Amazing how quickly deadlines start to loom, isn't it?
My current focus has been to develop and complete a suitable story for an anthology that has a deadline of September first. I have started five stories since receiving this assignment, finishing two. The second one I finished exceeded the word count specification by approximately 3,000 words and I'm not entirely sure I can squeeze it down until it fits (at least and keep the same feeling). The first was so bad, that I printed it out and jumped up and down on it, allowing myself some choice imprecations while doing so. The other three all have promise...just like the first two did, and September keeps marching closer with October right behind.
Funny thing...before I got the invite, I had just written a pair of really cool little stories with hardly any effort. The delight expressed by my usual ring of readers surprised me. Since then, however, I seem to be spinning around a bit.
I mentioned this to Lars last night in AIM, and that pretty much set the stage to speak about the ebb and flow of inspiration here in the blog.
There are times when you can do no wrong. They are extremely rare, but they do occur. I had one soaring season like that when, for my skill level, I was flying extremely well. All the soaring trophies that adorn the wall of my office harken to that season. The same sort of thing can happen with writing, especially when you're trying too hard.
The nature of the beast is one of ebb and flow, surge and regression. Creativity takes time, effort, and focus. So it is only natural to have a "down" slope after finishing a work, no matter how small. I imagine that the more professional one becomes, the more shallow the "dips", but I suspect the roller coaster is still there to some degree.
I can feel the bands loosening. Immediately after the invites I was too wired to think straight then I went into "panic and doubt" mode. Now things are settling into "I can do this." I can finish what I start, which is a fundamental tenet of the Zette School of Writing. Then I can edit.
I can do this. So can you.
Tuesday, July 26, 2005
Thursday, July 21, 2005
Writing, Creativity, and the Duality of Writer Mentality
Wow. I haven't posted since May 16? Ouch. Guess I need to fix that.
First off, some news: The Illuminated Manuscript E-book antho from Dragon Tooth Fantasy (Double Dragon E-Books) comes out in August. My story, Hell Forge, is in the collection. When it comes out, I'll be doing some promotional work. I have also been invited to submit to two anthos that will come out in 2006, so I actually have a chance to garner some pro sales soon.
Okay, onto more writerly topics. I've had several things tumbling around in my cabasa lately. One of these subjects is related to trying too hard. See, with a little bit of success comes a tendency to start to get a bit cocky, and when you get cocky, you increase the odds of screwing up exponentially.
I tripped over that recently. What's worse, I snippetted a bit of what I was doing to Julie C's board. When I woke up from my delusions, I started banging my head against my desk for displaying my ineptitude to the world. I'd show you what set all this off, but I've edited the text to the point that it's not quite as bad as first, so it doesn't have the same "ick" factor.
Anyway, I fell back into my old habits of stilted, overly complex sentences full of very fancy words. I also did a lot of telling instead of showing. In my own defense, I will admit that I had been perusing Fantasy and Science Fiction and Strange Horizons the day before, and had succumbed to "lit-raw-airy" influences.
Where is this heading? Ah, toward the odd duality that writers have to balance in their heads. We must be both our own best promoters while simultaneously being harshly critical. Beware the writer who has become convinced that golden prose flows from their fingertips at will. Also, watch to see that your own mind does not bend that direction. The converse of this, of course, is not to be so severe on your own writing that you do not show it to others.
There's that balance concept again.
In my case, the garnering of the antho invites has set off an odd convulsion in my writing. I'm incredibly excited to have been sponsored and presented as a potential talent, and that is a real confidence boost. Unfortunately, I cannot afford such confidence. I have to remain critical of myself. I can't start believing that I'm too good, too soon. I've made several stabs at shorts for the anthos, and they have all failed to pass initial muster. That doesn't mean they can't, it means that by the strange duality of writerdom I suddenly feel inadequate to the task as my earlier overconfidence quavers in the face of immediate reality.
I don't do schizophrenia well. Sorry. I only have one mind and I have to run it at pretty much full throttle just to get by on a calm day.
The conclusion that comes across is this: you have to do your best, and you have to not let the speed bumps completely unhinge your confidence. You have to keep writing or it's over. If you let the hiccups stop your efforts then you have no chance of ever getting better.
So, I suspect the "duality" isn't actually there. A writer writes, as Zette is fond of saying. An author uses a critical eye to edit what has been written. Once the editing is done, the manuscript is submitted, then submitted again, and again, and again. When it finally sells, then the author must drag out confidence and promote the work tirelessly and vociferously, because no one else is going to do it for you.
That's the truth of getting published: there's always something else to do, and every job requires a different mind set.
First off, some news: The Illuminated Manuscript E-book antho from Dragon Tooth Fantasy (Double Dragon E-Books) comes out in August. My story, Hell Forge, is in the collection. When it comes out, I'll be doing some promotional work. I have also been invited to submit to two anthos that will come out in 2006, so I actually have a chance to garner some pro sales soon.
Okay, onto more writerly topics. I've had several things tumbling around in my cabasa lately. One of these subjects is related to trying too hard. See, with a little bit of success comes a tendency to start to get a bit cocky, and when you get cocky, you increase the odds of screwing up exponentially.
I tripped over that recently. What's worse, I snippetted a bit of what I was doing to Julie C's board. When I woke up from my delusions, I started banging my head against my desk for displaying my ineptitude to the world. I'd show you what set all this off, but I've edited the text to the point that it's not quite as bad as first, so it doesn't have the same "ick" factor.
Anyway, I fell back into my old habits of stilted, overly complex sentences full of very fancy words. I also did a lot of telling instead of showing. In my own defense, I will admit that I had been perusing Fantasy and Science Fiction and Strange Horizons the day before, and had succumbed to "lit-raw-airy" influences.
