Nothing to report on the writing front. I thought today I could query on a story, but I doublechecked the submission date, and no, it's next month. Also, realized I only have four stories out. This has to get remedied this weekend.
Tonight I hung two pictures in my new office. One picture works--translucent dogwood petals in black and white on my magentawine wall. The other one doesn't quite work. I don't know why. Maybe because it was an expanse of creamy white and now it's a wall with a picture on it. Before, potential, now, a thing. I'm not sure why the other one doesn't come to the same place.
Maybe that white wall is too big for my small picture. Maybe if I move it over, and put something else beside it, it would work. Every other space is an overload, and that one isn't.
There'd be a metaphor in this story, if the world were just.
Secrets of the Night by Jo Beverley (21) [romance]
The first half was enthralling; the second half read like a long denouement. Either way, there wasn't a single point where I wanted to put it down.
The author pulled off something spectacular here. There was a delicious degree of detail, tantalizingly revealed but never overstated, in the historical research--moments where I wriggled slightly and thought, "That--that is lovely." The author's note at the end is a squeeful "I researched this and this!" that shows how much she was holding back, and I found it enjoyable to see how enthused the author really was for this book. So, she hit some important world-building marks for me, true... but she also hit some really fine character moments.
I did not particularly like that the early sexual attraction of the main character was predicated solely on the looks of her true love--he's unconscious when they meet--but I didn't think it was out of character or out of time, either way. But when Brand woke up, I pushed that thought out of my head. Their connection ended up being based on more reasonable things, for one, and for another, Brand was an extraordinarily sympathetic character. As was Rosa.
Probably the best romance I've read in years. Not, perhaps, hysterically funny like Suzanne Enoch's works, but with a charm all its own.
I was correct in guessing that three more hours wouldn't be the end of my office. Of course, if I hadn't decided to clear out the closet as well, I wouldn't be in this mess. But I'm very definitely in this mess, and I won't be able to pick it back up again until Friday, due to my usual weekly and bi-weekly commitments tomorrow and the day after. That whimpering sigh you just heard was a tired woman thinking about being out past 11 two nights in a row this week and wondering why that's so damn hard anymore.
I really probably should give up gaming, but then I'd never see that subset of my friends more than once a year.
Aye, me. Well, I'll write for an hour and sleep at 11, and hope that extra hour helps propel me onward through the week. It won't, but let's just pretend.
In other news, I slushed today... and had that pang of regret for rejecting perfectly serviceable, frequently well-written and often clever fiction. Since I write perfectly serviceable, frequently well-written and often clever fiction, it is doubly hard to send out such rejections. I am probably not cut out to be an editor--not while also being a writer. And since I can't stop the writing thing... not yet, anyway... I will eventually stop slushing, I suspect.
But maybe not. That's just today. Maybe I'll get that "wow!" story in the mail next week, and it will all seem worthwhile. (Please note, Lords of Universal Irony, this is not a request to not write a "wow!" story, so just turn right back around... go ironize someone else.)
I love it when a plan comes together. That is, I love the fact that my resolution to write between 9 and 11PM every night has led to me feeling incredibly antsy here and now at 9:22PM, simply because I haven't started writing yet. That means I've become habituated to the schedule--and fast. (It helps that it wasn't too far off from what I was doing anyway, it's just that it became more official.)
The bad news is, my coming-together-plan means that I do not have the patience to continue cleaning my office, which is sorely in need of arrangement since the painting. True, I've been up here working for a couple hours already--husband has hung shelves, and I have filled them accordingly; also, I've sorted four separate piles of crud, grown misty over my wedding pictures, taken away two loads of garbage, an armload of tools and a pair of winter gloves that were mysteriously residing in here... Alas, but there are still many piles to be sorted, and many papers to be filed, and many keeping-places of notebooks and other books to be reassessed, as well as pictures to hang and craft projects to put away. There is also the nasty business of the ceiling fan. And I have a wossits, a curio shelf of sorts, that needs to be hung and filled.
In short, I'm nowhere near done.
