I've been thinking...is there a point at which a writer must admit to themselves they just don't have what it takes and throw in the towel? Or can anyone who wishes to be a writer become better. Is there a certain something a person needs to possess...like a singer who needs to have strong pipes or a dancer who must possess a sense of coordination?
In short, is writing an art form that can be taught?
So what does it take to be a writer?
1. Commitment - You have to want to do it. It takes a huge amount of commitment to endeavour on any artistic journey. You need to know it's what you want and there is no other option. There are highs and lows to the writing process. We get through the creative part and then there's the publishing side. Which, let's face it, sucks! We submit. We get rejected time and again. It's a huge blow to the ego and a thick skin is required. Thankfully, if you're truly committed, that skin thickens and the rejections are viewed as just part of the process.
2. Imagination - Some have, many don't. This is something I think begins at an early age. The ability to make up stories or scenarios, to live in your own mind, and not be so structural in your thinking. Things are not just black and white. There are many shades. And some people just can't activate that part of their brain. It's a necessity for any writer.
3. Desire to learn, to improve - We all have to start somewhere. I remember when I finally came back to writing as something I really wanted to pursue and the first time I submitted pages to be workshopped by my peers. I was both excited and terrified. What would they say? Was my writing as good as I thought it was. Turned out the answer was no. That was almost 10 years ago and although I had been writing for much longer, I was suddenly faced with a harsh reality. My writing was crap. I could have given up then, but I didn't. It was something I really wanted to do. Giving up was just not an option to me. But if someone had suggested that I not give up my day job, that there was no hope for me, I might have thought differently. That was not the case because I was surrounded by a group of supportive individuals all working toward the same goal and they helped me to carry on and do better.
4. Write - To be a writer you have to write. If the story lives in your head, bring it to life on the page. We're told to write everyday. I don't know too many writers who actually do that. I know I don't. But when I am struck with an idea, I write. Sometimes I get so wrapped up in my characters and story, I can't let it go. But then there are days, sometimes many, many days where I produce nothing. That's just the way it goes.
Now, ten years later, I look back at the work I was producing then and what I produce now, and there is such a dramatic change. But I couldn't have done it on my own. I took classes, numerous classes, to learn everything I possibly could about technique, about what works and what doesn't. I developed a large support group of other writers to help me along the way. Took all their comments under advisement and trusted that they knew what they were talking about.
Something I learned, there is no right or wrong way to write a story. There is no secret formula. Yes there are basics. But if we all stuck to the basics, wouldn't our stories all be the same? You need to combine all of the above while also keeping true to yourself. Try new things. See what works, what doesn't.
I don't know if I've answered my own question or not. Is there a definitive answer?
Am I missing something?
What do you think it takes to be a writer?
Tuesday, March 27, 2012
Friday, March 2, 2012
Introvert or Extrovert?
Susan Cain talks about the power of introverts. Totally worth the watch. Most writers will relate. But really, it's not just for writers.
Tuesday, February 28, 2012
Book Review: Dark Visions by Jonas Saul
Imagin Books (2011)
Dark Visions is the first book in the Sarah Roberts mystery series by self-published writer, Jonas Saul.
I was kind of excited to begin reading this series, probably because the author has the last name Saul, and if he was anything like John Saul, well, I was sure to be in for a real treat. However, as with most self-published books I've read lately, or ever, I was seriously let down.
The book starts on a high note. The main character, Sarah, is an interesting character for sure. She suffers from a mental illness, trichtotillomania. That is, she has the uncontrollable urge to pull out her hair. A unique characteristic for any character in a story for sure. Not to mention she is also pyschic. An Automatic Writer. Meaning, she goes into these black out like states and when she comes to, she has written something in her notebook. A warning, a name, someone who she has to help.
One of these Automatic Writing episodes sends her to a local psyhic fair where she meets another psychic who warns her that she herself could be in danger. Lo and behold, Sarah gets kidnapped while trying to prevent another kidnapping.
Sarah Roberts, exit stage left.
From that point in the book, suddenly it's not about Sarah. She is no longer the lead character. We're taken through chapter after chapter of other characters who are trying to find Sarah. Her parents, the kidnappers, Dolan from the psychic fair, the police.
I am no expert in writing mysteries but I have definitely read a lot of them and never have I read a story where the character, who is supposed to be the one an entire series is about, becomes such a behind the scenes character. Sarah is supposed to be the hero, but for the better part of the book, she isn't even there. She does nothing except get herself kidnapped, escapes, gets herself kidnapped again and so on.
However, the action is great. The story moves forward at a good pace, albeit somewhat boring because I wanted more of Sarah Roberts and her quirky traits.
Most of the dialogue is forced and unbelievable. An interaction between Sarah's mother and father seemed like it was supposed to be heart felt and angry and show the strangled family dynamics, but instead of being sympathetic, I literally laughed and rolled my eyes through the whole scene. In fact, I didn't find I really cared about any of the characters and I really, really wanted to. Especially Sarah since there are more books about her.
Because this is Jonas Saul's first book, I think, I am going to give it the benefit of the doubt and move on to the next book in the series in the hopes that the characters become people I want to read about, who I can relate to and be excited or scared for.
If I was one to judge a book by its cover, I would say they are great, because the covers really are incredible. But when it comes down to it, it's what's between the covers, on the pages that really counts, and I was very disappointed.
But on to the next one.
Monday, February 27, 2012
A story...published...
Check out my story, Crabapples and Pickles, in this issue of Crack the Spine!
Saturday, February 25, 2012
Saturday or Sunday Novel Progress, What Does it Matter Anyway?
