The perfect mesh of a full-time critique partner, a CP outside of a critique group, is a mix between an accountability partner, a cheerleader, a boot camp drill sergeant, and a critic who isn't afraid to call fie on the prose: There for the long haul, ready to celebrate the baby steps, demand weekly progress toward those all-important career goals, and shred mercilessly the pages and chapters they get.
Most full-time CPs take on one or more of those tasks and expect, as they should, reciprocation. It's a relationship of giving as well as requesting, and it requires a contract of commitment, and a promise of dependability. There's nothing quite like meshing with someone enthusiastic about writing and dedicated to the craft who can jump into those multi-hat-wearing roles when their time permits.
So what can be done to keep these long-time crit partners happy? To make sure that the relationship stays nurtured? Here's my list! Keep in mind these depend on what the established working relationship is, and are in no particular order:
1. Set a turnaround schedule. If the fastest I know I can crit and send back a chapter is a week, (this means I can do a read as a reader, then spread out the more analytical work over my lunch breaks during the day job work week so I don't bite into my own writing time in the evening), then I say so. Make an arrangement for the max number of pages expected weekly or monthly on either side--get at least that much done, and if it's exceeded, more's to the better!
2. Be there in times of crisis. An agent contest coming up on a blog that your crit partner wants to enter? Be there, double-checking her entry as much as needed until she's happy with the submission. A request from an agent or an editor? Virtual martinis all around and a last readthrough of the synopsis and/or pages for a final spit and polish. Wanting to tie the muse up with bungee cords and throw her over the tallest cliff? There's the time for an encouraging email, virtual chocolates, and a picture of a LOLcat. Crises, one should keep in mind--are not every day or every week. Just the big events. I try to give as much notice as possible with these--and I suppress my normal critique chapter request for the week in leiu of the timely entries.
3. Keep the lines of communication open. This is so, so crucial for keeping and nuturing a CP...lack of emailing and informing of delays can break this kind of business-friend relationship. So can habitual delays. If I'm going out of town for a week, I send a note to let my crit partners know in advance. If I wind up in the ER and can't get the pages critted on time (as happened a few weeks back), I can't predict that, but I let my crit partners know as soon as possible the cause of the delay and when my revised turnaround time will be. Keep the email flowing and your crit partner in the loop instead of dropping the ball on your return crits and falling off the face of the planet.
4: Cheer them on! If my crit partner shares minor or major victories, I'm right there with a happy dance, too. If they've got a strength in their manuscript that stands out, or a scene that makes me chuckle, I'm sure to let them know. The road to publication is long, and a good pat on the back can soothe the sting of rejections and necessary revisions and serve to brighten up the day of the person on the other side of the computer monitor. Likewise, if I've achieved something with my manuscripts I'm sure to tell them, because chances are it wouldn't have been possible without them!
5: Stay current, stay educated. This means sharing the good blog posts and the announcements for the classes or conferences that you know will be perfect for your CPs, based on their interests and strengths as much as their weaknesses. I've begun to work through books on craft and writers' journeys with one of my CPs, and we'll use the opportunity to help each other to grow and improve. This is an encouraging process as well as a constructive one--building each other's writing foundation up and up and up toward success.
How about you, fellow writers? What qualities do you look for in a career crit partner? How do you maintain the relationship?
Showing posts with label Sarah. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Sarah. Show all posts
Monday, May 3, 2010
Sunday, March 28, 2010
Pass the Plot: Scene 12
Nara's distress overwhelmed the mind-feed and Captain Denett pinched the bridge of his nose. "Help is on the way," he shot back, unable to resist pushing just the slightest edge of encouragement to his daughter. The Garid-corpse laden images flickering over the connection winked off as her blaze of panic dulled to a low pulse of well-warranted fear.
If she'd made it past the Ensign ranking, if she'd had better training in emotive control, he'd be back on the Galajax waiting for a report, unaware something had gone wrong. Instead, Captain Denett picked his way through a minefield of more Garid and human bodies, cursing the Galactic Legions for his inexperienced crew. He was Captain. No one but the infiltrators should have seen death. He'd have to send funerary transmissions to a dozen worlds when this was over.