But the lesson here is probably very simple. It's not like I would finish a novel tonight if I sat down and tried; but if I don't sit down and try tonight, I'll never finish a novel. Of course, this office might very well be righted in just three more hours (though I suspect not). Either way, I'll benefit from the slow/steady approach, right? Because otherwise, I'll get tired of the whole thing and start shelving books willy-nilly.
And we can't have that.
All the crevices on my hands are white--two days of priming and painting, and all my shadows have become bright.
I also have a black cat with white whiskers on one side of his face.
I've pretty much only done freewriting the latter half of this week, writing I don't actually intend to ever be sold or even seen, and if I don't feel like a million bucks for it, I certainly feel like seven hundred and fifty thousand. I think freewriting didn't work for me in the past because my mental view of it was too free. I told myself that meant I didn't actually write stories, I just brainstormed bits, or... something. It goes so much better when I let myself tell a story. It's a version of "give yourself permission to write badly." A corollary, perhaps: "give yourself permission to write whatever you want, and to finish it, too."
Writing this freely is not unlike looking down and finding the crevices of your hands turned white. The world has briefly reversed itself. Everything looks different in negative, and the shapes of things are more clear. Fascinating.
All About Romance Novels - 2005 interview with Connie Brockway
"...for me a romance is a story where the relationship itself is the story's most important character."
Yes.
Spring has stalled here--well, not stalled, but slowed a bit. Spring had gone a little overboard, with 80 degree, sunny days and warm nights for the better part of two weeks. But the season came around, starting with a thunderstorm this morning, and a precipitous drop in temperature; we have freeze advisories for this week. That seems more like it.
I, too, am stalled; I've run out of gas in my short story machine. True, I am writing novel chapters these days, but I have been staring at "The Lonesome Dark" since the last day I was in my 20s and trying to figure out how to make the beginning earn its keep. There's a lot of show at the beginning, and I think it might be boring show. I need to either summarize (turn show into tell, which is one of those things that has to be handled with supreme delicacy, like using the passive voice)--or make the showing more interesting. Make the dialogue snap, maybe. Only, I don't know how to write snappy dialogue without making it seem like funny dialogue. It's not a funny story. It's not even a funny point in an unfunny person's life, or an unfunny point in a funny person's life. It's a point where a character is weighted down with social baggage and familial baggage, and longs for some alone time. Try making that snappy. Yeah. You. Just try.
I've also been staring at "Sticks and Bones" and trying to figure out how to integrate the comments from the OWW. I think there are numerous points where the story slogs roughly towards mediocrity, and I even know what they are. But figuring out how to fix those moments, that's the trick. I may need to add a character. Or take one out. I may need to remove a distracting sexual orientation--or at least make the sexual orientation make more impact. (I want to tell a story about gay characters in the future in order to write about a time when there's no social baggage about being gay, but as it happens, I don't know that you can do that in today's climate and not at least address the how and why of the no social baggage. Or, at least, I can't. All I get is, "Why is she gay? It doesn't seem important." WHY YES, that's the point, it's *not* important (sigh).) I definitely need to chop the beginning, either way.
And then there's "The Library Seed." I may have mussed the climax. Drawn it out too far. Lessened its impact by downplaying the crisis point.
All three stories are sitting at home, not circulating. I think that the common denominator in all of them is a matter of making the words count. There are more words in each of these stories than there needs to be. That's a bit of a problem, you see.
Tonight, we had no Write Club (exam season in a college town--don't even bother trying to get a seat in a café). I painted no walls--just shelved some books, so that I'll have room to swing around the file cabinet and the bed when I recommence. I have a mild GI bug, and a cat that has drawn blood in an ill-fated attempt to be loving. And so far, I've done no writing except free writing tonight.
Pile onto that--I'm exhausted for some reason. I think I'm going to bed. We'll try turning the engine over again in the morning.
Wolves of the Calla by Stephen King (20) [fantasy]
Finished listening to this while painting my office. I suspect there isn't quite enough work left to carry me through the next book, but one never knows.
V. sad about Susannah and Ben Slightman the Younger. Otherwise, am v. pleased by King's increasing ability to enthrall me. Think that silly English teachers in high school who were down on King were just jealous.
I'm not sure I'll have a comprehensive statement on what I think about the Dark Tower books. If I do, it won't be until months after I've read them all.