Novel progress for February, summed up into one word, BLOWS!
Read my post from yesterday and you'll understand why. At least that is the excuse I am going to give myself and everyone else whose listening.
On the bright side, I had the first 30ish pages reviewed by a writer friend and she helped shed some serious light on the story. Now I think I can move forward. So here's the plan or commitment or whatever: I have a short story that needs to have the first draft completed by Monday. As soon as that is done, it's novel, novel, novel.
Let's see how that goes.
Read my post from yesterday and you'll understand why. At least that is the excuse I am going to give myself and everyone else whose listening.
On the bright side, I had the first 30ish pages reviewed by a writer friend and she helped shed some serious light on the story. Now I think I can move forward. So here's the plan or commitment or whatever: I have a short story that needs to have the first draft completed by Monday. As soon as that is done, it's novel, novel, novel.
Let's see how that goes.
Friday, February 24, 2012
Life and Its Many Tangles
You know how when you have a big plan to get something done and it seems there is always something preventing you from getting there? Sometimes it's simple procrastination blamed on the everyday stresses of life and sometimes some big event sets you back.
I had every intention of getting through the first draft of this novel this month. February seemed like a good month and quite frankly, I procrastinated long enough in January (and a bit into February).
And then my grandma died.
It was so fast. I talked to her on a Friday, she was great, wanted to know when I was coming to visit. Told me how weak her legs were getting, it was becoming more difficult to walk. I planned on going to see her that Sunday but then I got sick. (which incidentally I still have not recovered from)
That very same Sunday, she fell and broke her hip. I know if I HAD gone to see her, this very well may have still happened, but it's kind of impossible to not think about. It's funny, you know, as a writer we are told to play the "what if" game all the time, but when it comes to real life, we are warned against it.
Anyway, she was taken to the hospital and was prepared to undergo surgery for her hip. But remember, she was already 86 and had a myriad of other health issues that were a concern if she underwent surgery. But if she didn't, well that could be catastrophic, too.
I went to see her that Tuesday. Knelt beside her, so small and weak in a stinky hospital room that she shared with 3 other people, held her hand and told her I loved her. There are a million other things I wanted to say, but at that moment "I love you" seemed to be enough.
At the time I didn't want to admit, convinced myself she would be alright, but I knew that would be the last time I saw her.
Within a couple of days she developed pneumonia and by Friday she was gone.
My cousin and I wrote the obituary. (which, by the way, was a lot harder than I thought it would be)
The funeral was this past Monday. The week leading up seemed okay. I busied myself with work, teaching, and planning my BFF's 11th anniversary of her 29th birthday. In the midst of all this I was supposed to write a little something to say at the funeral. As it turned out, this was by far the most difficult thing I have ever written. All week, I tried but would get stalled, or it became too difficult to carry on. In fact, I didn't have anything really ready until Sunday night. All I week I tried telling myself I was having trouble because I had so many other things to do. When really, it was just that I didn't want to write it.
I was doing fine most of the time leading up, but the day we arrived in Invermere we were whisked away to my Grandma's apartment to start going through stuff. I already had what I wanted so I didn't think there was anything else I really wanted or needed. But of course, once we started going through everything there were other items I decided I needed to take. I found photos I didn't know Grandma had, I found blankets and dishes and spoons. (Grandma was a collector of little ornamental spoons.)
Everything came to a head at the gravesite. I didn't want to get out of the truck but of course I knew I would never forgive myself if I didn't. It was a small service. My cousins shared memories. I shared what I could despite the fogginess of my own memories.
For the first thirteen years of my life, my grandma was the centre of my universe. She was a mother to me when my own mother was unable to be. She took me to doctor appointments, brought me soup - or a bucket - when I was sick, laughed at my mistakes even while convincing me it would be alright, and shared in my accomplishments.
I wish my memories weren't fogged by the years apart. But the things I do remember, I will hold on to forever.
Grandma taught me to play crib and never once did she let me win. In fact, I never beat her. Even in those early years she insisted I take my licks, pay my dues.
Thanks to endless hours of watching Matlock together, I developed a desire to become a lawyer that stayed with me until I graduated. Grandma never once doubted the ambitions of a pre-teen girl who didn't know any better. She told me I could be anything I wanted. At the time, I remember thinking I wanted to be just like her. Strong, determined, independant, someone who didn't take any shit from anyone. But kind when was needed, fun when it was needed, a shoulder to cry on when it was needed.
Then I moved away. In many ways I felt like an ungrateful child. The years between us grew and we lost touch. The older I got, the easier it became to not visit even when I knew I should. But she never stopped caring.
I saw it in her eyes when I brought my husband to visit for the first time. I saw it every time she laid eyes on Julianne. No matter what I did or didn't do, because of circumstances or choice, she was always there.
And I saw it in her eyes the last time I saw her, as I knelt beside her hospital bed holding her hand. There were so many things I wanted to say, so many I'm sorrys and thank yous. Instead, our lives were summed up into three little words, the last that we spoke to each other.
I love you!
Now I am slowly getting back into the everyday. And writing. And hopefully now, the words won't stop flowing.
I had every intention of getting through the first draft of this novel this month. February seemed like a good month and quite frankly, I procrastinated long enough in January (and a bit into February).
And then my grandma died.
It was so fast. I talked to her on a Friday, she was great, wanted to know when I was coming to visit. Told me how weak her legs were getting, it was becoming more difficult to walk. I planned on going to see her that Sunday but then I got sick. (which incidentally I still have not recovered from)
That very same Sunday, she fell and broke her hip. I know if I HAD gone to see her, this very well may have still happened, but it's kind of impossible to not think about. It's funny, you know, as a writer we are told to play the "what if" game all the time, but when it comes to real life, we are warned against it.
