I want to print out this whole blog post and make it a poster so that I can look at it every day, it is THAT applicable to me.
Saturday, March 5, 2011
Linky to Excellent Thoughts on Procrastination
When I read this, all I could think was, Oh my god, this this this this this this this this to the moon and back. It is so incredibly, monumentally, inarguably true.
Thursday, March 3, 2011
The Conflation of Voice and Author
Seated round the great table, nobody paid heed to the boy, who crouched by the wall and watched them with hunger-wide eyes. If scraps were thrown to the floor, both cat and boy would spring for them, and I reckon the cat were never half as grateful for those meager, greasy bits as the boy.
***
When I'm reading, I don't usually have a problem confusing the voice of the book's narration, be it through character or third-party, with the voice of the author. When I'm writing, however, I'm always paranoid that whatever I write will either sound too much like me, therefore being indicative of my life experience, my philosophies, or my personality, or not like me at all, therefore leading those who know me to conlude that I'm trying to hard or something.
The above snippet has been floating around in my mind for over a week now, and while I know that stylistically it's probably derivative of Margo Lanagan's Tender Morsels, which I'm currently reading, it also doesn't sound anything like me. So basically I'm just projecting self-judgments onto whoever would read that, because it would be ludicrous to think that anybody would actually be able to surmise anything about me from it.
I think that one of the most telling ways in which authors become present in their own works ("present" in this case meaning "apparent to the reader") is through their handling of philosophies, ideas, and ideals. This was a huge talking-point in my literary criticism class a couple of years ago, when we tackled Heart of Darkness. There are many schools of literary criticism, but we focused for a brief time on the opposing views of Formalism versus New Criticism. The relevant area in which they differ, for this post, is in the importance they place on the author. Formalism treats the author essentially as part of the work, taking into account aspects of their biography; New Criticism, on the other hand, tries to completely remove the author from the interpretation of the work, insisting that it stand and be analyzed as a completely separate entity.
Personally, I tend towards a more Formalistic approach to literature. When I read something, I immediately want to know about the author, their philosphies, their experiences, the cultural context of the work, and anything else that occurs to me. It helps me to put the work in perspective, as well as to demolish any false ideas I may have developed about them while reading.
My guess is that this tendency is what is causing much of the writing problem I'm having now. Why it is, well, that's a different question, and one that I'm not really prepared to answer. I just hope that I can get past this. Forcing myself to put more of a separation between work and author could be, I think, the first step.
***
When I'm reading, I don't usually have a problem confusing the voice of the book's narration, be it through character or third-party, with the voice of the author. When I'm writing, however, I'm always paranoid that whatever I write will either sound too much like me, therefore being indicative of my life experience, my philosophies, or my personality, or not like me at all, therefore leading those who know me to conlude that I'm trying to hard or something.
The above snippet has been floating around in my mind for over a week now, and while I know that stylistically it's probably derivative of Margo Lanagan's Tender Morsels, which I'm currently reading, it also doesn't sound anything like me. So basically I'm just projecting self-judgments onto whoever would read that, because it would be ludicrous to think that anybody would actually be able to surmise anything about me from it.
I think that one of the most telling ways in which authors become present in their own works ("present" in this case meaning "apparent to the reader") is through their handling of philosophies, ideas, and ideals. This was a huge talking-point in my literary criticism class a couple of years ago, when we tackled Heart of Darkness. There are many schools of literary criticism, but we focused for a brief time on the opposing views of Formalism versus New Criticism. The relevant area in which they differ, for this post, is in the importance they place on the author. Formalism treats the author essentially as part of the work, taking into account aspects of their biography; New Criticism, on the other hand, tries to completely remove the author from the interpretation of the work, insisting that it stand and be analyzed as a completely separate entity.
Personally, I tend towards a more Formalistic approach to literature. When I read something, I immediately want to know about the author, their philosphies, their experiences, the cultural context of the work, and anything else that occurs to me. It helps me to put the work in perspective, as well as to demolish any false ideas I may have developed about them while reading.