Where is this heading? Ah, toward the odd duality that writers have to balance in their heads. We must be both our own best promoters while simultaneously being harshly critical. Beware the writer who has become convinced that golden prose flows from their fingertips at will. Also, watch to see that your own mind does not bend that direction. The converse of this, of course, is not to be so severe on your own writing that you do not show it to others.
There's that balance concept again.
In my case, the garnering of the antho invites has set off an odd convulsion in my writing. I'm incredibly excited to have been sponsored and presented as a potential talent, and that is a real confidence boost. Unfortunately, I cannot afford such confidence. I have to remain critical of myself. I can't start believing that I'm too good, too soon. I've made several stabs at shorts for the anthos, and they have all failed to pass initial muster. That doesn't mean they can't, it means that by the strange duality of writerdom I suddenly feel inadequate to the task as my earlier overconfidence quavers in the face of immediate reality.
I don't do schizophrenia well. Sorry. I only have one mind and I have to run it at pretty much full throttle just to get by on a calm day.
The conclusion that comes across is this: you have to do your best, and you have to not let the speed bumps completely unhinge your confidence. You have to keep writing or it's over. If you let the hiccups stop your efforts then you have no chance of ever getting better.
So, I suspect the "duality" isn't actually there. A writer writes, as Zette is fond of saying. An author uses a critical eye to edit what has been written. Once the editing is done, the manuscript is submitted, then submitted again, and again, and again. When it finally sells, then the author must drag out confidence and promote the work tirelessly and vociferously, because no one else is going to do it for you.
That's the truth of getting published: there's always something else to do, and every job requires a different mind set.
Monday, May 16, 2005
Getting by with a Little Help from My Friends
There's a lingering romantic notion of the tortured writer slaving away in a stifling little hotel room, cigarette smoke swirling about his head to the accompaniment of clacking typewriter keys. The image of the manic creative individual, single handedly driving his vision into reality on 20# bond.
Yeah, right. Vision, I bite my thumb at thee!
Reality check, people: a person who writes alone and isolated has stacked the deck against themselves from the word go. First off, a writer's view of their own words is skewed. This is obvious from trying to proof anything you write within 10 days or so of finishing. You won't catch as much as you should, trust me. Second off, publishing as an industry is a social hive: if you don't have an "in" or a "contact", you're not getting past the guards at the gates without a full frontal assault. It's doable, but you'll take casualties.
The point I'm making is this: the rugged individual has the toughest time making it in this business. If, however, you have a modicum of social ability and are willing to listen and learn, you will find that you gain friends, and from friends, entre'.
The thing is, of course, you can't go in with the goal of finding a "friend" to use to pry the gates open. Some folks don't get that, sadly. Instead, they'll try to find someone they can sweet talk and manipulate and gain the good graces of and then ruthlessly exploit that person to get some piece of tripe pushed through to an editor or agent. The end result being, of course, harm to the poor sod who got snookered by a con person.
Those people are out there, trust me. Damn my eyes, but I can see them when they pop up, which probably says horrible things about my own dark and dismal past.
What brings all this up? Well, recently a writer friend forwarded a snippet of one of my stories to a well known editor without my request. What I got was a note telling me to "Hold up on submitting to the mags" and simply telling me what had been done. Frankly, I was stunned beyond words.
And grateful. And Humbled.
When someone you respect, who has plenty of other things to do, believes in you and your work enough to become an advocate without request, it's both invigorating and frightening. I have author friends who have offered to be my advocate before, but I have hesitated to lean upon them because I felt such requests to be an intrusion, a liberty taken with a friendship. However, I relish their praise and support. Having someone successful praise your efforts is one of the greatest feelings of exploring your creativity.
At a point like this, you realize that there are two responsibilities in play. The first is to the people who believe in you and back you, often at personal risk to their own reputations. On the strength of a relationship and mutual respect, they take a risk for those they believe to be worthy. How can the recipient not feel a responsibility to put their best efforts forward and provide their mentors the best possible praise through their work?
The other responsibility falls to those who follow. When someone helps you climb over a wall, does it make sense to just jump off and run like hell when so many others are waiting to get over as well?
With the examples of those who have guided me so firmly in my mind, how could I not do the same when the time comes?
Yeah, right. Vision, I bite my thumb at thee!
Reality check, people: a person who writes alone and isolated has stacked the deck against themselves from the word go. First off, a writer's view of their own words is skewed. This is obvious from trying to proof anything you write within 10 days or so of finishing. You won't catch as much as you should, trust me. Second off, publishing as an industry is a social hive: if you don't have an "in" or a "contact", you're not getting past the guards at the gates without a full frontal assault. It's doable, but you'll take casualties.
The point I'm making is this: the rugged individual has the toughest time making it in this business. If, however, you have a modicum of social ability and are willing to listen and learn, you will find that you gain friends, and from friends, entre'.
The thing is, of course, you can't go in with the goal of finding a "friend" to use to pry the gates open. Some folks don't get that, sadly. Instead, they'll try to find someone they can sweet talk and manipulate and gain the good graces of and then ruthlessly exploit that person to get some piece of tripe pushed through to an editor or agent. The end result being, of course, harm to the poor sod who got snookered by a con person.
Those people are out there, trust me. Damn my eyes, but I can see them when they pop up, which probably says horrible things about my own dark and dismal past.
What brings all this up? Well, recently a writer friend forwarded a snippet of one of my stories to a well known editor without my request. What I got was a note telling me to "Hold up on submitting to the mags" and simply telling me what had been done. Frankly, I was stunned beyond words.
And grateful. And Humbled.
When someone you respect, who has plenty of other things to do, believes in you and your work enough to become an advocate without request, it's both invigorating and frightening. I have author friends who have offered to be my advocate before, but I have hesitated to lean upon them because I felt such requests to be an intrusion, a liberty taken with a friendship. However, I relish their praise and support. Having someone successful praise your efforts is one of the greatest feelings of exploring your creativity.