In other news, .5 walls with no paint, 1 wall with 1st coat, and the rest are done. Write Club tomorrow means I won't finish 'til Thursday at the earliest. Drat.
walls painted: 2.5
chapters written: 1
But the night is young.
Oh, and--
itchy palms today: 1
times today that I believed this means I will sell a story by the end of the week: 1
previous times a palm has itched, I've believed the story thing, and have gotten nothing: 14
I bet you're as sick of reading about this as I am of writing about it, but in fact, while painting my office, I shall not be writing. The ultimate painting and rearrangement and declutter is supposed to make it easier to write in the long run, but for the short run, it has killed the writing thing.
I spent about two hours at Lowe's, contemplating mistinted paint (not for this project) and wood putty (not for this project) and wallplates (for this project) and shelving (for this project) and herbs (not for this project)... and bought also the paint trays which were the only thing I needed in order to start. Came home to find my husband had fled, presumably to the casino, though when I left he'd still been undecided about his plans. Hm.
Spent the next eight hours painting and listening to an audio book. Unfortunately, the mauve seems to be taking three or four coats before showing up as a color I can actually live with. I should have bought primer.
1.75 walls done; 2.25 walls to go. Unhappily, it's the hard 2.25 walls left to do--insomuch that I don't know where I'm going to move everything while I pain those last walls. It's rather like that game I had as a kid, with 8 tiles and 9 slots, and you have to keep shoving tiles around until you make the picture. I have exactly one slot worth of space. Today I moved a bookcase into it. It remains to be seen if the space opened by the bookcase will be big enough to do the rest of the moving I need to do. Somehow I doubt it.
Fortunately, Dann is an engineer. If I become trapped, he should be able to get me out. But for now--bed. I'm incredibly tired.
Tomorrow, I have to finish painting and get the office organized that I can slush. And feel ok about going out to muck around in the garden. There are hostas to raise (if it's time to raise hostas; I'm not so sure) and herbs to plant.
Did I mention "incredibly tired" yet?
I've taped half of half of my walls. (It's complicated, and I'm short, and one wall is going to have to be painted in stages. Why? Because there's simply too much crap in my office.)
I may go downstairs and grab the stool and tape the ceiling tonight. I may just collapse into bed and wonder why I'm still not recovered from this illness fully.
I ordered the kickassest switchplate tonight. Dragonflies in antique brass. I don't actually like brass that much, but the pillow upon which the entire office's new design scheme rests has golden, uh, spots. And since I'm not made of money, brass is as close as we get to gold.
Initially, I was thinking the theme of the room would be (drumroll) sheep. I have been hoarding sheep-related items for a few years now, in some misguided pre-prenatal nesting thing. I love sheep. Babies love sheep. Someday I will have babies, and the sheep and the babies will lie down together... ok, moving on. I figured that starting a few years early would allow me to get the good sheep, not the crappy, any-old-sheep-I-can-get-my-hands-on-in-9-months sheep. I have the cutest sheep finger puppet in the world. And some little figurine lambs. And that's about it. Maybe one other thing. I honestly can't remember. Three sheep in three years.
My point is, I didn't really have another decorating scheme in mind, so I was sort of planning to whip out my sheep on my new mauve and cream office/guestroom. But I've since decided that sheep are not where it's at. The sheep can stay resting in their tissue paper nests until the babies invade, and this office becomes a nursery and I end up writing with only my right hand at the dining room table, a breast-feeding refugee of babydom. Until that weary time, my office shall be mauve and cream, and there will be iconic dragonflies and trees overseeing my work, and not iconic sheep. I sort of stumbled into it, but it will do...
I am trying to identify the environmental factors that make it hard for me to write. The theory is that I'll try to eliminate them, and then there will be no more excuses for my piddly 300-word nights.
Off the top of my head:
I think that's actually it. They don't seem so ridiculous, either, when written out like this.
I spent the evening trying to eliminate the clutter, but I fear I only made it worse. I took the "before" pictures, after I'd been cleaning for an hour. I will post them with the "after" pics sometime in the near future. My intention to paint and rearrange the office has to get resolved very soon; I think another reason I can't write in there is that I feel its temporariness. (I do manage to write in my bedroom, btw, much to my husband's irritation.)