My guess is that this tendency is what is causing much of the writing problem I'm having now. Why it is, well, that's a different question, and one that I'm not really prepared to answer. I just hope that I can get past this. Forcing myself to put more of a separation between work and author could be, I think, the first step.
Wednesday, February 23, 2011
Two Captains
Or, as I affectionately see it in my head, "Two Catpains". (That which has been seen...)
Okay, I'm just going to come out and say it: I freaking love this thing. I love it. I will never stop loving it. It is, in all of its typo-ridden, grammatically sketchy, angsty, melodramatic glory, one of my favorite things in the world. And I am so, so sad to be finished with it, once and for all.
The alternate ending turned out really well. Like, really well. I'm proud of us, and I hope that it isn't too confusing for people who haven't read the novel itself (it's almost 200,000 words, I can totally call it a novel, thank you), because I think it really does manage to stand on its own as a story, as well. And going back and rereading the whole thing, I'm rediscovering things about the story that make the alternate ending even more meaningful, both for us and for the characters. Is it even legal to do that with one's own writing?
Actually, I'm still having some trouble believing that, nearly a whole year after we posted the final chapter, we sat down and plunked out another 34 pages. Miguel is completely to thank for that - she's the one who found the Fandoms Fight the Floods project and urged us to do it. And the best part, aside from giving the characters lives and families post-adventures, was what wonderfully maddening fun it was. And I think that feeling, more than anything else, is why I want to be a writer. It's the most enduring feeling of accomplishment I've ever had.
And this was only a fanfiction.
Argh.
Okay, I'm just going to come out and say it: I freaking love this thing. I love it. I will never stop loving it. It is, in all of its typo-ridden, grammatically sketchy, angsty, melodramatic glory, one of my favorite things in the world. And I am so, so sad to be finished with it, once and for all.
The alternate ending turned out really well. Like, really well. I'm proud of us, and I hope that it isn't too confusing for people who haven't read the novel itself (it's almost 200,000 words, I can totally call it a novel, thank you), because I think it really does manage to stand on its own as a story, as well. And going back and rereading the whole thing, I'm rediscovering things about the story that make the alternate ending even more meaningful, both for us and for the characters. Is it even legal to do that with one's own writing?
Actually, I'm still having some trouble believing that, nearly a whole year after we posted the final chapter, we sat down and plunked out another 34 pages. Miguel is completely to thank for that - she's the one who found the Fandoms Fight the Floods project and urged us to do it. And the best part, aside from giving the characters lives and families post-adventures, was what wonderfully maddening fun it was. And I think that feeling, more than anything else, is why I want to be a writer. It's the most enduring feeling of accomplishment I've ever had.
And this was only a fanfiction.
Argh.
Friday, February 18, 2011
Tardy Post
I haven't posted since Monday. Way to be consistent, right? I've still been writing this week, though - our deadline for the Australia Flood Relief project is coming up this weekend, and I think we have somewhere between 5-10 pages to go? I'm not sure.
I don't know. My mind has just been on other things. A lot of it is close to home - family conflict, trying to get a car to replace the two that winter so handily destroyed this year, the upcoming move, trying to deal with my best friend, writing partner, and roommate moving halfway across the country. That one is probably the biggest. Like, no matter how much I understand that we have a lot to do before the end of March, I still want to put off packing as much as I can, because if we leave things alone, if the way the apartment looks doesn't change, I can pretend that nothing else will. For a little while. And it sucks. We'll probably never have a writing situation this good again. That might be too pessimistic, but seriously. I just don't understand how it could happen (though if it ever did, I would be so incredibly, ecstatically thrilled).
So we're going day to day, doing the things that we love to do, like getting coffee and watching TV shows and writing, and the end of March is just looming there the whole time. Like something that you can't avoid seeing, no matter how much you want to look away, but you pretend that you can't see it anyway because it's just too much to deal with. (Oh my god, on that note, why did I look up anything having to do with The Human Centipede. Seriously, why. Nightmares forever. If I ever see that movie, which I won't, I may actually expire from terror.)