At a point like this, you realize that there are two responsibilities in play. The first is to the people who believe in you and back you, often at personal risk to their own reputations. On the strength of a relationship and mutual respect, they take a risk for those they believe to be worthy. How can the recipient not feel a responsibility to put their best efforts forward and provide their mentors the best possible praise through their work?
The other responsibility falls to those who follow. When someone helps you climb over a wall, does it make sense to just jump off and run like hell when so many others are waiting to get over as well?
With the examples of those who have guided me so firmly in my mind, how could I not do the same when the time comes?
Thursday, May 05, 2005
Art in various forms
There are two forms of art that I participate in. One is writing, of course. The other is model sailplanes.
I've flown R/C models since I was 16. I originally started with glow-powered models, but when I moved to Fort Wayne in the 1990's with my wife and kids, I stumbled across competition sailplane flying. I can still fly glow or electric, but my heart is in dancing on the wind with a glider.
Gliders allow me to touch a bit of what artist's must feel. By their very nature and the edicts of aerodynamics, gliders are inherently graceful in line and motion. The smoother and more curvey a model is, the better it will work (within bounds of a host of other factors, mind, such as airfoil). There are huge number of fiddly bits to be played with in search of that magic combination that will lead the pilot to "wood" (i.e. trophies) at the end of the day.
What brings this up? Well, yesterday I went over to my brother-in-law Will's place to do an assessment survey on the damaged and distressed models hiding in his garage. Will flies gliders like me, but there's a reason I call him "Moose". Will and finesse have yet to truly meet and they might not hit it off when they do.
Anyway, as we sorted through the pile of damaged bits and pieces that need to be fixed (i.e. that I would be fixing), it dawned on me that I wasn't looking at things just to get them fixed enough, I wanted to fix them right. To me, just getting the parts airworthy again wasn't enough. I wanted the planes to be in better shape after I was done than before they went in (which, admittedly, is a pretty modest goal considering the care Will usually give his gear).
Anyway, it brought to my mind the whole difference between art and craft. Craft is what anyone can learn given proper instruction and serious study. Art is something more. To me, the models are, in and of themselves, art and my repairs should add to that, smoothing and polishing and renewing. When I build a new model, I tend to great finickiness, from the time I start the design to the time I let the model go for its trip up the winch line.
When I write, I seek not to simply capture a story. Rather, I work to convey the feelings and emotions that I perceive the characters experiencing. Yes, it's a hubris for me to call my writing art, but even if no one else thinks that of my words my efforts in prose remain art to me, my own efforts to reach beyond craft to express something more.
I've flown R/C models since I was 16. I originally started with glow-powered models, but when I moved to Fort Wayne in the 1990's with my wife and kids, I stumbled across competition sailplane flying. I can still fly glow or electric, but my heart is in dancing on the wind with a glider.
Gliders allow me to touch a bit of what artist's must feel. By their very nature and the edicts of aerodynamics, gliders are inherently graceful in line and motion. The smoother and more curvey a model is, the better it will work (within bounds of a host of other factors, mind, such as airfoil). There are huge number of fiddly bits to be played with in search of that magic combination that will lead the pilot to "wood" (i.e. trophies) at the end of the day.
What brings this up? Well, yesterday I went over to my brother-in-law Will's place to do an assessment survey on the damaged and distressed models hiding in his garage. Will flies gliders like me, but there's a reason I call him "Moose". Will and finesse have yet to truly meet and they might not hit it off when they do.
Anyway, as we sorted through the pile of damaged bits and pieces that need to be fixed (i.e. that I would be fixing), it dawned on me that I wasn't looking at things just to get them fixed enough, I wanted to fix them right. To me, just getting the parts airworthy again wasn't enough. I wanted the planes to be in better shape after I was done than before they went in (which, admittedly, is a pretty modest goal considering the care Will usually give his gear).
Anyway, it brought to my mind the whole difference between art and craft. Craft is what anyone can learn given proper instruction and serious study. Art is something more. To me, the models are, in and of themselves, art and my repairs should add to that, smoothing and polishing and renewing. When I build a new model, I tend to great finickiness, from the time I start the design to the time I let the model go for its trip up the winch line.
When I write, I seek not to simply capture a story. Rather, I work to convey the feelings and emotions that I perceive the characters experiencing. Yes, it's a hubris for me to call my writing art, but even if no one else thinks that of my words my efforts in prose remain art to me, my own efforts to reach beyond craft to express something more.
Wednesday, April 13, 2005
Snippet for Wednesday, 13-April-05
From a "dark" SF experiment, The Merciless Light of Tomorrow:
***
Efflen hated the surface, hated the light. The surface had taken all the people he ever loved, and the light had aided their killers.
He crouched in the rubble at the foot of the old concrete stairs and sniffed at the hot, dry air that wafted down the well. Every few seconds, he would pop out of the shadows to glance upward into the golden sunshine before jerking backward into the darkness.
"Damn, Flen," Abermay clucked at him. The brilliant sunshine had blinded Efflen's dark sight so that the hunt leader was all but invisible in the deeper darkness of the "front porch" where the scavenge team had gathered. "Give it a rest, would you? You're starting to make me nervous."
"Too much light," Efflen grumped back at her. "Night is best. Night hides us. The snufflers will be out."
"We're on a tight schedule," Abermay said as she stepped into the twilight between the burning day and comforting dark. Her battle rig was worn but in good repair. Long knives adorned both her calves and both her forearms and the barrel of her family rifle projected above her right shoulder. The tough, jet black fabric of her combat suit had faded a bit at the seams, but was otherwise in good condition. Most of all, however, her pale face and clear blue eyes fairly glowed in the light. She might as well walk onto the surface beating a drum and blowing a horn.