My office does not, as a rule, suffer from too much ambient noise (occasionally, in the summers, the window is open and I have to close it because demons possess the neighborhood children, and that's never quiet), but there are very often cat claws in my thigh, because Merlin the Cat has attention deficit disorder--he gets disorderly if I don't pay him enough attention.
The heat problem I am taking care of with a ceiling fan. I suspect that will also help the cold problem. My office is just one of those rooms that doesn't work well with the rest of the house heating/cooling scheme.
As I maunder on, I wonder if I had a punchline in mind when I began this entry. If so, I've utterly lost it. Bleah.
The only punchline I can think of has nothing to do with the set-up, actually. So, I'll save it. You never know; I might stumble across the right set-up someday.
Contrary to certain representations of writers in popular media, writers thrive on communication. Actually, I can't think of an example of that to be contrary to at the moment*, but what I'm saying is, there must be some vast conspiracy out there that makes editors believe that writers don't want to hear from them.
This is simply not true.
I don't want to grumble too loudly, but there is a market out there that has put on their guideline page instructions not to query. About submissions. Ever. Even if there has been no communication for, like, a year or so. I'm sorry, I thought we were going to have a conversation about my writing! Perhaps that conversation was going to end "No, I don't like your writing." But I really didn't expect the conversation to go "No, I won't even tell you if I like your writing. Or not. And you can't ask, either."
OY.
On top of that, we got thrown out of the café at Barnes & Nobles tonight because we were taking up a WHOLE TABLE and something about café customers needing those tables. Of course, Julie hadn't even started her chocolate cupcake from the café yet, and I had just taken my last slurp from my cup of Italian soda about ten minutes prior. And was going back for cake and chai. I'm slightly confused as to why we didn't stand up to that idiot manager, but I think we were too taken aback. Plus, we were directed to tables upstairs, so they weren't kicking us out, so it seemed semi-reasonable, in an unreasonable way. I'm a firm believer in standing up for myself. But sometimes the sneak attack comes in just such a way that you don't quite manage to respond.
I am writing a letter, though.
As far as I know, we (writers and the general public alike) are allowed to query Barnes & Noble. I suspect they might even write back.
* In fact, the only representations of "writer" I can think of at the moment are Jack Nicholson's character in As Good As It Gets, who reminds me of none of my peers... and Greg Kinnear's character in You've Got Mail who, sadly, sort of reminds me of myself at my worst.
The Wild Machines by Mary Gentle (19) [fantasy]
Yes, I do persist in calling this book-series-thing a fantasy. I'm not so sure it's not science fiction, but hey. What do I know?
I do know that Gentle has done a fairly amazing bit of characterization with Ash. Or is it that we just love hard women, thanks to Sigourney Weaver? Dunno. Will think on it. Talk later. Reading now.
In spite of birthday celebrations this weekend--or perhaps because of them?--I managed to pound out another few parts of "Breakfast at Antigone's." And, OMGBBQ or whatever the acronyms du jour for "wow!" are... I think that this time I've got the story. Byron is still giving me fits, and maybe, you know, maybe I'm just going to write Byron out. Maybe I'll stick with Shakespeare and Sophocles, and maybe Byron can have a cameo rather than a starring role. There. I've made my threats. We'll see if Byron is any better behaved from now on.
But, really, I don't need that punk. I have Emily Brontė. Just as good as Byron. You hear that, Byron?
Ok, one word of advice... don't expect sanity 24/7 from writers. Well, from me, anyway.
My birthday was tremendously good; I love my lovely friends and my lovely family, especially my lovely husband, who saw fit to give me an extremely generous donation to the Writing Effort, by essentially funding my trip to Milford and Haworth. I can gush about it here because I know he doesn't read this journal often (he's not a fan of gushing, being all Stoic and glowery and Mr. Darcy-like). I always knew he was supportive of my writing habit, but this was an unexpected vote of confidence.
So, all warm and glowy happiness, and... you know, it's just that much easier to keep sending stories out when you know you've got the home fires burning. Of course, since most writers write from home, this metaphor gets a little confusing.