Anyway, the point of all of that was that of the big changes coming, that is the one that I'm the most not okay with, and it's messing with my concentration and everything else.
When I think about trying to write anything original, I feel like I've hit the edge of the world. You know how in Coraline, when the Other Mother's world starts to unravel and Coraline finds herself walking through nothing? Everything is just gray or white and blank? It's like that. I have nothing new in my brain to work with, and nothing new to say. I know that you're "supposed" to just plug away and keep working through periods where inspiration is lacking, but...I can't. At least right now, I can't. So instead, I'm going to read. That seems like a much better use of my time. I'm in a bit of a YA kick right now, and I'm fully planning on unashamedly enjoying it. Here's my list for the next couple of weeks (some of the books have been ordered but haven't arrived yet, and some I still need to track down):
Salamandastron, by Brian Jacques
Sisters Red, by Jackson Pearce (Holy crap, this one came in the mail today, and best cover art ever or best cover art ever? I love it.)
Tender Morsels, by Margo Lanagan
Living Dead Girl, by Elizabeth Scott
The Sky Is Everywhere, by Jandy Nelson
The Things a Brother Knows, by Dane Reinhardt
I also just finished Anna and the French Kiss, by Stephanie Perkins, and it was a whole lot of fun, though it made me sad that I am not, nor will be in the near future, in Paris. Damn it all.
I don't know. My mind has just been on other things. A lot of it is close to home - family conflict, trying to get a car to replace the two that winter so handily destroyed this year, the upcoming move, trying to deal with my best friend, writing partner, and roommate moving halfway across the country. That one is probably the biggest. Like, no matter how much I understand that we have a lot to do before the end of March, I still want to put off packing as much as I can, because if we leave things alone, if the way the apartment looks doesn't change, I can pretend that nothing else will. For a little while. And it sucks. We'll probably never have a writing situation this good again. That might be too pessimistic, but seriously. I just don't understand how it could happen (though if it ever did, I would be so incredibly, ecstatically thrilled).
So we're going day to day, doing the things that we love to do, like getting coffee and watching TV shows and writing, and the end of March is just looming there the whole time. Like something that you can't avoid seeing, no matter how much you want to look away, but you pretend that you can't see it anyway because it's just too much to deal with. (Oh my god, on that note, why did I look up anything having to do with The Human Centipede. Seriously, why. Nightmares forever. If I ever see that movie, which I won't, I may actually expire from terror.)
Anyway, the point of all of that was that of the big changes coming, that is the one that I'm the most not okay with, and it's messing with my concentration and everything else.
When I think about trying to write anything original, I feel like I've hit the edge of the world. You know how in Coraline, when the Other Mother's world starts to unravel and Coraline finds herself walking through nothing? Everything is just gray or white and blank? It's like that. I have nothing new in my brain to work with, and nothing new to say. I know that you're "supposed" to just plug away and keep working through periods where inspiration is lacking, but...I can't. At least right now, I can't. So instead, I'm going to read. That seems like a much better use of my time. I'm in a bit of a YA kick right now, and I'm fully planning on unashamedly enjoying it. Here's my list for the next couple of weeks (some of the books have been ordered but haven't arrived yet, and some I still need to track down):
Salamandastron, by Brian Jacques
Sisters Red, by Jackson Pearce (Holy crap, this one came in the mail today, and best cover art ever or best cover art ever? I love it.)
Tender Morsels, by Margo Lanagan
Living Dead Girl, by Elizabeth Scott
The Sky Is Everywhere, by Jandy Nelson
The Things a Brother Knows, by Dane Reinhardt
I also just finished Anna and the French Kiss, by Stephanie Perkins, and it was a whole lot of fun, though it made me sad that I am not, nor will be in the near future, in Paris. Damn it all.
Monday, February 14, 2011
Lightkeeper: A Love List
So today is Valentine's Day, and while I, like so many others, tend to deride the commercialism of it, I also have absolutely zero beef with the celebration and expressing of love. Because this is my writing blog, however, I'm going to channel this in a particular direction. A while back, I read a suggestion by an author that went something like this: if you feel like your interest in a story is flagging, it can be helpful to make a list of all of the things that drew you to the story in the first place. Like a reminder of why you two decided to get together in the first place.
