many of us to think that we, too, could wield that magic.

But like the lion in the Wizard of Oz would say, “Whadda they got that I haven’t got? Courage!” I somehow can’t get myself to offer my dreck to the wider world. I feel I should do better. So I paralyze and refuse to write and don’t. And, quite frankly, my skills get rustier and rustier.

So, a few tips for those who want to do this crazy thing (and by the way, my assembly of writing books is going up for sale on Kijiji in a moment).

1. Write. Yah, you knew this.

2. Learn to touch type. My mother never let me take this class as she thought I’d end up as a secretary or something. She didn’t see the time of keyboards. I still type fast, but my error rate is huge, and my hands get weary using only four fingers total. It wastes time, and frustrates my flow of thoughts.

3. Read. Write reviews of the books you read. This will make you look for the things you read that worked, the things you didn’t like, and, more importantly, will stick those things in your mind for when you write your own stuff.

4. Avoid writing courses. I’ve taken dozens of these. They either tell me what I already know, or decimate my confidence. Free ones are okay. I’ve paid thousands and am genuinely no further ahead. Read instead.

5. If you must take courses, pay attention, participate, suck the pith out of them. Squeeze them dry. Pester the teacher for additional help, especially if they’re good. Find kindred spirits in the class and form a reading/writing group for afterwards. This will be the most useful thing of all.

6. Get a group together to share your writing with. Make sure you are on the same level. This is tougher than you think, and it is terribly irritating to have someone ask you the meaning of words or tell you they haven’t read anything much since the Twilight series when you write historical fiction. Plus it is really really hard to critique really bad writing without being mean-sounding.

7. Read some more. TV or movie renditions of writing do NOT count. It’s not the same. Read widely, outside “your” genre. Well, except romance. Don’t read that if you don’t like it. It will just lead you to think you can write it, and good romance isn’t easy, either. It’s easy to shower scorn on things you don’t understand. I know. Bad romance (writing) isn’t something you want your kids to remember you for.

8. Buy books. Go to readings. Talk to authors. For me, going to the Bloody Words Conference – I plan to kiss their feet. I’ve tried to do what they do, and I can’t. I bow before them, trying to let my envy go and to embrace them with all my heart for the pleasure their books have brought me.

9. If you can, give up. It’s tough out there. It’s lonely. And it can be soul-destroying. After trying for so many years, I feel like a Hollywood starlet, who went west to become a movie star, tried and tried and got some bit parts, a little taste of possible glories, but never a big break. Now she’s old, tired, and wherever she goes, she can hear the whispering, “Of course, she never really WAS anyone…

10. If you can’t give it up, make sure you have other things to fall back on in times of duress. Friends help, but no one can patch the gaping hole in a heart when you’ve very nearly almost made art and have just missed. You need something else that deals with internal trauma. Work out, make something out of clay or cloth or wood or anything tactile that does not involve words. Physicality is key when you’ve been working so hard with the verbal mind. Go punch someone. Maybe the insufferable woman. That would be fun.

Try not to look pathetic.

 

May 29, 2012

Panicking and all that

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This weekend I’m off to an excellent mystery writer’s conference – Bloody Words XII in Toronto, ON. It’s one of those GOOD conferences, with a short story contest, the opportunity to have your MS evaluated by an author, a chance to take said story to pitch to an agent, plus lots of sessions on how to write, meetings with all the fabulous authors you read, and fun galore.

So I should be looking forward to it. Instead, I am in a state of suspended animation similar to that of a deer in the front of an oncoming Mac Truck.

You see, I missed the short story contest, despite promising myself I’d enter. My story didn’t fit the guidelines and I hated to send in a revamped weaker one that probably would just embarrass me.

I did send in a MS for evaluation, though, and am inwardly cringing at the potential for damning with faint praise from a real live author. Of course I assume she’ll hate it.

And then I booked an appointment with an agent, and now I am overcome, frozen, totally blinded by the view of my incompetence as I review my book, working on it so it’s shiny enough to pitch.