***
Efflen hated the surface, hated the light. The surface had taken all the people he ever loved, and the light had aided their killers.
He crouched in the rubble at the foot of the old concrete stairs and sniffed at the hot, dry air that wafted down the well. Every few seconds, he would pop out of the shadows to glance upward into the golden sunshine before jerking backward into the darkness.
"Damn, Flen," Abermay clucked at him. The brilliant sunshine had blinded Efflen's dark sight so that the hunt leader was all but invisible in the deeper darkness of the "front porch" where the scavenge team had gathered. "Give it a rest, would you? You're starting to make me nervous."
"Too much light," Efflen grumped back at her. "Night is best. Night hides us. The snufflers will be out."
"We're on a tight schedule," Abermay said as she stepped into the twilight between the burning day and comforting dark. Her battle rig was worn but in good repair. Long knives adorned both her calves and both her forearms and the barrel of her family rifle projected above her right shoulder. The tough, jet black fabric of her combat suit had faded a bit at the seams, but was otherwise in good condition. Most of all, however, her pale face and clear blue eyes fairly glowed in the light. She might as well walk onto the surface beating a drum and blowing a horn.
Tax Time and Regrets
Well, I am one of the "late filers" notorious in the American tax system. Yes, yes, I procrastinate until the very last minute of April 15th, which is really pointless since I always get a refund. I can file anytime in the next 3 years and the IRS wouldn't care.
However, this year, I'm thinking about America's place in the world economy and how our government spends our money. Now, I have a pretty simple view of economics which has been criticized as "too simplistic" by one of my friends. However, everything that friend has said reinforced to me that my "simplistic" notions are correct and all the other smoke and mirrors that Wall Street and the Fed throw around are just so much Vegas bling-bling.
Economics at any level is really very simple once you strip things down to the base level: if you take some raw materials, modify them, and then sell them for more than you invested in the process, you bring money in. If you buy only finished products, your money flows out. Ergo, the key to financial success in any venture, personal or business, is to produce more value than you buy. Pretty friggin' basic.
Frankly, from where I sit, a service based economy is a great way for a country to become mediocre and irrelevant. For a country's economy to really grow, it has to produce value. The USA simply doesn't do much of that anymore because the Feds, under the direction of the Corp Cronies in D.C., have removed all the roadblocks that kept the Corps from trafficking in international slave labor.
Remember my comments about balance? Here's a prime example. The fox may not actually have a key to the henhouse, but his lobbyist has convinced the farmer's son to open the door by stuffing wads of cash in his overalls.
Frankly, a company that has its headquarters in the USA is not necessarily US based. If a company imports most of its products from overseas, then that company is a foreign company as far as I'm concerned. They're not providing jobs to US citizens. Instead, they're pumping money out of the economy to foreign countries and into the Corp elite's pockets. As far as I'm concerned, we would be better off shutting the borders and turning back all those container ships from China.
What set this off? Well, some incredible geniuses were on NPR talking about the trade deficit yesterday. And what they were saying basically added up to "we get about ten more years before we're broke as a nation". Ta freaking da, you ivy league idiots. Any kid with a lemonade stand could've told you that, you pendantic pinheads. We've allowed our manufacturing base to implode as we "sub-contracted" all the manufacturing and engineering overseas (as well as increasing the immigration quotas for "Foreign Educated Engineers"). If we're not adding value to anything, how in the hell do you think we're going to make any money? Selling know-how that the world already has or has already surpassed? Oh, I know, we'll sell our financial know how. You know, the same know how that's ruined life for the American middle class? I'm sure the world financial market can't wait for that kind of leadership.
What really blows my mind are these idiots who are surprised that, although our employment rate is roughly 95%, people are earning less and thus generating less tax revenue. Duh. You sent all the jobs that made the American middle class viable overseas, you incredible weasels. All that's left is landscaping, fast food, and cleaning hotel rooms, and you're importing MEXICANS to do that!
The idiocy moves me to profanity.
So, forgive me if I'm not overjoyed to be doing taxes right now. I'd like to know that my tax money would be used to buy six foot section of road repair, or maybe some textbooks for an inner city school. My taxes might even stretch so far as to buy lunch for a day care center that helps out working mothers or a set of ceramic armor inserts for a soldier in Iraq.
Somehow, though, I expect Congress to fritter it away somehow, leaving us all poorer after the fact.
D
However, this year, I'm thinking about America's place in the world economy and how our government spends our money. Now, I have a pretty simple view of economics which has been criticized as "too simplistic" by one of my friends. However, everything that friend has said reinforced to me that my "simplistic" notions are correct and all the other smoke and mirrors that Wall Street and the Fed throw around are just so much Vegas bling-bling.
Economics at any level is really very simple once you strip things down to the base level: if you take some raw materials, modify them, and then sell them for more than you invested in the process, you bring money in. If you buy only finished products, your money flows out. Ergo, the key to financial success in any venture, personal or business, is to produce more value than you buy. Pretty friggin' basic.
Frankly, from where I sit, a service based economy is a great way for a country to become mediocre and irrelevant. For a country's economy to really grow, it has to produce value. The USA simply doesn't do much of that anymore because the Feds, under the direction of the Corp Cronies in D.C., have removed all the roadblocks that kept the Corps from trafficking in international slave labor.
Remember my comments about balance? Here's a prime example. The fox may not actually have a key to the henhouse, but his lobbyist has convinced the farmer's son to open the door by stuffing wads of cash in his overalls.
Frankly, a company that has its headquarters in the USA is not necessarily US based. If a company imports most of its products from overseas, then that company is a foreign company as far as I'm concerned. They're not providing jobs to US citizens. Instead, they're pumping money out of the economy to foreign countries and into the Corp elite's pockets. As far as I'm concerned, we would be better off shutting the borders and turning back all those container ships from China.