I'm going to make my list about Lightkeeper, the solo novel that I started for NaNoWriMo back in 2009, and the one that keeps coming back to bug me because it just needs to be written so badly. Here's what I love about it:
It's got a lighthouse. Like, a really big one. Lighthouses are the best. I love them forever.
Really big, craggy rocks that jut out of a cruel and temptestuous sea.
Small islands in the north that are mostly cut off from the mysterious main continent.
An inscrutable agent of divine powers carrying out an awful, but necessary, punishment.
Three protagonists with no knowledge of each other.
Tragedy and guilt stemming from something that was completely out of a character's control; parallel quests for redemption.
Loneliness, estrangement, and suicide.
Ships and nautical adventuring.
It's based on a song by one of my top favorite bands ever, Sonata Arctica.
So, um, yeah. Kind of a crap list, now that I look at it, but it's what I've got. I'm sure there are probably all kinds of reasons why I shouldn't talk about the contents of stories I'm working on, but...screw it. If I can't ramble about my work on my own blog, then I don't want to do it. I'll still try to keep it kind of vague, and I won't post snippets of Actual Things, but this is about what you can expect to see from time to time.
You know what the biggest problem this novel has so far is, though? Hold on to your hair, it's a doozy.
I HAVE NO VILLAIN.
Seriously, I have a conflict that gets the protagonists out in the (as-yet-mostly-undefined) world, but I have no idea what they're actually fighting against.
This is a serious problem, and it's one that I've encountered a few times. I think I may need to start coming up with the villains and main conflicts before the rest, because my brain seems to shy away from them like there's a Doctor Who perception filter blocking me from seeing the whole thing. Like I'll get part of it, and then when it comes time to look at what, exactly, the climax of the story will be about, sorry, what was that? Was there a story there? I could have sworn there was, but I sure as hell don't see one now.
And that is why there is not more of this novel so far.
*headdesk*
Words Written Today: 520
Category: Two Captains Alt. Ending
I'm going to make my list about Lightkeeper, the solo novel that I started for NaNoWriMo back in 2009, and the one that keeps coming back to bug me because it just needs to be written so badly. Here's what I love about it:
It's got a lighthouse. Like, a really big one. Lighthouses are the best. I love them forever.
Really big, craggy rocks that jut out of a cruel and temptestuous sea.
Small islands in the north that are mostly cut off from the mysterious main continent.
An inscrutable agent of divine powers carrying out an awful, but necessary, punishment.
Three protagonists with no knowledge of each other.
Tragedy and guilt stemming from something that was completely out of a character's control; parallel quests for redemption.
Loneliness, estrangement, and suicide.
Ships and nautical adventuring.
It's based on a song by one of my top favorite bands ever, Sonata Arctica.
So, um, yeah. Kind of a crap list, now that I look at it, but it's what I've got. I'm sure there are probably all kinds of reasons why I shouldn't talk about the contents of stories I'm working on, but...screw it. If I can't ramble about my work on my own blog, then I don't want to do it. I'll still try to keep it kind of vague, and I won't post snippets of Actual Things, but this is about what you can expect to see from time to time.
You know what the biggest problem this novel has so far is, though? Hold on to your hair, it's a doozy.
I HAVE NO VILLAIN.
Seriously, I have a conflict that gets the protagonists out in the (as-yet-mostly-undefined) world, but I have no idea what they're actually fighting against.
This is a serious problem, and it's one that I've encountered a few times. I think I may need to start coming up with the villains and main conflicts before the rest, because my brain seems to shy away from them like there's a Doctor Who perception filter blocking me from seeing the whole thing. Like I'll get part of it, and then when it comes time to look at what, exactly, the climax of the story will be about, sorry, what was that? Was there a story there? I could have sworn there was, but I sure as hell don't see one now.
And that is why there is not more of this novel so far.