Part of it is the aloneness of writing. I’ve been lazy about sending things in for publication and my recent contest entries have been uninspired. I feel as if I am dabbling in the shallows of the tidal pools of my mind. Little little splashes.

Part of it is the difficulty I have roping my mind into behaving properly. It might be simple laziness, but I also wonder about the effects of my MS on my brain power. Of course, as soon as I

say that, I hear my mum telling me it’s just an excuse, but I do run up against limitations that seem real to me. Maybe the novel format is too much to take on, my “poor me I’m sick” self says.

“You’re just wasting time,” my maternal message says. “You can do anything you put your mind to,” she adds, dangling participles with abandon.

Self-messaging runs deep deep in our souls. Over years of therapy and self-examination and trying to pull them up by their roots, they still hang in there, sprouting in the darkness, waiting their time to reach into the sun and be seen, in all their malevolent beauty.

I still feel sleeping in past eight is “wasting the day” as my dad told me over and over, despite having a disease that demands more rest. I feel incompetent with handling my finances despite managing okay in general, but my relatives never let me think I could do it. I feel fat and lazy despite working out several times a week (and said illness) because that’s part of the messaging I’ve absorbed over the years. I feel inadequate and all that every day.

And yet, I’m not. I’m active, fit, smart, pretty, round, yes, but strong as a bull. I’m funny and witty and I write well when I write. I accomplish a lot in my humble circles and in bigger ones, too. So why, when presented with this conference, does my confidence drip away through the drain like so much sludge?

 

May 22, 2012

Solitude and writing and love and life

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Alone time is vital for writers – it’s very difficult to hold a conversation while writing emails even, and when deep inside a character, it’s almost impossible. I apologize in advance for being rude to people who interrupt when I am working with my wobbly muse.
They never know how they will find me.

I might be surly, distracted, vacant.

Or I might seize upon communication with the outside world with desperation and giddiness, begging to be saved.

I imagine it might be a bit frustrating for those trying to make contact.

I like solitude, generally, and am happy with my own company. It lets me play in my head and helps with my distractibility. But I’m also an over 50 single woman who has lived for most of my life in a pair-bonding situation. I need that, too.

It’s not that I get lonely, most of the time. I have learned over the years how to keep myself occupied. I know, though, when I find myself watching Mad Men reruns and eating Honeycomb cereal, I’ve reverted to the self that needs a companion.

And then I read something like this article , reading about the sad Susan Sontag, and the more balanced Vivian Gornick, who comments this way about the need for marriage:
“It is this conviction, primarily, that reduces and ultimately destroys in women that flow of psychic energy that is fed in men from birth by the anxious knowledge given them that one is alone in this world; that one is never taken care of; that life is a naked battle between fear and desire, and that fear is kept in abeyance only through the recurrent surge of desire; that desire is whetted only if it is reinforced by the capacity to experience oneself; that the capacity to experience oneself is everything.” The promise of marriage is the promise of togetherness, support, safety, and this prevents a woman from taking responsibility for her own life — and therefore ultimately from “experiencing” herself — by removing the motivation behind all important action, which is the terror of aloneness.”

It’s an interesting point. Sometimes I wonder – how much of my life is governed by fear of aloneness? I remember the primary reason behind marrying my ex when I did was that – and the fear that my mother would keep me at home to nurse my parents in perpetuity. I knew that would kill me. I am not that selfless a person.

Writing is great for aloneness, as it drives activities suitable for when one is alone, and forces activities to refill the pot. I don’t know about others, but I need to go out and about to get stimulated to write – I need conversations and sights and deep experiences and touch and tastes.

But I also know that I didn’t really think about what I wanted to be when I grew up until I left my marriage.

So I dance the delicate balance between wanting a partner, and running away from same, between writing and experiencing, between solitude and connection. It isn’t always effective, and I waste a lot of time teetering on the tightrope, but it is currently where I need to be.

Sometimes, though, I wish for someone to come along and take me off the tightrope, hold me tight, and tell me I don’t have to create myself every morning from the scraps of the night before.