What set this off? Well, some incredible geniuses were on NPR talking about the trade deficit yesterday. And what they were saying basically added up to "we get about ten more years before we're broke as a nation". Ta freaking da, you ivy league idiots. Any kid with a lemonade stand could've told you that, you pendantic pinheads. We've allowed our manufacturing base to implode as we "sub-contracted" all the manufacturing and engineering overseas (as well as increasing the immigration quotas for "Foreign Educated Engineers"). If we're not adding value to anything, how in the hell do you think we're going to make any money? Selling know-how that the world already has or has already surpassed? Oh, I know, we'll sell our financial know how. You know, the same know how that's ruined life for the American middle class? I'm sure the world financial market can't wait for that kind of leadership.
What really blows my mind are these idiots who are surprised that, although our employment rate is roughly 95%, people are earning less and thus generating less tax revenue. Duh. You sent all the jobs that made the American middle class viable overseas, you incredible weasels. All that's left is landscaping, fast food, and cleaning hotel rooms, and you're importing MEXICANS to do that!
The idiocy moves me to profanity.
So, forgive me if I'm not overjoyed to be doing taxes right now. I'd like to know that my tax money would be used to buy six foot section of road repair, or maybe some textbooks for an inner city school. My taxes might even stretch so far as to buy lunch for a day care center that helps out working mothers or a set of ceramic armor inserts for a soldier in Iraq.
Somehow, though, I expect Congress to fritter it away somehow, leaving us all poorer after the fact.
D
Monday, April 11, 2005
This Odd Concept of "Balance"
My Dad once told me that the one true sin, the sin that begets all others in a way, is gluttony. Now, I don't want to start a theological discussion on the seven cardinal sins or anything, but the Old Man had a point. He was big on "everything in moderation", and I'm far enough along in the world to pretty much agree with him.
I'll be frank: there's a lot of things defining my reality right now that suck because someone doesn't have a clue about "enough". Corporations, for example, have gotten most of their shackles thrown off and their doing a pretty damned fine job of selling the USA down the river so that the bigwigs can get "more". Not to mention those fine hereditary "representatives" in the government that are helping the Corps get "more" while they get "more" as well. Frankly, I really, really respect my father nowadays.
But, what's this got to do with writing?
Just a little insight into how I want to live my life, is all. I do other things besides write. I like model airplanes, for one, and paintball, for another. Writing is my equivalent of painting: a form of creative expression.
I'm not in it for the money, per se, but I want to be recognized as notable in the field. That means I have to take my efforts seriously. However, there's this concept of balance that hovers about the back of my mind.
I tend to view life as a kind of scale with time being the pebbles you add to the pans. If I throw too much of my time into any one pan, then the whole system gets out of whack. Family is one pan that always gets its share of pebbles. What's left gets divided between all the things I do, writing being only one. So I've got this scale with about a dozen pans and trying to keep them all balanced becomes...interesting.
The core of it comes down to a couple of things, however: family and health. If you don't take care of those two little items, your existence on this plane of reality will be miserable and, in all likelihood, short. I plan on being a pain in the butt to my great-grandkids, so that means balance.
Just random thinking, signifying nothing...
D
I'll be frank: there's a lot of things defining my reality right now that suck because someone doesn't have a clue about "enough". Corporations, for example, have gotten most of their shackles thrown off and their doing a pretty damned fine job of selling the USA down the river so that the bigwigs can get "more". Not to mention those fine hereditary "representatives" in the government that are helping the Corps get "more" while they get "more" as well. Frankly, I really, really respect my father nowadays.
But, what's this got to do with writing?
Just a little insight into how I want to live my life, is all. I do other things besides write. I like model airplanes, for one, and paintball, for another. Writing is my equivalent of painting: a form of creative expression.
I'm not in it for the money, per se, but I want to be recognized as notable in the field. That means I have to take my efforts seriously. However, there's this concept of balance that hovers about the back of my mind.
I tend to view life as a kind of scale with time being the pebbles you add to the pans. If I throw too much of my time into any one pan, then the whole system gets out of whack. Family is one pan that always gets its share of pebbles. What's left gets divided between all the things I do, writing being only one. So I've got this scale with about a dozen pans and trying to keep them all balanced becomes...interesting.
The core of it comes down to a couple of things, however: family and health. If you don't take care of those two little items, your existence on this plane of reality will be miserable and, in all likelihood, short. I plan on being a pain in the butt to my great-grandkids, so that means balance.
Just random thinking, signifying nothing...
D
Tuesday, April 05, 2005
Blogs, Reviews, and other forms of Free Speech
Okay, I Blog so therefore I must be, right?
I'll admit to a certain level of ambivalence with regards to Blogs in general. Still, a Blog is a very interesting Internet innovation: a virtual soapbox with an attached means to continue discussion in the background. I won't say Blogs replace newsgroups, but they certainly can serve a purpose.
One of those purposes is to function as a springboard for independent reviews of publications or products.
Thing is, there can be good and bad in anything. Just as with Amazon reviews, there are lots of folks out there who love to sling anonymous electronic monkey dung. You have your fawning fen, your monkey dung slingers, your one-issue-Annies, and your right and left leaning loonies. Frankly, wading through reviews about a product can be just as mind numbing as wading through the web in general. However, just as with the web, the cream floats to the top.
Julie Czerneda's discussion group recently tripped over the whole subject of on-line reviews and the apparent lack of restraint from both the reviewer and author angles. As with many of the posts in her group, there was a lot more thought to be given to the subject than first appeared.