He cursed anew, taking shallow breaths to minimize the stench of rotting death that reached in to curdle his stomach. The Garid weren't the only threat in the stars. He'd been so sure, and he'd sent Nara over unprepared. Xenobiological expertise would help little against robotics. No. That would be his specialty.
He should have known. The Kloqin could change their biometric signatures, masking their cybertronic profiles. The perfect spy. The perfect soldier. Why Eloin had chosen a Garid biosig . . . But it didn't matter. He was Captain. He should have known.
And Captain Denett would spend the rest of his stardated days atoning if his arrogance cost his daughter's life. He sent reassurance over the neural pathway again, locking the transmission to her frequency. Nara would know the mind-feed transmissions onboard the Galajax weren't shipbound. She'd learn his secret. And hers.
A squish of crushed flesh sounded behind him. Lifting his taser, Captain Denett rolled his eyes. "I thought you Kloqin were supposed to adapt." He whipped the contacts toward yet another cybertronic menace. Its humanoid frame jerked, sizzled, its glimmering eyesockets flaring like ball lightning. The electric shock fried its circuits and smoke poured from its fingers. Twitching, the robot dropped its weapon and crumbled among the other bodies. "How many times do I have to take out the idiot sneaking up behind me before you figure out--"
The last of its power diminished, the Kloqin's cloaking field dropped.
"Oh."
The captain's feet were in motion before his taser recovered the charge. Clanking at his heels and in full AI mode were four bodyguards of the Princess of Klox. It didn't take a mechanical engineer to figure out that the royal in question was Eloin.
He jerked around the corner and slammed a diffuser into the metal door as it closed. The robotic beings would power down when they came in range of the device. Spinning, he smiled broadly. They'd chased him right into the interior hull.
"This last one should do it." Captain Denett set his third thermal charge, his grin fading when the light failed to activate. He cast a look back at the diffuser. No, it was far enough away. Something else was wrong. The interior hull was null-magnetized. This far into the Garidic cruiser, technology wouldn't work. Which meant the diffuser . . . He rapped his knuckles against the steel bulkhead, desperately willing his brain to beat out a plan. "Nara, I need a hand."
If she'd made it past the Ensign ranking, if she'd had better training in emotive control, he'd be back on the Galajax waiting for a report, unaware something had gone wrong. Instead, Captain Denett picked his way through a minefield of more Garid and human bodies, cursing the Galactic Legions for his inexperienced crew. He was Captain. No one but the infiltrators should have seen death. He'd have to send funerary transmissions to a dozen worlds when this was over.
He cursed anew, taking shallow breaths to minimize the stench of rotting death that reached in to curdle his stomach. The Garid weren't the only threat in the stars. He'd been so sure, and he'd sent Nara over unprepared. Xenobiological expertise would help little against robotics. No. That would be his specialty.
He should have known. The Kloqin could change their biometric signatures, masking their cybertronic profiles. The perfect spy. The perfect soldier. Why Eloin had chosen a Garid biosig . . . But it didn't matter. He was Captain. He should have known.
And Captain Denett would spend the rest of his stardated days atoning if his arrogance cost his daughter's life. He sent reassurance over the neural pathway again, locking the transmission to her frequency. Nara would know the mind-feed transmissions onboard the Galajax weren't shipbound. She'd learn his secret. And hers.
A squish of crushed flesh sounded behind him. Lifting his taser, Captain Denett rolled his eyes. "I thought you Kloqin were supposed to adapt." He whipped the contacts toward yet another cybertronic menace. Its humanoid frame jerked, sizzled, its glimmering eyesockets flaring like ball lightning. The electric shock fried its circuits and smoke poured from its fingers. Twitching, the robot dropped its weapon and crumbled among the other bodies. "How many times do I have to take out the idiot sneaking up behind me before you figure out--"
The last of its power diminished, the Kloqin's cloaking field dropped.
"Oh."
The captain's feet were in motion before his taser recovered the charge. Clanking at his heels and in full AI mode were four bodyguards of the Princess of Klox. It didn't take a mechanical engineer to figure out that the royal in question was Eloin.