*headdesk*
Words Written Today: 520
Category: Two Captains Alt. Ending
Friday, February 11, 2011
In Tribute to Brian Jacques
I am but an orchard shadow in the sunny
tide of noon,
The dust of olden seasons on a stone.
My paw is light and silent as a waning
autumn moon;
I walk the halls of memory, alone.
- Brian Jacques, Salamandastron
I've been stalling on writing this for a few hours now, because I'm not sure I'll be able to do it justice. Therefore, I think I'll keep it simple and short.
When I was about eight years old, a friend in elementary school introduced me to the Redwall books. I'm not going to pretend to remember the details; it was probably Mossflower, but it really doesn't matter. What does matter is that these books have given me some of my best memories - getting in trouble in class for reading under my desk, staying up way past my bedtime with a flashlight under the blankets, zipping through new releases in a day, borrowing people's copies and lending out my own, making makeshift cloaks and going out into fields with friends to pretend we were on quests (duck and weave, guys, duck and weave!), trying to recreate some of the Abbey recipes in the kitchen, memorizing the poetry and setting some of the songs and riddles to my own melodies - the list goes on.
Brian Jacques passed away on February 5th, and while I regret never meeting him, it's okay. I think it's very possible that anyone who's read a Redwall book knew him, just a little, through his stories.
These books, with their roving, fighting heroes, dangerous quests, and treacherous villains have left an indelible mark on my life. They've shaped the way I read and write, and the way I experience stories. Brian Jacques left behind an unbelievable legacy, and if I ever have children, I'll be proud to share these adventures with them.
Rest in peace, Mr. Jacques. You will be missed.
Elise
P.S. For a much more elegantly worded tribute, check out Jason Pinter's piece in the Huffingtom Post. It made me cry.
Wednesday, February 9, 2011
Who is qualified to write about writing?
First thing - the monster cold seems to have mostly cleared up, and [almost] all of the cotton has been cleared out of my skull! It feels so good! Also, the weather for the upcoming week is looking extremely promising: the day after next, it's supposed to get into the high thirties and actually stay there. I am so ridiculously thrilled. Minnesota winters are just brutal.
Anyway.
My question for the day is whether or not it's productive to assign levels of qualification when it comes to writing about writing. It's kind of meta, I guess.
Most successful writing blogs that I've seen have been run by one of several kinds of people. There are the authors, the ones who without a doubt have the greatest authority when it comes to dispensing advice on the nuts and bolts (hmm. I think I might hate that phrase) of writing. They're the ones that newer writers look to when we want to know about the creating and refining process from those who have been there. Their advice is a step up from those who are on the same level as the unpublished writer because whatever they've done has, obviously, worked for them.
Then there are the veterans of the publishing industry, the agents and editors. Their perspectives are invaluable for learning what to expect from the querying point onward. An author can tell you how to survive on a demanding book tour; an agent or editor can tell you what needs to be done to make the tour a reality in the first place.
This question, however, is one that I've been struggling with for a while, especially as it pertains to my prospective place in the blogging world. (I refuse to say "blogosphere". I know it's the correct term. I just...refuse. Ugh.) Specifically, am I qualified to have a blog on writing?
On one level, of course I am. Anyone with an interest or hobby is well within their rights to write about that interest, even in a public venue like a blog. The process of writing out questions and issues encourages deeper, more critical thinking on those issues, and stands a good chance of increasing the likelihood of their solving. Furthermore, if one can establish a rapport with a group of readers of like minds, there's much to gain from the sharing of these ideas. It's a positive learning cycle, and I'm of the opinion that it will be an absolutely essential tool for me as I work on improving my work ethic, my understanding of the publishing world, and, most importantly, my writing.
However, as anyone who's read the first post of this blog knows, I am not a published author. I'm not even close. I'm a youngish writer struggling with one of the biggest impediments a writer can have: a reluctance to actually write. Starting so far at the beginning of the process, I have to wonder if perhaps I'm shooting myself in the foot before the race has even begun. I'm not likely to garner much of a readership here, and I'm okay with that - frankly, I don't think I'm at the point where I could really handle one. But one of my biggest fears is that this blog will fizzle and die, and I'll be left with yet another unfinished project to discourage me in the long run.