Anyway, she was taken to the hospital and was prepared to undergo surgery for her hip. But remember, she was already 86 and had a myriad of other health issues that were a concern if she underwent surgery. But if she didn't, well that could be catastrophic, too.
I went to see her that Tuesday. Knelt beside her, so small and weak in a stinky hospital room that she shared with 3 other people, held her hand and told her I loved her. There are a million other things I wanted to say, but at that moment "I love you" seemed to be enough.
At the time I didn't want to admit, convinced myself she would be alright, but I knew that would be the last time I saw her.
Within a couple of days she developed pneumonia and by Friday she was gone.
My cousin and I wrote the obituary. (which, by the way, was a lot harder than I thought it would be)
The funeral was this past Monday. The week leading up seemed okay. I busied myself with work, teaching, and planning my BFF's 11th anniversary of her 29th birthday. In the midst of all this I was supposed to write a little something to say at the funeral. As it turned out, this was by far the most difficult thing I have ever written. All week, I tried but would get stalled, or it became too difficult to carry on. In fact, I didn't have anything really ready until Sunday night. All I week I tried telling myself I was having trouble because I had so many other things to do. When really, it was just that I didn't want to write it.
I was doing fine most of the time leading up, but the day we arrived in Invermere we were whisked away to my Grandma's apartment to start going through stuff. I already had what I wanted so I didn't think there was anything else I really wanted or needed. But of course, once we started going through everything there were other items I decided I needed to take. I found photos I didn't know Grandma had, I found blankets and dishes and spoons. (Grandma was a collector of little ornamental spoons.)
Everything came to a head at the gravesite. I didn't want to get out of the truck but of course I knew I would never forgive myself if I didn't. It was a small service. My cousins shared memories. I shared what I could despite the fogginess of my own memories.
For the first thirteen years of my life, my grandma was the centre of my universe. She was a mother to me when my own mother was unable to be. She took me to doctor appointments, brought me soup - or a bucket - when I was sick, laughed at my mistakes even while convincing me it would be alright, and shared in my accomplishments.
I wish my memories weren't fogged by the years apart. But the things I do remember, I will hold on to forever.
Grandma taught me to play crib and never once did she let me win. In fact, I never beat her. Even in those early years she insisted I take my licks, pay my dues.
Thanks to endless hours of watching Matlock together, I developed a desire to become a lawyer that stayed with me until I graduated. Grandma never once doubted the ambitions of a pre-teen girl who didn't know any better. She told me I could be anything I wanted. At the time, I remember thinking I wanted to be just like her. Strong, determined, independant, someone who didn't take any shit from anyone. But kind when was needed, fun when it was needed, a shoulder to cry on when it was needed.
Then I moved away. In many ways I felt like an ungrateful child. The years between us grew and we lost touch. The older I got, the easier it became to not visit even when I knew I should. But she never stopped caring.
I saw it in her eyes when I brought my husband to visit for the first time. I saw it every time she laid eyes on Julianne. No matter what I did or didn't do, because of circumstances or choice, she was always there.
And I saw it in her eyes the last time I saw her, as I knelt beside her hospital bed holding her hand. There were so many things I wanted to say, so many I'm sorrys and thank yous. Instead, our lives were summed up into three little words, the last that we spoke to each other.
I love you!
Now I am slowly getting back into the everyday. And writing. And hopefully now, the words won't stop flowing.
Thursday, February 9, 2012
Father Valentine
By Madelaine Wong
Dear Father Valentine,
You can’t imagine the guilt I feel that you lay languishing in a prison cell. I begged my father, your jailer, to deliver extra blankets and food to you. After all, it’s my fault you’re there. I was the one who asked you to secretly perform the marriage ceremony between me and my beloved, a soldier. I knew it was forbidden by our most worthy Emperor Claudius II who commanded that all men in his army remain unmarried. You must understand, my husband would have been forced to draw lots. He would have been given a virgin not of his choosing and I would never have seen him again. We couldn’t bear the thought of being separated. Now, because of my selfishness, you are to be put to death.
My father is also a Christian and we both promise to do all we can to make you comfortable until your execution day.
With heartfelt thanks,
Camilla
My Dearest Camilla,
I want to thank-you for sending me extra food and blankets. This prison cell is very cold. I hope you don’t mind that I distributed the food among the other inmates here.
It was my privilege to perform your wedding ceremony. Your happiness is reward enough for me. I was well aware of the law imposed by our pagan ruler and I chose instead to obey God’s laws. I am proud to have joined you and your husband, and many other young lovers, in Holy Matrimony.
It troubles me greatly that we are not allowed to practice our faith. Let us pray that the Roman persecution of Christians will soon end, so that we no longer have to hide like frightened animals. Truly, Camilla, it is enough to break my heart. Oh, the wickedness that takes place in the Coliseum! I heard that they are feeding Christians to the lions, even little children.
I will tell you that they have set the date of February 14 as my execution day. Pray for me. I will be beaten to death with clubs and then they will behead me. Camilla, I am not afraid to die. Knowing that I did God’s will is all that matters.
I wish you and your beloved many blessings and a happy life together.
Your Valentine
Thursday, February 2, 2012
Love Letters
Send me your love letters or short stories with a Valentine theme. Make them gritty, gruesome, funny, sad or sentimental. Basically, anything goes.
Max. 1000 words.
Send to rzvaneck@gmail.com
Tuesday, January 24, 2012
Stars Are Aligning Just Right...
We hear about rejection all the time. We're told to expect them, love them, learn from them...whatever. But no one ever really prepares you for acceptance.