I'm still mulling what was said. Someday I might have things out there that will get reviewed and slammed. Thing is, I recognize human nature for what it is. I know that, as a species, we tend to crap in our own dens. It doesn't surprise me anymore when people are cruel and evil. I know to expect that and prefer to be pleasantly surprised when it doesn't happen.
Anyway, more meanderings later...
I'll admit to a certain level of ambivalence with regards to Blogs in general. Still, a Blog is a very interesting Internet innovation: a virtual soapbox with an attached means to continue discussion in the background. I won't say Blogs replace newsgroups, but they certainly can serve a purpose.
One of those purposes is to function as a springboard for independent reviews of publications or products.
Thing is, there can be good and bad in anything. Just as with Amazon reviews, there are lots of folks out there who love to sling anonymous electronic monkey dung. You have your fawning fen, your monkey dung slingers, your one-issue-Annies, and your right and left leaning loonies. Frankly, wading through reviews about a product can be just as mind numbing as wading through the web in general. However, just as with the web, the cream floats to the top.
Julie Czerneda's discussion group recently tripped over the whole subject of on-line reviews and the apparent lack of restraint from both the reviewer and author angles. As with many of the posts in her group, there was a lot more thought to be given to the subject than first appeared.
I'm still mulling what was said. Someday I might have things out there that will get reviewed and slammed. Thing is, I recognize human nature for what it is. I know that, as a species, we tend to crap in our own dens. It doesn't surprise me anymore when people are cruel and evil. I know to expect that and prefer to be pleasantly surprised when it doesn't happen.
Anyway, more meanderings later...
Friday, April 01, 2005
"Excellence" in writing
Lars Walker, a published author and someone I consider a friend, has been guest blogging over at Brandywine Books. I really enjoy reading his thoughts about writing because you get to see the awesome intellect and bedrock faith that he uses to create his alt-history and near-future Viking adventure fantasies.
One of the topics he broached was a post on Excellence in Writing. During that, I once again tripped over the concept of the "literary" novel versus the "commercial" novel. Frankly, I lost it and begged for a definition, which Lars was good enough to provide from his point of view. I quote his answer here:
"Good question, Darwin. My understanding is that a literary novel is one where the plot revolves around people's thinking, feelings and relationships, rather than physical danger and adventure (Romance novels excluded). Problems of society rate as literary subjects too. Also a literary novel emphasizes(theoretically) the evocative use of language, which is appreciated for its own sake, like poetry.
"I love Wodehouse's description of a Russian novel, which said (in paraphrase) that the main character did nothing for 300 pages, then shot himself. :-)"
Gah! Who'd want to read something like that? Actually, I suppose my question is, "Who'd want to be around someone who'd regularly read something like that?" Imagine enjoying what amounts to novel-length, obsessive whinging about the cruelty of life, the universe, and everything in artfully composed and ridiculously complicated prose. Just thinking about it makes me twitch.
I've heard rumours that the "Literary" intelligentsia look down their tenured noses at the kind of writing (SF&F). Haven't really experienced it yet, mind you, because those people not only bore me to tears but the bleeding heart, self-righteous, and inflexible politics of the universitat move me toward violence all too quickly, so I tend to avoid them when ever possible .
Ahem...
In any case, apparently having a compellling story-line with believable characters that the readers identify with doesn't fit into the "literary" definition. Yet, I can't accept any novel that doesn't take the reader into the story as "excellent", sorry. If I get bored, the book is finished and I hope it's the right thickness to prop up the short leg of my bandsaw. I don't care how insightful the friggin' author is about the plight of a Paraguayian chickadee, or how delicate his use of language in describing its habitat is. If I don't identify with the bird as a character, it's just a bird. Let's eat it.
Okay, okay. I'm abusing stereotype. Forgive me...not. I've got my paradigms just like anyone else. I don't buy literary novels because literary novels give me the yawns. I read for entertainment, to engage my imagination, and to play "what if?" If a literary work does that, then I'll read it. If it doesn't, it's just a small pile of processed dead tree held together by an egotistic elitist clique.
So, here's some check points for how I know when a book is excellent:
One of the topics he broached was a post on Excellence in Writing. During that, I once again tripped over the concept of the "literary" novel versus the "commercial" novel. Frankly, I lost it and begged for a definition, which Lars was good enough to provide from his point of view. I quote his answer here:
"Good question, Darwin. My understanding is that a literary novel is one where the plot revolves around people's thinking, feelings and relationships, rather than physical danger and adventure (Romance novels excluded). Problems of society rate as literary subjects too. Also a literary novel emphasizes(theoretically) the evocative use of language, which is appreciated for its own sake, like poetry.
"I love Wodehouse's description of a Russian novel, which said (in paraphrase) that the main character did nothing for 300 pages, then shot himself. :-)"
Gah! Who'd want to read something like that? Actually, I suppose my question is, "Who'd want to be around someone who'd regularly read something like that?" Imagine enjoying what amounts to novel-length, obsessive whinging about the cruelty of life, the universe, and everything in artfully composed and ridiculously complicated prose. Just thinking about it makes me twitch.
I've heard rumours that the "Literary" intelligentsia look down their tenured noses at the kind of writing (SF&F). Haven't really experienced it yet, mind you, because those people not only bore me to tears but the bleeding heart, self-righteous, and inflexible politics of the universitat move me toward violence all too quickly, so I tend to avoid them when ever possible .
Ahem...
In any case, apparently having a compellling story-line with believable characters that the readers identify with doesn't fit into the "literary" definition. Yet, I can't accept any novel that doesn't take the reader into the story as "excellent", sorry. If I get bored, the book is finished and I hope it's the right thickness to prop up the short leg of my bandsaw. I don't care how insightful the friggin' author is about the plight of a Paraguayian chickadee, or how delicate his use of language in describing its habitat is. If I don't identify with the bird as a character, it's just a bird. Let's eat it.
