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Stranger Danger

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We’re at an interesting point in techno-history. The internet has become a huge part of our lives, intertwined with our daily communications. As someone who works in a home office in Wyoming, the internet IS my place of business. I’m on the ‘net all day long with my colleagues in Boston, Nebraska, New Hampshire, Colorado, Florida, Virginia. We email. We IM. The internet allows us to shout over the virtual cubicle wall.

And my writing network is pretty much all virtual now. No one else in my small, remote town is writing the kind of thing that I am. The gals who are part of my online network form a daily, intimate part of my life also. We blog. We exchange Facebook comments.

It all feels very natural to me. But it’s easy to forget that ten years ago, I didn’t have this kind of virtual network. We had to fight the corporate policy to let us IM each other. Twenty years ago, I was using A-1 Mail on the university system in a DOS environment. I also have to remember that many people aren’t as comfortable online as the rest.

Uncomfortable and new mean scary. And sure, there are bizarre stories of stalking on the internet. Crazies meeting up. Perverts luring young girls and boys to bad ends. But I wonder what the real stats on that are?

My friend, Allison, is rooming with Liz and me at the RT Convention. In her post yesterday she called us strangers. Okay, her husband is in law enforcement, so he’s paranoid. He only sees the worst of humanity. But it’s so funny to me, because I hadn’t thought of her as a stranger. I suppose I could be someone other than who I appear to be online. Or she could. Liz, I’ve met in person, but did that really tell me anything more about her than I knew before? Liz has a sister — maybe she sent the sister to meet me, to masquerade for some kind of nefarious purpose. Maybe “Liz” is really some perverted male serial killer hoping to lure me to a hotel in Orlando, where I’ll meet my terrible fate.

Or Liz, Allison and I are all exactly who we say we are and we’ll have a great time in Florida. Which is more likely?

One More Fraught Thing

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And then I’ll get off this rant for a while. RoseMarie took fraught further still with a couple of very interesting bits from the writing modern world and that of what sure seems like a better time. This nugget has Stephen King expounding on the relative success of J.K. Rowling and Stephenie Meyer. What really caught our attention was King’s assertion that “the real difference is that Jo Rowling is a terrific writer and Stephenie Meyer can’t write worth a darn. She’s not very good.”

Wow. Who knew we’d see the day that Stephen King would slam another enormously popular genre writer as not being able to “write worth a darn.” Way to forget the slings and arrows tossed your way, Steve.

I’m speaking here as someone who’s read all three authors. I’m also reliably informed that I’m a picky reader. Between King, Rowling and Meyer, I’d have to say that Meyer is the only one I really enjoyed. The only one who lit me up. Yes, I read a few of the Harry Potters and I believe when people said they got better, darker, more complex. But I found them derivative and not particularly magical. I’ve read some of Steve’s stuff, too. He writes a decent story, but he’s never been an author I sought out or passed on. Frankly, I like the movies they make of his books better than the books themselves – which is almost never true of any other book, so that says something, I think.

So why does King disdain Meyer’s books? He says:

“…it’s very clear that she’s writing to a whole generation of girls and opening up kind of a safe joining of love and sex in those books. It’s exciting and it’s thrilling and it’s not particularly threatening because they’re not overtly sexual. A lot of the physical side of it is conveyed in things like the vampire will touch her forearm or run a hand over skin, and she just flushes all hot and cold. And for girls, that’s a shorthand for all the feelings that they’re not ready to deal with yet.”

Makes me wonder what Tabitha’s sex life is like. Speaking as a woman, not a girl, there’s a hell of a lot to say for flushing hot and cold at the touch of a hand on my skin. And believe me, I’m ready to deal with the overtly sexual feelings that go right along with that. Nothing wrong with extended foreplay. Take note, Stephen.

It all comes down to what we love to read, doesn’t it? That’s the primary parameter. The verdicts of sales and of the artists follow behind that. I probably like Meyer best because I’m a fan of sexual tension.