Sure I've had stories published before and at the time it was like, "okay, cool. I'm published." Then I got a short story published last year and it was kind of the same thing. "Great, but so what?"
Now this week I have had two stories accepted. In one week! And, although part of me is like, "yay! cool!" it's more like having gotten a gift from someone that you don't really like, but it's the thought that counts, and so after the pleasantries of "thank you" etc. you put it aside and kind of forget about it.
This disappoints me a little. I thought I would be more excited about it. Especially after the accumulation of rejections over the past several months.
At first, I admit, when they accepted the stories, I had this feeling like, "are they just trying to fill space?" and "maybe they'll change their mind and send me an email saying, oops, sorry, sent that to the wrong person." They don't really do that though. At least I don't think so.
So while the days and hours pass, I do feel a little more excitement over these new successes. And, the great writing God knows, it's only a matter of time before the rejections start pouring in again so I really should be savouring this moment.
So I will go savour it. By finishing another story. By drinking a glass of wine. By going about my business as if nothing unusual happened.
Sure I've had stories published before and at the time it was like, "okay, cool. I'm published." Then I got a short story published last year and it was kind of the same thing. "Great, but so what?"
Now this week I have had two stories accepted. In one week! And, although part of me is like, "yay! cool!" it's more like having gotten a gift from someone that you don't really like, but it's the thought that counts, and so after the pleasantries of "thank you" etc. you put it aside and kind of forget about it.
This disappoints me a little. I thought I would be more excited about it. Especially after the accumulation of rejections over the past several months.
At first, I admit, when they accepted the stories, I had this feeling like, "are they just trying to fill space?" and "maybe they'll change their mind and send me an email saying, oops, sorry, sent that to the wrong person." They don't really do that though. At least I don't think so.
So while the days and hours pass, I do feel a little more excitement over these new successes. And, the great writing God knows, it's only a matter of time before the rejections start pouring in again so I really should be savouring this moment.
So I will go savour it. By finishing another story. By drinking a glass of wine. By going about my business as if nothing unusual happened.
Sunday, January 22, 2012
Now on Sunday, Novel Progress: Pushy Characters
I can sum up my novel progress the past couple of weeks in one word: NONEXISTENT.
Many will tell you, if you're not writing that's not progress and for the most part, they are right. But at the same time, when you are wrapped up heavily in the world of your characters, constantly visualizing what they will do next, or how this scene should go here, or there, or wherever, is that progress?
Probably not.
But I think it is.
Here's the problem:
My characters want to overrule one another. They are pushy and aggressive, want to steal the scenes they are in. Which brings me to the question, whose story is it? In my case, there is one protagonist, but a couple of antagonists. (it could be argued I have two protagonists and one major antagonist) but whatever.
The antagonist is trying to take over the story. This happened when I first started to write the story too. The initial protagonist was pushed out by an overbearing antagonist and now the protag has changed because of it. But now I feel my antagonist has a far better story to tell. Maybe I've had it all wrong from the beginning. Maybe I am just letting this antagonist work her grisly fingers into the story and strangle the life out of the other characters.
Maybe, maybe, maybe.
I don't want to rewrite again. I am determined to get through this draft and then look at the bigger picture.
*sigh*
Many will tell you, if you're not writing that's not progress and for the most part, they are right. But at the same time, when you are wrapped up heavily in the world of your characters, constantly visualizing what they will do next, or how this scene should go here, or there, or wherever, is that progress?
Probably not.
But I think it is.
Here's the problem:
My characters want to overrule one another. They are pushy and aggressive, want to steal the scenes they are in. Which brings me to the question, whose story is it? In my case, there is one protagonist, but a couple of antagonists. (it could be argued I have two protagonists and one major antagonist) but whatever.
The antagonist is trying to take over the story. This happened when I first started to write the story too. The initial protagonist was pushed out by an overbearing antagonist and now the protag has changed because of it. But now I feel my antagonist has a far better story to tell. Maybe I've had it all wrong from the beginning. Maybe I am just letting this antagonist work her grisly fingers into the story and strangle the life out of the other characters.
Maybe, maybe, maybe.
I don't want to rewrite again. I am determined to get through this draft and then look at the bigger picture.
*sigh*
Sunday, January 15, 2012
Oops...I missed it!
Okay. Just realized I missed my Saturday novel progress update. Sorry to all my faithful followers. In fact, there is little to report on the novel progress. The only I managed to do this week...work on a new story. Attempting to write in the 2nd person POV. It's actually pretty cool but has absolutely nothing to do with the novel.
I'm behind on my book reviews too. As usual. I will say it's because of trying to play catch up in all the other everyday life stuff. And the child being slightly ill this weekend. I admit, not getting much reading done. But I will be back at it before you know it and there will be reviews. Loads and loads of reviews, and novel progress.
Sorry for the slackiness.
I'm behind on my book reviews too. As usual. I will say it's because of trying to play catch up in all the other everyday life stuff. And the child being slightly ill this weekend. I admit, not getting much reading done. But I will be back at it before you know it and there will be reviews. Loads and loads of reviews, and novel progress.
Sorry for the slackiness.
Sunday, January 8, 2012
Sunday Blubbering
Sentiment. It's a funny thing. People say it and don't mean it, others say it and mean it too much. They say it in the heat of passion, in the beginning of a new relationship or for personal gain. But why do those kind words, those things that make the heart twinge, dwindle when you're deep into a relationship?
Sometimes we say it to our friends, and of course mean it, but often it's so sporadic that the friend may even forget the ways you feel about them. It's there though. Isn't it? That's why friends can go weeks or even years without speaking to one another and then when they get back together it's like no time passed.