 

May 19, 2012

As time goes by…

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Just finished watching the excellent series on WGBH, As time goes by. It’s about a couple who met up during the war, were separated for years, and meet again in their old age, finding out they are still in love with each other. It’s lovely.

It’s so appealing, the thought of reconnecting with someone who knew and loved you passionately in your youth. It’s like linking with your memories, holding them close, while starting anew with someone familiar, friendly, willing to accept your aged self with all the lumps and bumps.

When you are married or have a long term relationship, you have a deck of memories stored up of your loved one- times when you were so attracted you were radiant together. I know this because my ex and I glowed so well we were an instant target for thieves when we moved to the UK.

It’s harder to create the mythical deck when you meet someone later in life and don’t remember them young and unwrinkled and with ideas and life still forming. By the time we meet at this age, we have already lived so much, seen so much, or not. The gaps in experience and philosophy are broader. So, often, are we!

I’m an independent creature, given to wanting to do things my way, please. Sometimes I can seem over- independent, but that’s usually because, like a cell seeking to merge with another, the bumps in my cell membrane don’t match up with theirs. I can try, but the merging is eventually impossible. The bumps like values, politics, emotional availability, beliefs, love of coffee…

In this context, the fantasy of linking up with someone I knew intimately before is a welcome one. I think about my past loves, wonder what it would be like. I suspect such a merger would be incendiary, with all the passion of youth combined with the wisdom of age. And then, it might be comfortable. Or the differences would start to appear, shattering the illusion.

In any case, it’s a friendly fantasy. And meanwhile I practice bumping cell membranes against others, hoping to connect, as time goes by.

 

 

May 11, 2012

A little poem of wobbly quality

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Put together

She assembles herself as
She pulls herself out of the dryer.
Shirt, bra, underwear
One sock. Much later, the other.
She finds it nestled in the bedsheets
Tumbled together in the thread eroding cycles
One covered with gym sweat, the other with night sweat.
A malodorous bundle.

Assembled, she looks around
Knowing it is just a breath
to disassembly.

 

May 10, 2012

Mental Health Days

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Before I went back to work, when I was spending my days playing with my kids and doing seemingly endless piles of laundry and arbitrating fights and driving people all over the place, every once and awhile, I’d see that we were getting stressed to the max with school and other commitments. So I’d give us all a mental health day. I’d call the schools, tell them that the kids were sick, and we’d all lounge around in our pyjamas all day and watch Disney movies and eat popcorn and just be messy all day.
It was lovely, especially in the depths of winter when it was too much trouble to get dressed for the weather some days. It’d be -40 or something and the thought of wrapping all of us in the required 10 layers was too much.
Or we’d all be tired and grumpy and a holiday day was a welcome respite for all of us.
I loved those days. Mind you, I loved excuses to play hooky with the kids anytime.

My novel

I still like the playing hooky days, but they are creeping to an end. I have a novel to brush up for June 1st. It needs its hair done, some primping, a lot of education about tenses and structure and plot and characterizations and all that.
What I really want to do is tell it to play hooky with me, to just sit around with it and talk to it and have fun and share secrets. A lot of my writing happens this way.
Every once an awhile, though, I need to tell it to get tidied up and presentable. Like my kids, my novel isn’t all that keen to take to work. It likes being messy.
One of my sons used to live in a pile of his precious items. We argued over it, and I finally told him he needed to tidy it up one day a week so I could vacuum and such and thus prevent bug infestation. He grudgingly agreed. He’d tidy it all up, I’d whip the vacuum through, and within five minutes, it’d be all layered again, looking just the same as before, but less dusty.
It worked for us. He felt more comfortable in the clutter.
Maybe I can tell my novel this – tidy up now, just til June 1st, and then we can play-write again, wallow around in our mental pyjamas, vegetate. I don’t think it’s buying it, though. I think it knows now is the time to grow up.
No more mental health days, not for the moment.
Dang.
On the good side, I can dress in my writer clothes, which are designed to prevent me from being seen in public. Comfy, messy, unattractive. All good.
Time to get to work.
Now, I just need a little Queen to inspire me…

 

May 9, 2012

Super Sad True Habits of Highly Effective Writers: Part 1 | Tin House

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I want this fort

Super Sad True Habits of Highly Effective Writers: Part 1 | Tin House.