Oh, yes, and one rejection--nolove on "The Lonesome Dark." A personal rejection from Asimov's, and no, I didn't count the days. Hm.
Carthage Ascendant by Mary Gentle (18) [fantasy]
See, I started out reading this in the Americanized split-into-four-books version. That's a big mistake, straight off the bat, unless you have the remaining three books on hand and treat them like there's no gap in between. I didn't have that luxury, however.
So, I went to England and bought the omnibus and then didn't really get rolling on books 2-4, or rather, the last three quarters of Ash: A Secret History until I was stricken with the Common Cold of Doom. (I know it is a cold because I have no fever. Right? That's how that works, isn't it?)
I tried to say what I thought about the "first" book at the time, and really didn't know what to say. And I still don't. I need to finish the whole thing--there's no question of that--before I even come up with a judgment. Right now, I'm mostly just worried that Ash doesn't develop enough by the end--but I'll admit, that's because I read what seem to be some pretty skeezy reviews on Amazon, so for now I'll give Gentle the benefit of the doubt. And really, how do I want Ash to develop, other than to get over her idiotic husband? I rather like her just the way she is, otherwise. It was a rather brilliant bit of characterization when someone asks her if she (as a soldier) has taken to drink or religion to make peace with the killing she does. And she points out the ways in which it does suck to be a soldier at times--there's a rather horrifyingly realistic story about watching numerous innocents die in a ditch from starvation while they are caught between two armies, and Ash does admit that this bothered her, that it was horrid--but otherwise, she doesn't worry about her profession much.
Pragmatism. It's an underrated characteristic, both in fiction and in real life. I have always enjoyed pragmatists--they just seem to get more done, in the end.
Anyway, I'm reporting the omnibus as the four separate books that they shoudln't be simply because I read the first one as a separate volume last year sometime. It makes the accounting simpler in the long run. And, well, because I need to pad my numbers if I'm going to make it to 100 this year. Also... 1100 pages. There should be credit for that... Ash would approve of my pragmatism. If she saw any sense in having a goal to read a hundred books in a year in the first place.
The Blue Sword by Robin McKinley (17) [YA, fantasy]
(n+3 reread)
Sigh-inducingly delightful. Is it really just because I met this book at an impressionable age? I think not; many other books met around the same time do not hold up as well.
True, as I age, I am less taken in with Harry's magical accrual of military ability, but every other point is nearly pitch-perfect, and thus, we can overlook this one thing... plus, Harry reacts to it interestingly, and that helps. As Lou says, you can do crazy, crazy stuff in fiction, stuff that's just wrong... as long as you show people dealing with the fall-out. It's when you deny the fall-out that things fall apart.
Home sick on what appears to be the most beautiful day of the year so far. I'm grinchy enough and smart enough to want it to rain. Grinchy so I won't feel like I'm missing anything; smart because my hostas are budding and look sooo dry.
My brain has taken a vacation and has been replaced entirely by mucus.
I'm mostly through a reread of The Blue Sword (and loving it still/again/whatever). I also lent The Hero and the Crown to my sister-in-law, who teaches 8th grade English and is apparently desperate for books that will appeal to boys and girls alike. I think that one has a good chance... I'll be curious to hear what she has to say. There are a couple of girly parts, but they aren't too off-putting, I hope, and are well-balanced by all the dragon-killing. In my opinion, anyway.
I have forty-two bajillion ideas for stories, and they are crowding my brain. Of course, since my brain is on vacation, I'm mostly only getting this through a shaky wireless connection, and the snot plug that's currently running my body has no notion of what to do with this information.
I should have known how I felt last night was a harbinger. But I've been on the threshold of sick so many times lately and not actually succumbed... it was hard to imagine feeling like I feel right now.
Which is super-crappy, in case you couldn't supply your own adjective.
No writing today. Just reading.