Speaking of artistry, here’s the nugget from the past, that RoseMarie found in the Davidson archives:

The Willa Cather Creative Writing Award was created by William C. Doub Kerr in 1937. Doub Kerr, a member of the class of 1915, helped found the Blue Pencil Club, which later became a chapter of Sigma Upsilon, a literary honor society. The prize for the award was a copy of one of Cather’s novels. The first recipient was Gibson Smith, Class of 1937 for his work “Satan Snake.” The award was suspended after two years and returned briefly from 1955-1958. In the spring of 1937, Doub Kerr wrote Willa Cather seeking her approval of the award. She replied with wit and caution:

“My Dear Mr. Kerr;
Thank you most for your friendly letter. But, honestly, I think the “new sails” have a better chance of making port when they are not taught “creative writing.” It can’t be taught, for one thing!*

Sincerely yours, Willa Cather.
*Perhaps it can be guided a little, modestly? I don’t like to be too sure.”

Somehow, I don’t see Willa lining up to lambast those ships that do make it to port, especially the ones that sell their cargo for a pretty penny. But then, maybe it was a kinder, less fraught world then.

Further to Fraught

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Title credit today goes to my friend, writer/photographer/renaissance woman RoseMarie London. (Fair warning, she has an unnatural thing for cowboys and NASCAR.) She used this title as a subject line in an email to me, where she said some really interesting things about how fraught it is being a writer. She’s been on both sides of the game, both with Little, Brown and as an author. RM sent me this:

I just read this quote from Molly Jong-Fast (Erica Jong’s daughter) about her not wanting to be a writer anymore: “And I just don’t have the emotional constitution,” she added, recalling how her grandfather, Howard Fast, had laid in his deathbed worrying aloud about why the NY Times Book Review didn’t like him.

If you read the article, you’ll find that Molly quit writing to become an agent. Which isn’t a new story. In some ways to me, it’s like quitting being the cotton-picker to become the plantation owner. Is that too dramatic? Maybe the agent is the foreman and the publishers are the plantation owners. The point is, I’m back to the power here. (Refer to blog title.) Being a writer is fraught because, though you are the one creating, you’re not the one with the power. Not the one selling, to hearken to my refrain of late. Yet, I think most writers would agree — the ones still in the fields under the hot sun of disregard — that going over to the other side is an abdication.

What’s fascinating to me is, how many agents now are ALSO writers. Check out the website for the Deirdre Knight Agency, if you don’t believe me.

The other thing RM sent me was this link to an article about the Amazon Breakthrough contest. Take the time to read it, really. Or just look at the photo of the fairytale ending. The contest just recommenced this week, taking 10,000 initial entries now. I know quite a few people who plan to do it. (Alert readers may notice a connection to yesterday’s post.) Even if you only skim the first few paragraphs, you will notice a recurring theme. That’s right: power. Who wants it, who has it, who is willing to put themselves through emotional hell to get a piece of it.

What’s love got to do with it?

"Keep your temper," said the Caterpillar

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Advice is a funny thing. You have to be careful who you get it from. Or perhaps, it doesn’t really matter who you get it from, as long as you know which advice to pay attention to and which to jettison. Of course, the advice givers all seem to whole-heartedly believe their advice is the best. They’d like you to think so. As I grow more cynical over the years, I’ve come to believe that some people deliberately give bad advice. Maybe it would be kinder to say: advice that they’ve tailored to match what they think you should be doing.

There’s an art to knowing who to listen to. Maybe an art to knowing who to ask and a craft to knowing who to listen to. On a writers loop I receive, one gal asked for advice from pubbed authors on a contest she was considering entering for unpubbed authors. It was clear she’d mistaken the rules and several other unpubbed authors chimed in helpfully, because they also intended to enter the contest and pointed out her misunderstanding. The original questioner came back that she had asked only the pubbed authors and would only listen to their advice.

The best part of this is that “pubbed” in this context refers only to romance novels. RWA recognizes you as a published author only if you’ve published in the genre. So my university press essay collection aside, my years of short stories, essays and articles in magazines, journals and anthologies aside, within the genre halls of RWA I am once again unpubbed. Or, as the more unkind say, a wannabe.

This is ironic to me, because I can only imagine a scene in which a “literary” writer informs a romance author that she’s unpubbed because she has only published genre fiction. While many may believe that, it seems unlikely they’d take a snobbish enough stance to make it a rule. Which makes this a form of reverse-snobbery.