He jerked around the corner and slammed a diffuser into the metal door as it closed. The robotic beings would power down when they came in range of the device. Spinning, he smiled broadly. They'd chased him right into the interior hull.
"This last one should do it." Captain Denett set his third thermal charge, his grin fading when the light failed to activate. He cast a look back at the diffuser. No, it was far enough away. Something else was wrong. The interior hull was null-magnetized. This far into the Garidic cruiser, technology wouldn't work. Which meant the diffuser . . . He rapped his knuckles against the steel bulkhead, desperately willing his brain to beat out a plan. "Nara, I need a hand."
Monday, March 1, 2010
But Why Her?
Confession time: I didn't complete all of my writing goals this month -- I got through the novel manuscript and spent a whole week on that synopsis, queries, and contest entries instead of throwing it on paper and sending it out in less than a day, as I'd expected.
Yeah, you can stop guffawing now; I get the point. Another case of high hopes and crushing realities. Lesson learned, bemoaned, bechocolated*, and noted: I cannot "expect" a synopsis and query blurb to pour onto the paper like a caramel fondue.
Regardless of how delicious that goal may sound in my head.
By February 28th, I was supposed to be through 13k in revisions for my steampunk novella--and here I sit, still re-outlining and tightening scenes without counting words. Why? Because one day last month, during a lovely day of simply making sure my character headed out in the direction I wanted her to go, one of my critique partners asked me: "Why her? Why would the bad guys approach her over anyone else? What makes her unique?"
Which is the same path of evil, diabolical questioning she had the nerve to pose toward my last manuscript. The catalyst for my major revision round at the beginning of this year.
I hate it.
I hate it because she was absolutely right. The motivations I had for the bad guys weren't strong enough, the backstory for the character was iffy, and it just fell flat on the page. She was absolutely right then, and she's absolutely right now: I'm missing something crucial.
Until that motivation drives to the forefront of my inner editor's attention for the next round of novella revisions, I will work out the issue in notes and strengthen other scenes more thoroughly. That way, when I figure it out, I can immerse myself in flowing manuscript instead of broken prose.
*Bechocolate: Verb: To delicately sip an indulgent pint of hot cocoa and marshmallows (most likely with a thin mint cookie in the bottom of the mug) in an effort to sweeten the bitter taste of disappointment.
Yeah, you can stop guffawing now; I get the point. Another case of high hopes and crushing realities. Lesson learned, bemoaned, bechocolated*, and noted: I cannot "expect" a synopsis and query blurb to pour onto the paper like a caramel fondue.
Regardless of how delicious that goal may sound in my head.
By February 28th, I was supposed to be through 13k in revisions for my steampunk novella--and here I sit, still re-outlining and tightening scenes without counting words. Why? Because one day last month, during a lovely day of simply making sure my character headed out in the direction I wanted her to go, one of my critique partners asked me: "Why her? Why would the bad guys approach her over anyone else? What makes her unique?"
Which is the same path of evil, diabolical questioning she had the nerve to pose toward my last manuscript. The catalyst for my major revision round at the beginning of this year.
I hate it.
I hate it because she was absolutely right. The motivations I had for the bad guys weren't strong enough, the backstory for the character was iffy, and it just fell flat on the page. She was absolutely right then, and she's absolutely right now: I'm missing something crucial.
Until that motivation drives to the forefront of my inner editor's attention for the next round of novella revisions, I will work out the issue in notes and strengthen other scenes more thoroughly. That way, when I figure it out, I can immerse myself in flowing manuscript instead of broken prose.
*Bechocolate: Verb: To delicately sip an indulgent pint of hot cocoa and marshmallows (most likely with a thin mint cookie in the bottom of the mug) in an effort to sweeten the bitter taste of disappointment.
Monday, February 15, 2010
Pass the Plot 3: Scene 6
The light on Nara's wristband flashed a frantic tempo and the comm on the wall pinged with Captain Denett's impatient voice. "Ensign, I could really use your expertise outside."