Okay, okay. I'm abusing stereotype. Forgive me...not. I've got my paradigms just like anyone else. I don't buy literary novels because literary novels give me the yawns. I read for entertainment, to engage my imagination, and to play "what if?" If a literary work does that, then I'll read it. If it doesn't, it's just a small pile of processed dead tree held together by an egotistic elitist clique.
So, here's some check points for how I know when a book is excellent:
- First and foremost, can I suspend my disbelief and care about what's going on?
- Is the prose clear and concise?
- Does the prose flow in such a manner that it requires little effort to read?
- Does the author have the skill to use a minimum of description to evoke imagery rather than bludgeoning me with adjectives?
- At the end, do I feel a wholeness in the story or do I just feel like there's something else that got forgotten?
- When all is said and done, do I feel like pressing charges against the author and publisher for fraud?
Yeah, I could get more technical, but that's not where I'm going with this.
An excellent writer will craft an engrossing story without coming across as obtuse, whiny, or wordy. Prose isn't poetry, but an excellent writer will create prose that frequently feels poetic. The kicker is that they do it with a minimum of descriptor, by using language to tie into the common experiences of their readers to evoke imagery from within, rather than invoke it by using some prose mantra.
An excellent writer grabs the reader from the first paragraph and doesn't let them go until the story is done, for which the reader is truly grateful. It has precious little to do with "literary" qualifications.
Darwin
Thursday, March 31, 2005
Today's snippet
Why, oh why has this silly story gotten lodged in my head? Yet another snip from another unnamed snapshot in my head:
A tiny glint of gold caught the Castellan's eye. Amongst the knives, grenades, and various bits of soldierly hardware he could just make out a crucifix, blackened with paint that had begun to scrape away at the edges. Dimitri looked up at the soldier, a question on the tip of his tongue.
The look of quiet amusement on the soldier's face surprised him into silence. A black gloved finger slipped up to the crucifix and gently traced it.
"What better god for a soldier," the Hunter asked, "than the God of sacrifice and redemption?"
A tiny glint of gold caught the Castellan's eye. Amongst the knives, grenades, and various bits of soldierly hardware he could just make out a crucifix, blackened with paint that had begun to scrape away at the edges. Dimitri looked up at the soldier, a question on the tip of his tongue.
The look of quiet amusement on the soldier's face surprised him into silence. A black gloved finger slipped up to the crucifix and gently traced it.
"What better god for a soldier," the Hunter asked, "than the God of sacrifice and redemption?"
The Dread Disease of Writer Vision
The act of snippeting a work-in-progress is a tempting thing to many of us, especially we the new writers. We create something that feels good, looks good, makes up happy with our talent, so of course we want to share. Thing is, there's this wonderful little law of nature regarding writing that states: The more excited you are about something, the more likely you'll see glaring errors in it as soon as you post it publicly.
That, my friends, is the dread disease of Writer Vision: being blinded to obvious errors by your own enthusiasm until you have thrown it out on the sidewalk for everyone to see.
Ouch.
I recently posted a Snippet to Julie Czerneda's SFF newsgroup just for fun. It wasn't a part of any ongoing story, other than as a brief, formless idea for an urban-fantasy short. The snippet hounds in the group made baying sounds aplenty, for which I was truly grateful, but on the second or third time through, I realized with a jolt that the first full paragraph was a complete train wreck of mishmashed jibberish. I'm quite certain that if an editor saw it, the MS would have been round-filed, physically or electronically.
Now I know I read that little snip through four or five times before I posted it, because I edited it every time. Yet, there it was, staring at me on the screen, a complete mess.
Well, that happens a lot with work-in-progress snippets, so I have not let it get me down. Still, it served as a good lesson: Always wait a bit before sharing.
As an object lesson, the paragraph was:
Arguile glanced at Timmots' shadowed form. His brother-hunter's cloak drankin the wan yellow light the streetlights cast into the fog. He could notdeny the observation. Only on a night such as this could the boundariesbe weakened. The curtain of mist tinged with scents of mid-summer and wrappedin the midnight silence of sleeping humanity would draw their prey as surelyas fresh meat drew lions.
I've been working on rewriting it, but I haven't gotten it quite where I want it to be yet. The whole scene was inspired by one of Lazette Gifford's photo-essay pieces about fog. What I want to capture is a sense of impending action coupled with a sense of the fey. I know both hunters wear enchanted cloaks that drink up light and render them as vague forms, almost unnoticable to human eyes, but I don't want to come right out and say that. The key with this bit, as with most story beginnings, is to involve the reader without core-dumping a buch of data in their face up front, i.e. Keep the mystery level and tension up so the reader just has to keep reading.
Anyway, that's a project for another day. This morning, I'm writing on Spell Weaver like a good boy (just as soon as I quit messing with this bloody blog).
Darwin
That, my friends, is the dread disease of Writer Vision: being blinded to obvious errors by your own enthusiasm until you have thrown it out on the sidewalk for everyone to see.
Ouch.
I recently posted a Snippet to Julie Czerneda's SFF newsgroup just for fun. It wasn't a part of any ongoing story, other than as a brief, formless idea for an urban-fantasy short. The snippet hounds in the group made baying sounds aplenty, for which I was truly grateful, but on the second or third time through, I realized with a jolt that the first full paragraph was a complete train wreck of mishmashed jibberish. I'm quite certain that if an editor saw it, the MS would have been round-filed, physically or electronically.
Now I know I read that little snip through four or five times before I posted it, because I edited it every time. Yet, there it was, staring at me on the screen, a complete mess.
Well, that happens a lot with work-in-progress snippets, so I have not let it get me down. Still, it served as a good lesson: Always wait a bit before sharing.