When you're in love with someone, your soul mate for lack of a better word, the ways you feel about them are often taken for granted. And sometimes, those kind words are replaced with digs, meant to be teasing, but yet can be soul-crushing. Like the husband who says, "yes dear, you do look fat in that dress." Does he mean it? Or is he trying to be funny because you've asked so many times and he's always said the same thing, "you look beautiful."
I've seen it in family relationships, too. My dad and I have a weird relationship. We love each other, of course. We say it, too. But rather than say something nice about something we have done, it ends in silly banter that is often insulting. Sometimes to the point that one of us really does start to feel hurt. Usually me. But I get over it and it's back to the banter.
Men don't share those sentiments enough. They don't say things like, "you make me feel good about myself." "I am so comfortable with you, I can totally be myself." Women can say it. It's genetically built into us to make our friends feel better. To make our children feel special. To remind the man we love that we're there for them even if they don't reciprocate.
I have a friend who is a fabulous writer, who is the best critique partner anyone could ever have. We are open about our feelings about each other's stories. So comfortable, in fact, we can say things like, "That chapter is really fricking boring. What's the point of it?" Or, "I hate it. What the hell were you thinking writing something like that." It's certainly not a dig. It's no slam at each other as writers. It's just we know each other well enough to realize we have each other's best interests in mind. We both want the same things and will do whatever it takes to get there. Even if we have to be blunt.
But why can't we be as honest with everyone in our lives without worrying about hurting their feelings?
I guess it just one of those things we'll never really understand.
Sometimes we say it to our friends, and of course mean it, but often it's so sporadic that the friend may even forget the ways you feel about them. It's there though. Isn't it? That's why friends can go weeks or even years without speaking to one another and then when they get back together it's like no time passed.
When you're in love with someone, your soul mate for lack of a better word, the ways you feel about them are often taken for granted. And sometimes, those kind words are replaced with digs, meant to be teasing, but yet can be soul-crushing. Like the husband who says, "yes dear, you do look fat in that dress." Does he mean it? Or is he trying to be funny because you've asked so many times and he's always said the same thing, "you look beautiful."
I've seen it in family relationships, too. My dad and I have a weird relationship. We love each other, of course. We say it, too. But rather than say something nice about something we have done, it ends in silly banter that is often insulting. Sometimes to the point that one of us really does start to feel hurt. Usually me. But I get over it and it's back to the banter.
Men don't share those sentiments enough. They don't say things like, "you make me feel good about myself." "I am so comfortable with you, I can totally be myself." Women can say it. It's genetically built into us to make our friends feel better. To make our children feel special. To remind the man we love that we're there for them even if they don't reciprocate.
I have a friend who is a fabulous writer, who is the best critique partner anyone could ever have. We are open about our feelings about each other's stories. So comfortable, in fact, we can say things like, "That chapter is really fricking boring. What's the point of it?" Or, "I hate it. What the hell were you thinking writing something like that." It's certainly not a dig. It's no slam at each other as writers. It's just we know each other well enough to realize we have each other's best interests in mind. We both want the same things and will do whatever it takes to get there. Even if we have to be blunt.
But why can't we be as honest with everyone in our lives without worrying about hurting their feelings?
I guess it just one of those things we'll never really understand.
Saturday, January 7, 2012
Saturday, Novel Progess: Which Draft is it Anyway?
Saturday is as good as any other day to talk about novel progress or the lack thereof. Lucky for me, the progress hasn't been so bad. This week itself, only found me a couple of good novel writing days. But I have added lots of new words, new chapters, and structure.
What the hell is it with structure? It's so important but as hard as finding a great title.
I started this novel, working title, Shades of Blood, back in January of 2010. And the main reason was for the year long novel class I was enrolled in. I needed to have something to go into the class with. Over that year, I wrote nearly 3/4 of the novel. In my head, I wrote the whole thing. Just didn't have the actual words down on paper.
A lot of things happened that year to stall me, to make me rethink where I was going with it.
The first one, I lost my flashdrive and everything I had written. Not just the novel, every little snippet and piece of drivel, every short story up to that point. 8 years worth of work. Gave me a new perspective. And I found a better way to save stuff. But losing the novel progress was a bit of a blessing.
I gathered back as much as I could from the pieces that had been reviewed in class and kept on going. Found my stride and wrote back to where I had been, with a new focus in mind.
As much as I loved the support of the class, it had it's drawbacks. In that, everytime the class didn't think something was working, or a character was emerging as much more interesting than the original protagonist, I started to believe I had to look at it more closely. This caused me to rewrite so many times, too many, trying it from different points of view to find what worked the best. And it confused me.
I don't blame the class. It's totally me, and my sometimes neurotic personality and deluded need to please everyone. I know I can't please everyone, but that doesn't help the neuroses.
So I let the novel sit, nearly all of last year. Looked at it periodically, added a bit here and there, but couldn't get into that ever so important groove. I stewed. I considered. I talked with unbiased writers and friends.
And then in November really started looking at it again. But December I really found focus. And started working on it. Hard.
The one thing that was holding me back...a story line that needed to be there, but I couldn't figure out how to do it so it didn't take over the story. It was all backstory and in a forward moving story, it stalled the progress.
I considered a series of letters, scattered throughout. I considered sections for each character. I considered way too damn much and wrote too damn little.
And finally, I found it. As overdone as it may be, it's the only way I comfortably can see to get that story line in there, in a way that doesn't distract from the rest of the story.
Excerpts of journal entries. Thank you, Dean Koontz.