"Kirk," Nara swore, watching the tall drone's body turn a sickly purple--down to the roots of his carbon-copied blonde hair--then dissolve before her eyes. Stooping, she retrieved the chip formerly embedded under the skin of Darrew's forehead then crushed it under the heel of her boot. "Sir, I'm switching to Priority Delta." A physical sweep of encryption descended into the hallway and Nara shivered. The buzz of the private communication channel weaving around her body remained the only thing about space travel capable of setting off her claustrophobia.
"What's wrong, Nara?" Captain Denett spoke casually on the private line, knowing no one else could hear.
"We've already been infiltrated." Her voice came out shaking. The sight of the dead man's fast-decaying body twisted her gut harder than she'd expected. Darrew had no longer been Darrew. He'd been a sleeper agent for the enemy. And judging from the aggressive punch of dark-laced energy trying to hack into the web of energy playing over her skin, he wasn't the only one.
"Daughter-mine, your inability to follow direct orders is exhausting."
Nara sighed and shouldered her laser rifle, heading for the shuttle bay. "You knew." The Garidan hacker pressed harder into the connection and Nara felt her father slide a fourth layer of protection over the conversation.
"I am the captain." He paused and Nara caught a mental image on the line of a smothered bout of frustration before he continued. "I can handle the ones on board, but if I lose an entire boarding party because of you, we'll be discussing your court-martial when you return, where everyone can hear it. Is that understood?"
"But I'm not the one who--" She sucked in a breath to stifle her protest before he gifted her with another stint in the brig for whining. "Yes, Captain." Nara punched the code on the wall console to disconnect and ducked into the zero-G transport instead of the full-sized shuttle. "Solar shorts, Ellie, this was one away mission you shouldn't have screwed with."
Gravity generators weighed too much; for practicality's sake the tiny "zip-ships" could only claim their nickname by omitting everything except life support and a hydrogen-class turbyte engine. A super-charged engine Nara hoped would be fast enough even now to arrive in time to save her crewmates. Her father ought to be court-martialing Ellie. By leaving the Galajax's only xenopsychologist behind, the lieutenant had pretty much guaranteed at least one solar burial in their future. On the other hand, if Nara hadn't found Darrew, she wouldn't be walking into the other ship with her rifle set to kill.
As the pod blasted a path through clouds of green smoke, Nara's palm closed over her nostrils. Not for the first time, she wished the air circulation unit hadn't been forgone in the design. The darn thing smelled like Terran fish heads rotting on a summer beach.
"Kirk," Nara swore, watching the tall drone's body turn a sickly purple--down to the roots of his carbon-copied blonde hair--then dissolve before her eyes. Stooping, she retrieved the chip formerly embedded under the skin of Darrew's forehead then crushed it under the heel of her boot. "Sir, I'm switching to Priority Delta." A physical sweep of encryption descended into the hallway and Nara shivered. The buzz of the private communication channel weaving around her body remained the only thing about space travel capable of setting off her claustrophobia.
"What's wrong, Nara?" Captain Denett spoke casually on the private line, knowing no one else could hear.
"We've already been infiltrated." Her voice came out shaking. The sight of the dead man's fast-decaying body twisted her gut harder than she'd expected. Darrew had no longer been Darrew. He'd been a sleeper agent for the enemy. And judging from the aggressive punch of dark-laced energy trying to hack into the web of energy playing over her skin, he wasn't the only one.
"Daughter-mine, your inability to follow direct orders is exhausting."
Nara sighed and shouldered her laser rifle, heading for the shuttle bay. "You knew." The Garidan hacker pressed harder into the connection and Nara felt her father slide a fourth layer of protection over the conversation.
"I am the captain." He paused and Nara caught a mental image on the line of a smothered bout of frustration before he continued. "I can handle the ones on board, but if I lose an entire boarding party because of you, we'll be discussing your court-martial when you return, where everyone can hear it. Is that understood?"
"But I'm not the one who--" She sucked in a breath to stifle her protest before he gifted her with another stint in the brig for whining. "Yes, Captain." Nara punched the code on the wall console to disconnect and ducked into the zero-G transport instead of the full-sized shuttle. "Solar shorts, Ellie, this was one away mission you shouldn't have screwed with."