I LOVE this.  Lots of good tips in this article for writing/procrastinating/not writing/drinking.

So, what do you folks do before you take on a task, writing or other?

I’m a fan of the organize cupboard choice, and Karen Shepard’s description sounds way too familiar. Alas, I don’t clean my closets. I waste time other ways, mostly involving eating.

Though Sarah Rose Etter’s suggestion sounds tempting.

Finally, for me, when all else fails, I resort to Dr. Wicked’s Write or Die “putting the prod in productivity”. It works. Online it’s free. There are versions for iPad and desktop. It rules, absolutely.

 

May 8, 2012

Okay, some things are just wrong.

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There I am, in the Tim Horton’s, after my customary self-flagellation at the gym. I’m sweating slightly, not smelling as I should, and I pick up the Halifax Metro newspaper, only to see this item:
http://latimesblogs.latimes.com/world_now/2012/05/south-koreans-confiscated-pills-human-remains.html

Apparently the South Koreans have confiscated capsules that were filled with dehydrated baby remains. People are taking them to enhance their youth.

As my exercise buddy said, somewhere there is something not right along the supply chain.
Apparently they are dehydrated fetuses and stillborn babies that have been dried on ovens and crumbled into the capsules. I wonder if they are primarily female fetuses? I wonder who had the brilliant idea of waste not, want not? I wonder who in their right mind would want to swallow dehydrated fetuses?

And then I wonder how they get the fetuses and stillborn babies. I wonder if any of them were helped along to their dead state. I wonder if this sort of cultural focus needs to exist.

I mean, heck, what is UP with some people?

Sharks are killed in the millions for their fins. Rhinocerii are hunted to extinction for the precious horns. Oysters are felled by the gallon pail in the interest of sexual potency. And now babies?

Of course, in a way, it makes more sense to use the dehydrated babies. After all, they’re dead, anyway, and unlikely to suffer as the animals do during their processing. But haven’t these people read anything about mad cow disease? Prion diseases? The dangers of eating brains? Haven’t they seen ZOMBIE movies, fer gods sake?

And then my friend told me about this: http://www.care2.com/causes/help-the-dancing-boys-of-afghanistan-escape-the-world-of-bacha-bazi.html

And I just wanted to weep.

Sometimes it seems like it might be an overall good thing if we were wiped out. Surely a better race could supersede us. Something with a higher moral sense. Something like cockroaches.

 

May 6, 2012

Mothers and daughters and mothers and daughters on and on and on

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ImageSo here comes another Mother’s Day, and with it the maelstrom of feelings that are associated with this Hallmarky “holiday”. I have a hate-hate relationship with Mother’s Day. When I was a kid, it was a day when I would try to connect with my mother, unsuccessfully. I always did something minimal for Mother’s Day – as an unemployed poor person for most of my mother-daughter relationship, I resorted to “Spritual Bouquets” (home made cards offering prayers for the person) or something equally forgettable. I don’t remember Mother’s Day particularly well. I suppose we went out to eat. Or something. It all seemed rather bleah.

And then I became a Mother. And after nights and nights of solo parenting while my ex was working or deployed or otherwise occupado, he never did a thing for me for Mother’s Day. “You’re not my mother,” he’d say. Yeah, true. But I’d organize the kids to do something for him for Father’s Day or do something special. Instead I reminded him to call HIS mother. It hurt, a lot. I wanted praise for a job well done, or at least a recognition that my mothering of the kids made life easier for him to father them. But maybe it didn’t. Mothers days passed. I didn’t really care.

Then my mother, ever the competitive one, superseded my father’s glorious passing on Christmas Eve to die on Mother’s Day. It was a blatant attempt to win in the sympathy contest. It worked. So Mother’s Day became even more rife.