And my main character has changed, thanks to the feedback of the class, but the story will work.
So I have written a good chunk of journal entries. Inserted some of them into the main manuscript and there we go. A novel in progress.
Just to reiterate. This novel is mostly done. The stuff I am working on has been in the story for over a year, but is being rewritten yet again. And will come out far better in the end. The only thing I really have to do, as time goes on, push through to the end.
It's so close I can taste it. And I am frustrated to be rewriting, but no matter what order it's done in, it would have to be rewritten anyway. So which draft am I really on?
I don't know. Feels about the fifth or more. But since I haven't actually completed to the end, even though I know the end, it's really only the first.
Until next Saturday...
What the hell is it with structure? It's so important but as hard as finding a great title.
I started this novel, working title, Shades of Blood, back in January of 2010. And the main reason was for the year long novel class I was enrolled in. I needed to have something to go into the class with. Over that year, I wrote nearly 3/4 of the novel. In my head, I wrote the whole thing. Just didn't have the actual words down on paper.
A lot of things happened that year to stall me, to make me rethink where I was going with it.
The first one, I lost my flashdrive and everything I had written. Not just the novel, every little snippet and piece of drivel, every short story up to that point. 8 years worth of work. Gave me a new perspective. And I found a better way to save stuff. But losing the novel progress was a bit of a blessing.
I gathered back as much as I could from the pieces that had been reviewed in class and kept on going. Found my stride and wrote back to where I had been, with a new focus in mind.
As much as I loved the support of the class, it had it's drawbacks. In that, everytime the class didn't think something was working, or a character was emerging as much more interesting than the original protagonist, I started to believe I had to look at it more closely. This caused me to rewrite so many times, too many, trying it from different points of view to find what worked the best. And it confused me.
I don't blame the class. It's totally me, and my sometimes neurotic personality and deluded need to please everyone. I know I can't please everyone, but that doesn't help the neuroses.
So I let the novel sit, nearly all of last year. Looked at it periodically, added a bit here and there, but couldn't get into that ever so important groove. I stewed. I considered. I talked with unbiased writers and friends.
And then in November really started looking at it again. But December I really found focus. And started working on it. Hard.
The one thing that was holding me back...a story line that needed to be there, but I couldn't figure out how to do it so it didn't take over the story. It was all backstory and in a forward moving story, it stalled the progress.
I considered a series of letters, scattered throughout. I considered sections for each character. I considered way too damn much and wrote too damn little.
And finally, I found it. As overdone as it may be, it's the only way I comfortably can see to get that story line in there, in a way that doesn't distract from the rest of the story.
Excerpts of journal entries. Thank you, Dean Koontz.
And my main character has changed, thanks to the feedback of the class, but the story will work.
So I have written a good chunk of journal entries. Inserted some of them into the main manuscript and there we go. A novel in progress.
Just to reiterate. This novel is mostly done. The stuff I am working on has been in the story for over a year, but is being rewritten yet again. And will come out far better in the end. The only thing I really have to do, as time goes on, push through to the end.
It's so close I can taste it. And I am frustrated to be rewriting, but no matter what order it's done in, it would have to be rewritten anyway. So which draft am I really on?
I don't know. Feels about the fifth or more. But since I haven't actually completed to the end, even though I know the end, it's really only the first.
Until next Saturday...
Thursday, January 5, 2012
Into the Wild...
She's a three foot and a little bit, animal. The devil's spawn if there ever was one. I want to take her out into the wild and set her free. Since, at three years old, she already thinks she knows everything and does whatever the hell she wants. No is not just a word...it's what she believes and all that she stands for. Defiance stronger than a three foot layer of ice on a lake.
The morning has gone a little something like this...she comes running into my room with a band aid saying she has an "ow". She doesn't have an "ow". It's her new favourite thing, everything is an "ow" and everything requires band aids. Granted, we made the mistake of buying her some cute little Tinker Bell band aids a while ago and she thought they were a toy. Everyday she wanted to wear one on each hand or each foot. But if there really was an "ow" she didn't want it. But now that the band aids...which weren't cheap by the way...are gone, she gets into the regular band aids.
Child locks don't work on the bathroom door anymore. She can get them off. Plus with the newest milestone of potty training, we can't very well keep her out of the bathroom all the time. Anyway, she has the band aid in hand when she comes into my room. And of course, instantly I knew I was not going to like what I found in the bathroom. I could smell it before I even got out of bed.
Every lotion she could get a hold of, what remained of my anti-frizz oil for my hair, and toothpaste, combined together in the sink and on the counter into one big greasy, minty, flowery, musky mess. And water. Water everywhere. The counter, the floor...inside the medicine cabinet...a slippery mess. And to make matters worse, she decided she was going to try and pee on the potty without any help and as of yesterday, doesn't want to use the potty seat on the toilet...so since she couldn't get up there herself, she peed all over the floor instead of coming to tell me she had to go.
She's been doing so good on that front for the past month. With only a few minor accidents. I don't fault her for peeing on the floor. It happens.
So of course, I'm barely out of bed, and ready to lose my mind. I put her in her room until I could calm down and clean up the mess. But then...
Then...she flat out refuses to put on panties. She gets mad, slams the door and resorts to her newest technique of letting us know she's pissed - starts throwing all her toys at the door. I ignore her, I'm getting kind of good at ignoring the tantrums, and clean up the mess, not before wanting to pull out my hair and being on the verge of tears because the frustration keeps building. I don't want to talk to her, I don't want to see her.
I clean the mess and take a shower, knowing she's fine in her room. The shower doesn't help.