Gravity generators weighed too much; for practicality's sake the tiny "zip-ships" could only claim their nickname by omitting everything except life support and a hydrogen-class turbyte engine. A super-charged engine Nara hoped would be fast enough even now to arrive in time to save her crewmates. Her father ought to be court-martialing Ellie. By leaving the Galajax's only xenopsychologist behind, the lieutenant had pretty much guaranteed at least one solar burial in their future. On the other hand, if Nara hadn't found Darrew, she wouldn't be walking into the other ship with her rifle set to kill.
As the pod blasted a path through clouds of green smoke, Nara's palm closed over her nostrils. Not for the first time, she wished the air circulation unit hadn't been forgone in the design. The darn thing smelled like Terran fish heads rotting on a summer beach.
Tuesday, February 2, 2010
Brandon Sanderson Giveaway Winner!
The wise and powerful random number picker has slated commentor #3 as our winner for January's Free Fic Friday.
And that means.......congrats are in order to RKCharron!
Please send an e-mail over to contests (AT) themodernmythmakers (DOT) com with your mailing information so I can drop your copy of the wonderfulness that is Warbreaker off at the post office this week! :D
Thank you all for entering our first giveaway. We hope to see more of your comments as you stick around for more blog posts, our weekly story arc, and additional free stuff!
And that means.......congrats are in order to RKCharron!
Please send an e-mail over to contests (AT) themodernmythmakers (DOT) com with your mailing information so I can drop your copy of the wonderfulness that is Warbreaker off at the post office this week! :D
Thank you all for entering our first giveaway. We hope to see more of your comments as you stick around for more blog posts, our weekly story arc, and additional free stuff!
Monday, February 1, 2010
The Dark Side of a Rewards System
Rewarding yourself for meeting goals is a great concept for a writer. Your muse will be tickled by goodies you shower upon him or her, your inner editor will be smarmy with "I told you we could do this", and your self-image will shoot up as you relax with whatever pasttime you have chosen to gift yourself. However, if you don't meet your goals, you don't get the reward. *gasp!* You wouldn't want that, so you push yourself to succeed. It's a great concept.
But is it working?
Most of the time the rewards system is broken, flawed. I was crazy guilty of taking advantage of my rewards last year, but I suspect I'm not the only one who has fallen prey to temptation. In 2009, I rewarded myself for a job poorly done, for goals half-accomplished, for alternative goals, for goals met far beyond the deadline I'd set, and prematurely for goals "to be accomplished". And all I did was reinforce negative behavior.
So what's wrong? Aside from "good enough"-itis and "the real world ate my week and my mood is foul so I need something to pull me out of my funk" excuses, we could be setting the wrong rewards:
"I'll buy it anyway": If you have the money set aside for something that you intend to purchase anyway, this is not the right kind of reward. For example, if you're an avid reader and there are books you intend to purchase, and you pre-make that purchase, you can say "I won't read this until I meet my goal" all you want. But you ARE going to break down and read it before you've accomplished that goal in its entirety.
"I'll play this game/read this book for [set time here]": If you are obsessed with video games, this is not the right kind of reward. For example, if you're addicted to Facebook games and allow yourself 15 minutes to play for every hour of writing time, but you DON'T set a timer or you habitually state "Just 5 more minutes!", this is a bad, bad, bad, bad reward. You will lose hours into games, miss out on valuable writing time, and feel guilty over succumbing to the lure of the game. Likewise if you are an avid reader and a good book will suck you inside its pages and steal the rest of the day.
"I'll go to this movie with friends": If you schedule a movie theater timeslot (or any other event) and have no intention of cancelling that appointment, this is not the right kind of reward. For example, if you've already purchased tickets, it's almost impossible to back out of the arrangement, especially if it's a costly event. No one likes to say to their friends, "I'm sorry I can't go see X-Men 15,021 with you this weekend even though we've been planning it for months: I only spent 18 hours on writing this week and I'm 10 pages short of my goal." So we don't, especially if said friends are non-writing friends, and especially if the non-writing friends don't "get it".