All of this is by-the-by. It is what it is and I really don’t mind. But I do think the newbies (on the kindness scale, this falls somewhere between unpubbed and wannabe — never mind the ghastly euphemism “pre-pubbed”) should take advice with a grain of salt and a hunk of magic mushroom.

Just because someone is willing to give you advice doesn’t mean they want you to succeed.

Now THERE is some good advice for you!

Buy the Sky and Sell the Sky

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It’s funny how the things I want get tangled up in my head.

Some of it comes of wearing several different hats, with each role based on buying and selling. I’ve come to feel like my whole life is about buying and selling, who holds the power and who is the supplicant.

As a writer, I am the eternal supplicant. Sending out queries and submissions (see? submissive). Yesterday I received a glowing rejection from an editor on my novel, suggesting more people who might want it. Now I have more people to think about, that I want to want me. To buy what I have to offer.

And we’re getting ready to sell our house and buy a new one. Because we’re moving to Victoria. So I have two real estate agents to talk to about buying and selling. I want to have maximum power and probably do. Where we live is still a seller’s market and we have a valuable house. Where we’re buying is a real buyer’s market. I think we’ll be able to make a great deal. Somehow I keep feeling like I should put this in my query letters. Exquisite manuscript with hand-crafted details. Will fit in with best bookshelf neighborhoods. Make an offer now – a beauty like this won’t last!

For work, I’ve been heavy into marketing lately. Taking training on how to sell work. They have the money, we have the expertise. I’m learning how to approach a client with hands out. Confident that I have what they want to buy. I keep wanting to approach agents and editors this way. You know from our track record that we can offer what you need to solve your problem. What can we do to win this contract? We’re willing to do whatever it takes!

As trite as it sounds, it’s only when I’m actually writing that I don’t think about the buying and selling. (Except for periodic moments on my current novel-in-progress when I surface and wonder WHERE on earth I can sell this. But then I go back into the happy dream.)

It’s enough to make one long for the garrett after all…

Creativity, Discipline and Nora — Oh My!

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Sometimes I wonder if there’s really a limit to creative energy, or if I just tend to think so.

I got in my 1K again today (yay! horns, confetti, ect!), but now I don’t feel like writing my blog. Alas.

Sometimes I think it’s just discipline. Halle made an interesting comment on the Ritual & Madness post that she’s come to believe that ritual is all about discipline, and that the emotional response to disruption is simply knowing how hard it is to regain the discipline. I think she’s got a great point there. I’ve read about authors who write in hugely disciplined ways. The beyond-prolific Nora Roberts says she writes eight hours a day. (Some out there will claim this is because she’s doing factory-genre writing, rather than true Art, but that’s neither here nor there.) And many novelists started out as journalists; they often cite that kind of disciplined, churn-out-articles-every-day writing as what built their ability to write consistently.

For myself, I find I don’t seem to write — to compose — for more than a couple of hours at a time. I have a whole day to write, and I find myself composing for two hours or so, and revising the rest. That and doing business, like queries, submissions, etc.

What with my dream of being a full-time writer, I wonder if that means I’ll still write about two hours a day and dork around for the rest…

That’s what dreams are all about!

Blessed Release

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I got in my one-thousand words this morning.

I have to let it sit there on its own line, because it looks so good to me. It’s one of those celebrations that belongs to me and me alone. Well, and to Isabel, who’s been sitting here offering silent support. Though I suspect she’s just waiting for me to stop typing and start petting.

This is significant to me because I haven’t written my self-required one-thousand words a day since I started this blog. That was my greatest fear — that writing this would suck away my energy from working on my novel, or the sorority book or some of the essays I’ve promised to anthologies.

I knew going in that it would be a challenge. That I was changing my rituals and patterns. I gave myself the first week just to get used to writing the blog. Then I started phasing in my other writing again. And it just wasn’t working. I’d blog, then add my posts to Facebook and MySpace, but not open my email. Sometimes I couldn’t resist and would open my email, which is the kiss of death, the end of all further creative writing in favor of email replies. But, as I actually gained some friends on Facebook, that became the death knell to further writing.

So, today, I finally reversed the order. I did my 1K first, then wrote this. It’s my own personal 1K Day, and the best part is I can have it every day!