Today at work, half the staff was out and I went to a meeting about 24 hours early. However, I did get birthday lunch from a cohort of former coworkers (well, today, it was a cohort of two, and one is actually my boss, but hey), and I remembered daylight savings time. But then, my right eye swelled half-shut after I took ibuprofin for an unexpected suite of menstrual cramps. I may or may not be allergic to ibuprofin--I just know I'm allergic to something that keeps swelling my eye half-shut at seemingly random points, and I've eliminated most of the possibilities. Now, my throat hurts, and the nap I took after leaving work a half hour early did me more harm than good, in the way of grogginess. And I've missed most of the first real day of spring.
Yet, I'm not in any way grouchy or unhappy...
In any case, there won't be writing tonight. I know it's helpful to carefully scrutinize the things that keep you from writing and try and figure out if you're truly justified in letting them interfere or not. But I've scrutinized today as much as I can stand to, and there is nothing going to keep me from my appointed rounds in the Land of Nod right now. Wait. Nod is where you go to sleep, right?
1 rejection, 0 acceptances
Like freakin' clockwork.
And, like freakin' clockwork, the "resend hand" sweeps around, packages the story and sends it back out...
We had to depart before the mail came today; I thought for sure my rejection from F&SF would be in there. But alas, my airship was due to set sail right when the mail would have arrived... Note that the use of "was due" here indicates that it did not actually set sail. Our plane was delayed. I don't know why, but there is a curse on the Detroit to White Plains air route. It's not a big curse--to my knowledge, no one dies, but there will nearly always be a delay. I once sat at the airport for four hours waiting for thunderstorms to let Dann through on a journey back from NY. That was in the days of waiting for people at the gates. I ate a packet of Skittles from the vending machine and read... no idea what I read. Either way, it doesn't seem that long ago to me, and yet, I haven't met someone at the gate in years now.
Well, anyway. "The Library Seed" made the Friday mail. I should surely have a rejection by now. I am not just saying that because I am a superstitious freakpants who believes that she will not sell any story whose cover letter she signs with a ballpoint pen instead of a rollerball. Sure, I'm that person--but they're all signed with rollerball, so I don't have to worry about that being the problem.
Now, the thing is, I think "The Library Seed" is good. Definitely one of my better efforts, even if I've not fixed all the flaws my dear OWWers found, though I think I have addressed all of them. I decided in the car on the way home from work yesterday (I always make these decisions in the car on the way home from work, where I can't do anything about them) that I had robbed the climax of the story of tension somewhere along the line, by simply not pointing out where the stakes got higher. Or maybe how they got higher. But then I refused to go look at the story because it is still out and about (this one isn't a superstition, it's a rule for the maintenance of mental health), and decided that I would take my own critique under advisement, for review at a later date.
See how circumspect I am? (sigh)
Anyway. Expecting rejection used to be one of my superstitions. "Surely if I think I won't make it, I will," I would think. Because that's usually my policy in any sort of luck-based situation. Since then, I've learned that a) luck is only maybe part of the equation, and the other part (the writing well part) is non-negotiable, and b) my few experiences with lottery/luck situations allowed me to formulate superstitions because the statistical sample was so small. Sure, I didn't get a poinsettia at the library Christmas party. But only because I wanted one so bad. Some day, I'll have practiced my ennui enough that I'll be totally detached from the outcome and I'll win a poinsettia.
Except--no.
I want the publish equally bad every time. (One is tempted to say "badly" here, but I think the quality of my wanting is not in doubt.) But in the beginning, I practically held my breath until the rejection came (because, as we all know, detachment comes from lack of oxygen).
But detachment is not simply a trick we use to fool the Universe into granting our wishes because we believe the Universe is perverse and overdedicated to irony. That kind of detachment is like... bad Buddhism. The detachment I now seek is more like this: the story will be written as well as I can write it. There is a goal of publication, of course, but that can't be the goal of having written the story. That is merely the goal of putting it in an envelope with Gordon Van Gelder's name on it.
Now, of course, there is nothing wrong with writing and hoping that piece of writing gets published. It's not about the purity of art, or crap like that.
Thing is, you can live without the poinsettia. It's maybe why you came to the party, but you'd better learn to enjoy yourself whether or not you'll be taking home a plant that could poison your cats--if you don't want to be depressed every minute.
That's all I'm saying.
And yes, I'm saying it to me, not you. Unless it's what you needed to hear, of course.