"I'll clean the bathroom": If you don't get real enjoyment out of cleaning, this is not the right kind of reward. This is an obligation, same as your movie-date. For example, if you look at your office and the idea of ripping through mounds of unkempt paper is enough to give you hives, you'll be more likely to throw the goals in the trash than a single wad of misplaced tissue paper.
What are good rewards, then?
This whole spiel doesn't apply to everyone. Some of us are rockstars in the self-discipline department. The rest of us have to work harder, set more meaningful rewards, and keep those goals of ours manageable in order to allay frustration.
The moral of the story?
Don't go to the dark side. You won't be taking out Alderaan - you'll only be hurting yourself, your self-esteem, and your willingness to meet your goals in the first place.
Don't reward yourself for a job poorly done, for goals half-accomplished, for alternative goals, for goals met far beyond the deadlines you set, or prematurely for goals "to be accomplished". Don't reinforce negative behavior. Be tougher on yourself. If you don't meet your goals regularly, make them more realistic. If you meet your goals far in advance, step them up to give yourself more of a challenge. And perhaps most important of all: Be honest with yourself.
But is it working?
Most of the time the rewards system is broken, flawed. I was crazy guilty of taking advantage of my rewards last year, but I suspect I'm not the only one who has fallen prey to temptation. In 2009, I rewarded myself for a job poorly done, for goals half-accomplished, for alternative goals, for goals met far beyond the deadline I'd set, and prematurely for goals "to be accomplished". And all I did was reinforce negative behavior.
So what's wrong? Aside from "good enough"-itis and "the real world ate my week and my mood is foul so I need something to pull me out of my funk" excuses, we could be setting the wrong rewards:
What are good rewards, then?
*Things you will feel real disappointment in missing out on or real excitement in the act of working toward, but not feel tempted to reward yourself with "because I've worked hard and deserve it". Accomplish your goals as stated, or let the reward shift back to the next time you have a goal to meet.
*Stepped rewards that require multiple elements in order to really enjoy the "big picture" reward. Right now, I have a stepped reward that allows me to buy new costume pieces for the Steampunk World's Fair in May. I have 4 major goals and money set aside. If I miss one of my goals, I still have a closet of clothes to rummage through, but I might not get the spiffy lace ruffled Victorian jacket I've been ogling since last summer. And I reeeeally want that jacket, because without it, and the skirt, and the boots, and the belt - I'll just be cool. Not SUPER cool.
*Things people (friends and family) hold hostage and refuse to reliquish, no matter how piteously you beg. ("But I got through 5 pages today, that's more than zero! You can let me have my PS3 controller back...please?" "Is 5, 10? I don't think so. *whip crack* No goals met, no rewards, sucka!")
*Time spent with friends that isn't premeditated. Meet your goal, THEN schedule your reward meetup time.
*Timed rewards. If you can train yourself to use the timer truthfully (and not effectively "snoozing" on your allowance of reward time) this can be a fabulous way to make yourself stick to your rewards.
*Mini-rewards for those incomplete goals. If you must reward yourself for effort instead of endgame, promise yourself a smaller reward. This then becomes the "if I almost make it, and I'm happy with my achievements, I get this instead of the big thing over there" and leaves the big shiny reward for your major accomplishments. Just make sure that you don't make the small rewards more appealing than the big ones!
This whole spiel doesn't apply to everyone. Some of us are rockstars in the self-discipline department. The rest of us have to work harder, set more meaningful rewards, and keep those goals of ours manageable in order to allay frustration.
The moral of the story?
Don't go to the dark side. You won't be taking out Alderaan - you'll only be hurting yourself, your self-esteem, and your willingness to meet your goals in the first place.
Don't reward yourself for a job poorly done, for goals half-accomplished, for alternative goals, for goals met far beyond the deadlines you set, or prematurely for goals "to be accomplished". Don't reinforce negative behavior. Be tougher on yourself. If you don't meet your goals regularly, make them more realistic. If you meet your goals far in advance, step them up to give yourself more of a challenge. And perhaps most important of all: Be honest with yourself.
Friday, January 29, 2010
Free Fiction Friday: Warbreaker, Brandon Sanderson
That's right, the new tradition has begun: The last Friday of each month in 2010 is Free Fiction Friday!