I used to be proud of my parenting. I stayed at home for a few years (we were lucky enough to do this), and I thought I’d done a good job. In amongst the child rearing, while my mum was still around, I fought her influence on me. We were never close, and this I regret. As I’ve said elsewhere, Karma sucks, and now the pride I took in parenting is shadowed by the ongoing break existing between my daughter and I.  It’s still deep and dark and murky and I can’t see a way past it. I dread coming to the realization that I may never see her again. And that this may be what she wants. Yowza.

I sense my mother had her difficulties with her mother, too. She was one of the youngest of a large clan and her mother was ferocious. I imagine little foolishness was tolerated. My mum moved away from her mother and stayed away. We saw her mother now and again, but I didn’t get the feeling that they were bosom buddies or anything. Our family never said they loved each other – I’m sure my mother’s family would have thought that was just a terribly odd thing to say.

Maybe that’s the way daughters and mothers exist, but I am not sure about that. Today I saw a mother and daughter out for lunch together, laughing and enjoying being together, and my heart broke – for the lost opportunities with my mum, now long gone, for the years passing away from my daughter.

This Mother’s Day is also my daughter’s birthday. Plus it will be about 5 years since we’ve talked. Have I mentioned my hate-hate relationship with the day? So this Mother’s Day, I get to relive my mother and my daughter, my cold and now lost marriage, and all that crap. I suspect I’ll have to hit the beach and throw some rocks.

On the good side, I have two lovely sons. Thank god. And a friend who knows how important it is to get some positive stroking on this sharp, painful day. I love them all dearly.

So, all the rest of you – go talk to your mothers. Yeah, they’re insufferably boring and intrude into your life and say things that hurt and mess with your head. They probably wear horrible clothes and are shockingly clued out. But trust me, even if you think you hate them, you’re gonna miss them when they’re gone. See them while you can.

Miss you, mum. Hope you are somewhere beautiful. Love you.

 

May 2, 2012

Dialog Attribution: Why King Said So?

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Dialog Attribution: Why King Said So?. from:

Stephen King said, “Somebody said, ‘blah, blah,’ is the best way to attribute dialogs.”

In On Writing, Stephen King said that the best dialog attribution terms are ‘said,’ ‘say,’ etc. On Writing is King’s best-selling non-fiction on how to write better.

When you read a novel or a short story, you usually encounter what characters speak, in their own words. For instance,

Joe said, “I am here to know about it.”

Steve said, “You will learn.”

These are dialog attributions, which tells you who said a particular thing. They are very important in a work of fiction in order to show you what is happening in a scene. While it is so, we may encounter sentences like the following.

Harry jerked out at last, “I can’t go.”

Tim mouthed his reply, “Then I will do it.”

In these sentences, the speaker does a certain action like jerking out or mouthing, and it is told to the readers by the author. When you read such sentences, you find it rather amusing at first, but its overuse is jarring and boring as hell.

Why King Said So?

King has expressed an extreme distaste over the dialog attribution of the second category said above. These are lifeless attribution methods according to him, and should be avoided in well-written works. Though the reason is evident through the two sentences mentioned above, let me clarify it once again.

When you read any such inelegantly written dialog attributions, just understand that the reason behind it is that the writer writes what he can’t show through his words. For instance, see this sentence:

Tim said, “I-I c-can’t have done that … Sorry!”

In this sentence, it is evident that Tim is apologizing and stammering in his apology (maybe he did something wrong and is worried for it). The waiting (while he is thinking and selecting his apology word) is shown through an ellipsis, and his stammering is evident from ‘I-I’ and ‘c-c.’

Another way to write the same is:

Tim worded his apology, “I can’t have done that” and after a pause, added, “sorry!”

This looks inelegant as hell, compared to the previous one. This is exactly what King wants us to learn. Just ‘said’ is enough when you have what it takes in the dialog. So, try to show emotions in the text; show what a character feels. Writing dialogs is an art by itself, and it has to be learned to be a successful writer. Making your readers feel each situation is very important. And terms like “jerk out,” “murmur,” “shout,” “scream,” etc., are fine up to an extent and should never be overused. Remember the big rule in fiction writing: “Show and never, ever tell.”


Copyright © Lenin Nair 2008

 

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