As an object lesson, the paragraph was:
Arguile glanced at Timmots' shadowed form. His brother-hunter's cloak drankin the wan yellow light the streetlights cast into the fog. He could notdeny the observation. Only on a night such as this could the boundariesbe weakened. The curtain of mist tinged with scents of mid-summer and wrappedin the midnight silence of sleeping humanity would draw their prey as surelyas fresh meat drew lions.
I've been working on rewriting it, but I haven't gotten it quite where I want it to be yet. The whole scene was inspired by one of Lazette Gifford's photo-essay pieces about fog. What I want to capture is a sense of impending action coupled with a sense of the fey. I know both hunters wear enchanted cloaks that drink up light and render them as vague forms, almost unnoticable to human eyes, but I don't want to come right out and say that. The key with this bit, as with most story beginnings, is to involve the reader without core-dumping a buch of data in their face up front, i.e. Keep the mystery level and tension up so the reader just has to keep reading.
Anyway, that's a project for another day. This morning, I'm writing on Spell Weaver like a good boy (just as soon as I quit messing with this bloody blog).
Darwin
Wednesday, March 30, 2005
Snippet of the day
Okay, I lied. I did write a little bit. Here's today's snippage:
The Lady and her castellan stood on a low hill overlooking the burning town. The rattle of distant gunfire and the muffled thump of explosions competed with the sound of songbirds perched in the cedars about them.
The Lady and her castellan stood on a low hill overlooking the burning town. The rattle of distant gunfire and the muffled thump of explosions competed with the sound of songbirds perched in the cedars about them.
The incredible excuse machine
I've come to the conclusion that lots of budding writers are very good at making excuses, and I'm no exception.
Maybe it's a function of guilt or maybe it's some misguided attempt to justify why words didn't get done during a particular day...or week...or month.
C'mon, folks. Let's have a little straightforward honesty here. I'll kick it off:
I didn't write anything today because: I didn't feel like writing.
There. I feel so much cleaner somehow.
All humor aside, unless you've somehow managed to buck the trend and become a full-time writer, odds are that you're squishing your writing time into the cracks that real life leaves behind. In my case, I have a full time job that I'm bloody well not going to give up to pursue a writing career until and unless my income from writing makes my normal salary seem silly. (Thank you Terry Pratchett for that little measuring post.) I have a wife, three kids, a cat, a dog, a house that needs repair, and two cars that are just this side of the wrecking yard. No way am I going to suddenly lark off and trust to the generosity and support of the American publishing industry. (Guffaw)
So, for me, writing is a creative outlet that has the bonus of being a self-worth reinforcer when people say nice things to me about it and publishers write me checks. Nice things are never in big enough supply and checks, no matter how modest, are never to be sneezed at.
Now, that all has to be balanced a bit since I actually have a story that got ::gasp:: accepted. Yes, yes. I am going to be officially published now. Zette Gifford not only said nice things about a story I wrote, but she also snagged it for one of her Illuminated Manuscripts fantasy anthologies due out from Dragon Tooth Fantasy, a Double Dragon E-Book imprint.
Okay, now it's serious.
Yeah, sometimes I won't feel like writing and I still have a real life with some pretty friggin hefty real bills, but play time, in a sense, is over. If I want to be published, if I want to be considered "pro", then I have to start exercising some focus and committment. And not feeling like writing becomes a luxury that doesn't fit anymore.
Oddly enough, feeling like writing is, for me, a function of being well rested and in decent condition. If I'm tired and draggy, then writing is an unassailable mountain of effort (along with just about everything else in life, ick.) If I get enough sleep, walk regularly, do some life-balance things with the kids and wife, then writing is a whole lot easier.
Anyway, enough rambling. I need to knuckle down and write. ;)
Darwin
Maybe it's a function of guilt or maybe it's some misguided attempt to justify why words didn't get done during a particular day...or week...or month.
C'mon, folks. Let's have a little straightforward honesty here. I'll kick it off:
I didn't write anything today because: I didn't feel like writing.
There. I feel so much cleaner somehow.
All humor aside, unless you've somehow managed to buck the trend and become a full-time writer, odds are that you're squishing your writing time into the cracks that real life leaves behind. In my case, I have a full time job that I'm bloody well not going to give up to pursue a writing career until and unless my income from writing makes my normal salary seem silly. (Thank you Terry Pratchett for that little measuring post.) I have a wife, three kids, a cat, a dog, a house that needs repair, and two cars that are just this side of the wrecking yard. No way am I going to suddenly lark off and trust to the generosity and support of the American publishing industry. (Guffaw)
So, for me, writing is a creative outlet that has the bonus of being a self-worth reinforcer when people say nice things to me about it and publishers write me checks. Nice things are never in big enough supply and checks, no matter how modest, are never to be sneezed at.
Now, that all has to be balanced a bit since I actually have a story that got ::gasp:: accepted. Yes, yes. I am going to be officially published now. Zette Gifford not only said nice things about a story I wrote, but she also snagged it for one of her Illuminated Manuscripts fantasy anthologies due out from Dragon Tooth Fantasy, a Double Dragon E-Book imprint.
Okay, now it's serious.
Yeah, sometimes I won't feel like writing and I still have a real life with some pretty friggin hefty real bills, but play time, in a sense, is over. If I want to be published, if I want to be considered "pro", then I have to start exercising some focus and committment. And not feeling like writing becomes a luxury that doesn't fit anymore.
Oddly enough, feeling like writing is, for me, a function of being well rested and in decent condition. If I'm tired and draggy, then writing is an unassailable mountain of effort (along with just about everything else in life, ick.) If I get enough sleep, walk regularly, do some life-balance things with the kids and wife, then writing is a whole lot easier.
Anyway, enough rambling. I need to knuckle down and write. ;)
Darwin
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