When I emerged after just 3 days victorious in my reading of Warbreaker I had to subdue my excitement long enough to wait for today to roll around so I could share this with you. So I've been wiggling for over a week here, biting my tongue and, while amazed that I still have one, I can now report that this -- is win. I wasn't going to review a hardcover for my first freebie of the new year. But I'd feel like I wronged the readers here if I deprived you of a chance to pick up a copy for yourselves. Moreso if I neglected to inform you about something you can't put off reading any longer. Without further ado, I present my fangirlish squeals of happy review of the latest brilliant installment of my Sanderson collection Brandon Sanderson's Warbreaker:
It takes a truly excellent book to take me that extra step past "fun". Sanderson put this one together in an approachable way that made me smile, sniffle, and sit up straight with agitation as my eyes are led to the next page turn. Very few books these days make me get a giddy little lump of joy in my chest while reading, but the worldbuilding, dialogue, and twists between these covers do just that. Warbreaker even appealed to the musician in me, which in truth may heavily color my opinion of the book--the descriptions of color stoked not only the visual side of my overactive imagination, but also the auditory--a wonderful treat of the senses. Sanderson brings politics and religion back into play, at turns playful and at others serious. Between these covers waits a whole new world with customs, rules, and a pallet of characters so distinctive you'll be standing in line for whatever Sanderson serves up next. (Or going back to read Elantris and the Mistborn trilogy, which are also, if I might add, full of win.)
My two-fold regret regarding Warbreaker is simple, really, and has nothing to do with the book itself: I was sad that I must a) sleep for at least 3 hours each evening (and I do not wake to that with the skill of a Lifeless--I shamble like the classic zombies of old), and b) return to the day job after my lunch hour. Hindrances which are required for continued livelihood. Both of which involve NOT reading this book. Should you acquire this for your reading list I urge you to make the following appropriate preparations: Begin on a decadently long weekend and hook up an IV of saline (among other necessary nutrients, lest you become dehydrated from drooling in awe of the words).
So now that I've got you primed for the amazingness, to win this hardcover, leave a comment on this post with the following:
1. Your Name
2. Tell us how you found us.
3. Leave a question for us to answer on our next Mailbag Monday.
Just three quick things, post by midnight EST on Sunday, January 31, 2010. Winner will be heralded with parades on Monday, February 1, 2010.
Disclaimer: This opinion is mine alone, although I sincerely hope you share it once you get a chance to pick up the book. The reviewed novel was purchased by myself from a physical bookstore, twice, (so I can give one away to one of our lucky readers!), and is not an ARC or acquisition reviewed for compensation.
When I emerged after just 3 days victorious in my reading of Warbreaker I had to subdue my excitement long enough to wait for today to roll around so I could share this with you. So I've been wiggling for over a week here, biting my tongue and, while amazed that I still have one, I can now report that this -- is win. I wasn't going to review a hardcover for my first freebie of the new year. But I'd feel like I wronged the readers here if I deprived you of a chance to pick up a copy for yourselves. Moreso if I neglected to inform you about something you can't put off reading any longer. Without further ado, I present my
After bursting onto the fantasy scene with his acclaimed debut novel, Elantris, and following up with his blockbuster Mistborn trilogy, Brandon Sanderson proves again that he is today's leading master of what Tolkien called secondary creation, the invention of whole worlds, complete with magics and myths all their own.
"Warbreaker" is the story of two sisters, who happen to be princesses, the God King one of them has to marry, the lesser god who doesn't like his job, and the immortal who's still trying to undo the mistakes he made hundreds of years ago.
Their world is one in which those who die in glory return as gods to live confined to a pantheon in Hallandren's capital city and where a power known as BioChromatic magic is based on an essence known as "breath" that can only be collected one unit at a time from individual people.
By using "breath" and drawing upon the color in everyday objects, all manner of miracles and mischief can be accomplished. It will take considerable quantities of each to resolve all the challenges facing Vivenna and Siri, princesses of Idris; Susebron the God King; Lightsong, reluctant god of bravery, and mysterious Vasher, the Warbreaker.
