Now that the second file cabinet is a file cabinet and not just a pile of particle board, it was time to transfer the last of my paper files from the box they were living and traveling in to their new home. Which naturally involved going through them all during the transfer process. I’d already done one huge purge before we moved, but that didn’t mean I couldn’t make more space. After all, most files are electronic these days, even if paper is still best suited for some things, aside from the recycle bin. Sure enough, several times I ran across folders full of errata that had me scratching my head. “Why, in the name of all that’s holy, did I save that?”
Yet there were many more instances where the question didn’t even come up. Like back in the day when Parke Godwin sent me an example of a novel pitch he used when selling one of the wonderful Arthurian novels he did. As I’ve said before, what little I know about writing novel synopsis and pitching, I learned from him. Or copies of (rare) fan letters, including one for my first collection, The Ogre’s Wife from one of my favorite artists. It was a boost, at a time I really needed one. As with my good fortune in marrying First Reader, and the help and encouragement—and Dutch Uncle severity, when needed—I got from Pete Godwin, you can’t always depend on those things along the way. So when it happens, count yourself lucky, and don’t forget. Pass it on when you can, but above all, be aware.
We like to talk about writing as a solitary profession, and mostly it is. So often it’s just you, putting your butt in the chair and facing down the blank page/screen. Yet now and then along the way, alongside the confused/bad reviews and rejections, odds are you’re going to get a hand up. Sure, be proud of what you’ve accomplished, since you did almost all of it yourself. Just remember the “almost” part and don’t forget to be grateful.
That mess of veneered particle board you’re looking at is about to become a rather dashing two-drawer filing cabinet. I know this because I’ve already put one together, so I have faith that this one will turn into its twin, and I’ll finally…finally! Be able to put my old story files and contracts in order.
I said I have faith because I’ve done this before, but little certainty because it was a couple of months ago. I was…interrupted, shall we say, by events beyond my control. I barely remember how I got the first one together and the instructions, to put it mildly, are rather lacking. No matter, now that I can lift my left arm again, I have confidence that I’ll puzzle this one out as well, and finally have the storage I need. Yet I have no doubt it won’t be easy, but that’s not important. I’m used to it. Hard? Sure. Except….
Writing a story is harder. You don’t have any directions, unless you’re one of those lucky sorts who can plot out an entire trilogy before you’ve written a word of it. I am not one of those people. I don’t even have ideas that any rational person would recognize as such. Usually it’s just a notion, but more often a character. I set them loose and follow them. If I’ve chosen well, they go to interesting places and do interesting things, and meet interesting characters, and my job is mostly chronicler. If I do that right, they’ll usually let me in on what they’re really up to, because a story–one worth its salt, that is–has two main components: what happens, and what it’s about. They are almost never the same thing.
Unlike the filing cabinet and its instructions, which say what they are and they are no more than that, just get the parts together in the right order, and you’re done. Writing really does not work that way. Sometimes I find myself praying for a good set of instructions, but then I usually remember that is not the point. Some days that’s harder than others, but if wanted easy I’d put together another filing cabinet.
There’s something about a deadline that focuses the mind wonderfully. Even a self-imposed deadline, like this one. I am determined, whenever possible, to have these blog posts done and ready to post every Monday. Why Monday? Because it’s better to start at the beginning, which is what Monday is for most people on a weekly schedule. There’s some logic to it.
Business as usual, right? Like before I started this post, I processed a rejection and got the story back under submission. Everyone gets rejected at some time or another, or even regularly. If you want to write for publication and can’t deal with that, find another avocation. You can’t even dodge it by self-publishing, since then readers have a direct chance to reject what you’re doing. It’s always going to hurt, even after you’ve done it for years and years and develop the thick skin necessary to keep going. I could even say “get used to it” but that would be hypocritical, since I never have. I accept it, since the irony is this is all you can do with rejection. Just move on to the next possibility, and keep working so there always is another possibility.
Speaking of which, time to figure out what the next novel is going to be. I think I know. I hope I’m right. Back to business….
I made a mistake. Not career-ending or soul-crushing, but just an idea that didn’t work out. See, as some who follow this blog know, I’m a student guitar player. By which I mean I’m not good enough to just say “I’m a guitar player,” because that would be a lie. It can hardly be said that what I’m doing is playing the guitar. More of playing “at” it, so that sometimes it vaguely sounds like music. A lot of the time it doesn’t. Regardless, getting to the mistake—not too long ago I bought a parlor size guitar because I liked the idea of keeping one downstairs so I could practice or just noodle about whenever the mood struck me (and needless to say, my wife is a very patient woman), but there was a problem—a parlor size guitar is just too small for me. Now, in some ways it was good practice, because it made me be super-precise in my left hand fretting, since the strings were so close together that I’d mute adjacent strings unless my fingers were exactly perpendicular—and sometimes even then. In short, the guitar was unforgiving, and in this stage of my development, I could really do with a bit of forgiveness. Continue reading
In the Realm of Legend
Stories, that is. You have this flash of an image, or a snip of dialogue, or whatever seed corn works for you that gets a story started, and you’re off. The words flow, one scene follows another and…
Nothing. You got nothing.
This isn’t writer’s block, or something of that sort. Nope. The story just died on you. Whatever you thought was there, that spark you were following through the scene like the will-o-wisp it was, vanishes. It’s not even that you can’t write the story. So far as you can tell there’s no story to write. We hate when that happens. It’s a bad thing. But it’s a long way from the worst.
You’re kidding, right? You just lost a promising story. You wasted…what? Two days? More? Of precious writing time that you’re never going to get back. What could be worse than that? Continue reading