I try to talk to her afterwards. Gentle and at her level. But she is apparently not ready to talk because she hits me in the face and slams the door again all the while screaming, "MY ROOM. MY ROOM." I take that as..."get the f#&k out of my room". (Can't wait until she's 15) Or something very close. So I go to my room, lay on the bed and want to scream. Throw a tantrum. But I know it doesn't work for her, so why should it work for me.
Instead I wrack my brain trying to figure out what to do to make her listen. There has to be something. Not ALL 3 year olds are like this are they? I got nothing. There need to be consequences for her actions, but I don't have a clue what those consequences should be. What's appropriate for a 3 year old?
Only solution I have at this point...DRINK!
The morning has gone a little something like this...she comes running into my room with a band aid saying she has an "ow". She doesn't have an "ow". It's her new favourite thing, everything is an "ow" and everything requires band aids. Granted, we made the mistake of buying her some cute little Tinker Bell band aids a while ago and she thought they were a toy. Everyday she wanted to wear one on each hand or each foot. But if there really was an "ow" she didn't want it. But now that the band aids...which weren't cheap by the way...are gone, she gets into the regular band aids.
Child locks don't work on the bathroom door anymore. She can get them off. Plus with the newest milestone of potty training, we can't very well keep her out of the bathroom all the time. Anyway, she has the band aid in hand when she comes into my room. And of course, instantly I knew I was not going to like what I found in the bathroom. I could smell it before I even got out of bed.
Every lotion she could get a hold of, what remained of my anti-frizz oil for my hair, and toothpaste, combined together in the sink and on the counter into one big greasy, minty, flowery, musky mess. And water. Water everywhere. The counter, the floor...inside the medicine cabinet...a slippery mess. And to make matters worse, she decided she was going to try and pee on the potty without any help and as of yesterday, doesn't want to use the potty seat on the toilet...so since she couldn't get up there herself, she peed all over the floor instead of coming to tell me she had to go.
She's been doing so good on that front for the past month. With only a few minor accidents. I don't fault her for peeing on the floor. It happens.
So of course, I'm barely out of bed, and ready to lose my mind. I put her in her room until I could calm down and clean up the mess. But then...
Then...she flat out refuses to put on panties. She gets mad, slams the door and resorts to her newest technique of letting us know she's pissed - starts throwing all her toys at the door. I ignore her, I'm getting kind of good at ignoring the tantrums, and clean up the mess, not before wanting to pull out my hair and being on the verge of tears because the frustration keeps building. I don't want to talk to her, I don't want to see her.
I clean the mess and take a shower, knowing she's fine in her room. The shower doesn't help.
I try to talk to her afterwards. Gentle and at her level. But she is apparently not ready to talk because she hits me in the face and slams the door again all the while screaming, "MY ROOM. MY ROOM." I take that as..."get the f#&k out of my room". (Can't wait until she's 15) Or something very close. So I go to my room, lay on the bed and want to scream. Throw a tantrum. But I know it doesn't work for her, so why should it work for me.
Instead I wrack my brain trying to figure out what to do to make her listen. There has to be something. Not ALL 3 year olds are like this are they? I got nothing. There need to be consequences for her actions, but I don't have a clue what those consequences should be. What's appropriate for a 3 year old?
Only solution I have at this point...DRINK!
Wednesday, January 4, 2012
I've Been Thinking...
There's the fact that it's supposed to reach 13 degrees today. In Calgary! In January! Almost felt like I could go outside in a tank top. I didn't of course, cause it's not 13 yet...but still. It's bright outside, so sunny it makes the heart sing and makes me dream of summer.
And of course my mind is full of writing related thoughts. Like this morning, I am thinking about character development and the things that make a person who they are. And how some of those things and the reactions of the character to a certain situation can be so contradictory to the norm. Yet, if we build the character well enough, their contradictions can seem reasonable.
Early on in writing, we are taught the basics. You know, things like:
What the character looks like?
Hair colour?
Eye colour?
Height?
Weight?
Distinguishing features?
Then we are told to dig deeper.
When is your character's birthday?
Did they finish high school?
What is there relationship with their parents?
And we need to know information about the parents too. Because depending on the generation, parents leave different impressions, scars, on their children. So we ask all the same questions about the parents and piece together the influence they may have had on your progtagonist. Like, what if the parents were raging alcoholics? That would certainly have a different impact on the child compared to a child raised by devout Catholics. (or Mormons or Hare Krishnas or Wiccans) What if your character lost their parents? Or one parent? What if there is a long line of mental health problems? The list could go on.
But what about the difficult things that influence our lives. The choices we've made, the horrible outcomes, the things we lock deep in the shadows and very few know about it? I think we all have them. Those cliched "demons in the closet".
Our deepest, darkest secret that we only share with the people we trust. Think about that one thing (or maybe there's more, but pick one). How has that incident shaped who you are? Was it something that was bad in the eyes of the law or something that is just bad in your own eyes? Does that memory surface on a regular basis? Or have you healed from it and can safely move forward?
Now think about your protagonist. What is his/her, darkest secret? How has that incident shaped who they are at the time of the story? This is where depth comes from. Is your character stronger because of it? Or is she weak? Timid? Afraid?
Are you stronger because of your personal experiences? Or are you afraid and go to the bottle every time things get difficult?
Take that scary stuff and work with it. Your characters will thank you for it. And so will your readers.
Monday, January 2, 2012
Book Review: Wild & Wicked by Jenn Nixon
A pinch of romance.
A dash of suspense.
A spoonful of mystery.
A heap of erotica.
Mix together and what do you have? The novella, Wild & Wicked by New Jersey writer, Jenn Nixon.