To prevent this, I've put together a long list of topics that I'm planning on tackling in future posts with every ounce of raw, inexperienced enthusiam I've got in me. A couple of them may even turn into series, and I've decided that this blog will be updated every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. Tuesdays and Thursdays I'm going to dedicate to my collaborative blog, Songs of Silence, and the weekends are going to be for me. In between, I'll make short posts on word counts, just so that I have a record of them. My goal is to write approximately 500 words a day. It's not a huge amount, but it should be enough to get the ball rolling. I'll make my first word count post later today, as an addendum to this.
So, to conclude: Sure, I'm qualified to write about the process of writing. It's a shared experience that anybody can discuss, and it is most definitely counterproductive and defeatist to tell myself that what I have to say about it isn't worth sharing. What I am not qualified to do is dispense writing and publishing advice that I don't have personal experience with.
Anyway.
My question for the day is whether or not it's productive to assign levels of qualification when it comes to writing about writing. It's kind of meta, I guess.
Most successful writing blogs that I've seen have been run by one of several kinds of people. There are the authors, the ones who without a doubt have the greatest authority when it comes to dispensing advice on the nuts and bolts (hmm. I think I might hate that phrase) of writing. They're the ones that newer writers look to when we want to know about the creating and refining process from those who have been there. Their advice is a step up from those who are on the same level as the unpublished writer because whatever they've done has, obviously, worked for them.
Then there are the veterans of the publishing industry, the agents and editors. Their perspectives are invaluable for learning what to expect from the querying point onward. An author can tell you how to survive on a demanding book tour; an agent or editor can tell you what needs to be done to make the tour a reality in the first place.
This question, however, is one that I've been struggling with for a while, especially as it pertains to my prospective place in the blogging world. (I refuse to say "blogosphere". I know it's the correct term. I just...refuse. Ugh.) Specifically, am I qualified to have a blog on writing?
On one level, of course I am. Anyone with an interest or hobby is well within their rights to write about that interest, even in a public venue like a blog. The process of writing out questions and issues encourages deeper, more critical thinking on those issues, and stands a good chance of increasing the likelihood of their solving. Furthermore, if one can establish a rapport with a group of readers of like minds, there's much to gain from the sharing of these ideas. It's a positive learning cycle, and I'm of the opinion that it will be an absolutely essential tool for me as I work on improving my work ethic, my understanding of the publishing world, and, most importantly, my writing.
However, as anyone who's read the first post of this blog knows, I am not a published author. I'm not even close. I'm a youngish writer struggling with one of the biggest impediments a writer can have: a reluctance to actually write. Starting so far at the beginning of the process, I have to wonder if perhaps I'm shooting myself in the foot before the race has even begun. I'm not likely to garner much of a readership here, and I'm okay with that - frankly, I don't think I'm at the point where I could really handle one. But one of my biggest fears is that this blog will fizzle and die, and I'll be left with yet another unfinished project to discourage me in the long run.
To prevent this, I've put together a long list of topics that I'm planning on tackling in future posts with every ounce of raw, inexperienced enthusiam I've got in me. A couple of them may even turn into series, and I've decided that this blog will be updated every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. Tuesdays and Thursdays I'm going to dedicate to my collaborative blog, Songs of Silence, and the weekends are going to be for me. In between, I'll make short posts on word counts, just so that I have a record of them. My goal is to write approximately 500 words a day. It's not a huge amount, but it should be enough to get the ball rolling. I'll make my first word count post later today, as an addendum to this.
So, to conclude: Sure, I'm qualified to write about the process of writing. It's a shared experience that anybody can discuss, and it is most definitely counterproductive and defeatist to tell myself that what I have to say about it isn't worth sharing. What I am not qualified to do is dispense writing and publishing advice that I don't have personal experience with.
Words written today: 320
Category: Miscellaneous fiction
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