Yes, I know you don’t really care. You don’t feel my rush. If you’re not a writer, you probably think I’m nuts. But I know the writers out there understand.

Ten years ago, when we put on a Writers Summit for our region, we made a t-shirt. (Gotta have the shirt!) On the back we put this quote from Mark Rutherford:

“There is in each of us an upswelling spring of life, energy, love, whatever you like to call it. If a course is not cut for it, it turns the ground around it into a swamp.”

That’s why it feels good to get my words in. I’ve cut a course today and the swamp is draining. New life springs up in its wake. It’s a good day.

Ritual and Madness

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Today it was the kitties’ turn. I’m feeling flu-ish, so I skipped the rec center and slept in. Because I went to bed at 9 o’clock, this meant that I still woke up by about 6:45. David took the opportunity to skip, too, but had gotten up at 5:30 anyway, to soak in the bathtub. When I stirred, deciding I wouldn’t sleep anymore, however much I’d prefer to stay in my warm, dark den, both kitties trilled delighted meows at me and came running in to leap on the bed.

You’d think I’d risen from the dead.

I dragged myself into the kitchen and they bolted for their food dishes — which had still some dry food in them, mind you — portraying desperate starvation the way only a cat can. I mentioned it when I visited David taking his bath, to say good morning. Oh yes, he said, both cats had been coming in to stare at him accusingly. I wondered why, since they normally don’t get fed until about this time anyway, when we get back from working out.

It’s the wrong pattern of activity, he said; a disruption of their routine.

If you read yesterday’s post, you know this comment hit home for me. The creative gurus are all about ritual and routine. Write every day. Write at the same time every day. Play the same music while you write. All meant to coax the subconscious into performing, like a well-trained pet. They compare the subconscious to an animal. Our unthinking animal side.

What happens when it falls apart? When I can’t access my current novel in progress because I haven’t yet reinstalled Word. When I can’t listen to my writing playlist because I haven’t reinstalled Sonic Stage. When the getting up and getting breakfast isn’t timed the usual way and the yummy canned food doesn’t fall in the bowl as expected. Frantic behavior, is what.

I have a friend whose mother every morning goes for a walk and then has her nonfat, sugar-free latte. I know about this because this woman’s husband, my friend’s stepfather, called my friend for advice. Apparently if she for some reason is made to miss her walk and latte, she becomes nearly hysterical. He wondered how to deal with it. And maybe was asking a slightly deeper question: is she a little crazy?

Maybe insanity isn’t just doing the same thing over and over and expecting a different result. Maybe it’s becoming paralyzed if you can’t do the same thing over and over. Ritual may feed the animal in us, but the higher being in us must remain flexible. Overcome and move on. Whether it’s a computer malfunction, sickness, losing a job, losing everything — the trick is being able to rise above the ritual and cope anyway.

In the end, ritual is a luxury.

Looks Like Disaster

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You already know how much it annoys me when the computers don’t behave like they should. It’s shocking to me sometimes what a house of cards my life is, all precisely perched in a trembling tower…on my laptop. When the laptop misbehaves, the shuddering terror of lost files races all through my life.

All the photos. I love the ones from this Christmas in particular. What if the back-up didn’t get them all? It was acting funny too.

My finances. I’d have to reconstruct at least the last few weeks to figure out where we’re at. Oh God — I’d have to reconstruct all of 2008 for my taxes. When will I do that?

My novel. Does Liz have the most recent version? If the back-up won’t work (it still won’t run), when did I last throw the novel on the jump drive?

The emails. Ohhh…all the emails I’ve saved but haven’t quite dealt with yet. Our house sale, the move, correspondence with editors, agents, friends. The hundreds of little tasks predicated on information in those emails.

See, I ended up reinstalling Windows Vista, because I had corrupted files and it was getting worse and worse and … that’s what the online stuff said to do and that I wouldn’t lose my files. But I did lose my files. Nowhere to be seen last night. And I couldn’t restore without reinstalling my backup software, which took time.

Finally, exerting heroic self-control, I went to bed, to deal another day. And in the night it came to me. A folder called “Old Windows” was promised at some point. I looked this morning and there it is. There is everything. My world is restored, the light pours through the clouds, the birds spiral in wheeling delight.

Now I just have to figure out how to get the programs to run again…