Veronica Chance’s sister is missing. Her high profile family doesn’t give a damn so she has taken it upon herself to find the missing sibling.
Can this happen? Between a girl in her early 30’s and a man pushing 40? I think this falls somewhere into the land of the Easter Bunny and the Tooth Fairy…and Santa Claus.
Wild & Wicked is a really well written story with all the right ingredients. Great plot. Interesting characters. Lots of action. Lots of well written, arousing sex – even if bordering on the edge of fantastical.
If this is your kind of story, I think it’s worth the read. And it’s a novella, so you can almost read it in one sitting.
For more information check out www.jennnixon.com
Sunday, January 1, 2012
Why The Hell Else Do You Wear a Toque?
Sitting in my writing spot. Laptop open in front of me. Husband is in the kitchen. He turns to me and says," What are your doing?"
I turn around slightly, "Writing." Cause why else would I be typing furiously and basically ignoring everyone and everything?
"Why are you wearing that toque?"
"To keep the creativity in."
D'uh!
(plus it looks cool and I'm cold)
I turn around slightly, "Writing." Cause why else would I be typing furiously and basically ignoring everyone and everything?
"Why are you wearing that toque?"
"To keep the creativity in."
D'uh!
(plus it looks cool and I'm cold)
Goals for 2012
I don't believe in New Year resolutions. I believe in making small, attainable goals at any time during the year. But I suppose it can't hurt to have a few goals. I am only going to post one. One big goal for me and me alone.
So here it is:
My goal for 2012, to finish my novel by the end of the year.
It's also said it helps to reach your goals if you have to be accountable to others. So...I am also going to blog about my progress. My frustrations. My accomplishments. And of course all the other random shit that goes on in my head and around me most of the time.
There are millions of bloggers out there blogging about their novel progress. And I wish I could say I would be different and original. But chances are pretty damn good that I won't. It will be the same old stuff you see all the time. The only difference?
It will be me writing it.
Now that I think about it...that's two goals for 2012.
So in my effort to not have New Year resolutions, there they are.
My goals.
For the coming year.
HAPPY NEW YEAR!
Friday, December 30, 2011
Oh Crap...
Shoot.
There are only two more days left in 2011. Two days. Where has the year gone?
I don't feel like I've accomplished much this year.
A few book reviews written and published. A few stories written and rejected. One story published this year.
Barely touched my novel all year. Only in little bits and pieces.
Resurrected 6 year old research for another novel and began to tackle it again, full force. Even did more research. New stuff I never got to do back in 2005 because life just took over and got in the way of writing. And I've even made some progress on the written part of that one.
I have a lot of unfinished stories to complete, a few stories to revisit and probably edit, a lot of book reviews to write, and two novels to work on. Should keep me busy in 2012.
Hope you all accomplished a little bit more than I did.
On the book review note...I will be publishing book reviews on Mondays. One review a week. Unless I happen to get more done, but I think that's reasonable and doable. Until I run out of books to review.
Don't forget, if you have a book you want reviewed, contact me. I'll get it done as soon as I can.
ONLY TWO MORE DAYS! HAPPY 2012.
There are only two more days left in 2011. Two days. Where has the year gone?
I don't feel like I've accomplished much this year.
A few book reviews written and published. A few stories written and rejected. One story published this year.
Barely touched my novel all year. Only in little bits and pieces.
Resurrected 6 year old research for another novel and began to tackle it again, full force. Even did more research. New stuff I never got to do back in 2005 because life just took over and got in the way of writing. And I've even made some progress on the written part of that one.
I have a lot of unfinished stories to complete, a few stories to revisit and probably edit, a lot of book reviews to write, and two novels to work on. Should keep me busy in 2012.
Hope you all accomplished a little bit more than I did.
On the book review note...I will be publishing book reviews on Mondays. One review a week. Unless I happen to get more done, but I think that's reasonable and doable. Until I run out of books to review.
Don't forget, if you have a book you want reviewed, contact me. I'll get it done as soon as I can.
ONLY TWO MORE DAYS! HAPPY 2012.
Thursday, December 29, 2011
I redid my website. Check it out.
Still trying to work out the redirection kinks from my domain registrar, but I am much happier with this one than any of the previous I tried to do. And it's super easy. Easy is always good. Gotta add a few more things but for the most part, it's done.
Went to a bridal shower last night. I'm not usually a big fan of showers and the silly games that are played. But I have to admit, I had a lot of fun with the whole toilet paper wedding dress and the who has the most crap in their purse and the clothespin grab (can't say the groom's name or cross your legs). I didn't do well on anything although our toilet paper wedding dress came in second and I never did lose any of my clothespins, and gained one.
And, have you ever seen a cake so amazing?
I left before it was demolished. Just too pretty to eat.
Anyway, all in all. Fun times.
Only a couple days until the end of the year and the start of the New Year.
2012 will be full of great things for everyone. I'm sure of it.
Still trying to work out the redirection kinks from my domain registrar, but I am much happier with this one than any of the previous I tried to do. And it's super easy. Easy is always good. Gotta add a few more things but for the most part, it's done.
Went to a bridal shower last night. I'm not usually a big fan of showers and the silly games that are played. But I have to admit, I had a lot of fun with the whole toilet paper wedding dress and the who has the most crap in their purse and the clothespin grab (can't say the groom's name or cross your legs). I didn't do well on anything although our toilet paper wedding dress came in second and I never did lose any of my clothespins, and gained one.
I left before it was demolished. Just too pretty to eat.
Anyway, all in all. Fun times.
Only a couple days until the end of the year and the start of the New Year.
2012 will be full of great things for everyone. I'm sure of it.
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