It takes a truly excellent book to take me that extra step past "fun". Sanderson put this one together in an approachable way that made me smile, sniffle, and sit up straight with agitation as my eyes are led to the next page turn. Very few books these days make me get a giddy little lump of joy in my chest while reading, but the worldbuilding, dialogue, and twists between these covers do just that. Warbreaker even appealed to the musician in me, which in truth may heavily color my opinion of the book--the descriptions of color stoked not only the visual side of my overactive imagination, but also the auditory--a wonderful treat of the senses. Sanderson brings politics and religion back into play, at turns playful and at others serious. Between these covers waits a whole new world with customs, rules, and a pallet of characters so distinctive you'll be standing in line for whatever Sanderson serves up next. (Or going back to read Elantris and the Mistborn trilogy, which are also, if I might add, full of win.)
My two-fold regret regarding Warbreaker is simple, really, and has nothing to do with the book itself: I was sad that I must a) sleep for at least 3 hours each evening (and I do not wake to that with the skill of a Lifeless--I shamble like the classic zombies of old), and b) return to the day job after my lunch hour. Hindrances which are required for continued livelihood. Both of which involve NOT reading this book. Should you acquire this for your reading list I urge you to make the following appropriate preparations: Begin on a decadently long weekend and hook up an IV of saline (among other necessary nutrients, lest you become dehydrated from drooling in awe of the words).
So now that I've got you primed for the amazingness, to win this hardcover, leave a comment on this post with the following:
1. Your Name
2. Tell us how you found us.
3. Leave a question for us to answer on our next Mailbag Monday.
Just three quick things, post by midnight EST on Sunday, January 31, 2010. Winner will be heralded with parades on Monday, February 1, 2010.
Disclaimer: This opinion is mine alone, although I sincerely hope you share it once you get a chance to pick up the book. The reviewed novel was purchased by myself from a physical bookstore, twice, (so I can give one away to one of our lucky readers!), and is not an ARC or acquisition reviewed for compensation.
Monday, January 4, 2010
Looking Back, Looking Onward
Okay, so for my first post in 2010, on my way into my sophomore year of stepped-up writing dedication, I'm going to take a quick peek back at nine things I learned during my freshman year of this part-time hazard to my social life. But before you get to the list, I want you all to stick your head out the window or the door and take a deep breath of air.
Done?
That right there, cold as it may have been (sorry northerners - I just got back from up there and I don't envy the fog on your glasses preventing you from reading the rest of this post), is a lungful of oxygen from the best year of your life yet. Sure, 2011 will be even better, but why waste the time middling along for another day? Get a headstart on Fantastic. Get a foot on the threshold of your dreams. And get ready to bash in the door to success in 2010 -- before the world expects you!
Okay, pep talk done. Here's the list:
Done?
That right there, cold as it may have been (sorry northerners - I just got back from up there and I don't envy the fog on your glasses preventing you from reading the rest of this post), is a lungful of oxygen from the best year of your life yet. Sure, 2011 will be even better, but why waste the time middling along for another day? Get a headstart on Fantastic. Get a foot on the threshold of your dreams. And get ready to bash in the door to success in 2010 -- before the world expects you!
Okay, pep talk done. Here's the list:
9) The best laid plans are a waste of time. Emergencies come out of the woodwork, critique partners run into crunch time, old friends drop by for the weekend, major events get planned and your presence will be required in all capacities. Lesson learned, but steps to help myself cope with said lesson are still far from reach. I had no contingency plans in place and I got further and further behind until I just had to toss some goals completely out the window. I'm trying to add some sliding time in for these dealings so my goals don't get railroaded again -- hopefully I will be able to report success in 2011's January post.
8) Setting realistic goals takes trial and error. Far more of the latter than optimal. I found my average slow range and began using it to gauge my goals late 2009. That's also what I'm using now to determine reasonable deadlines.
7) Muses love snuggly warm showers but despise chilly tile flooring. For my birthday (it's coming up later this month, folks) I want a waterproof notebook. So many of what I thought were brilliant ideas somehow got lost between the tub and the bathroom door.
6) Pitching to an agent is not as terrifying as I thought. Wait, no. Still terrified. But I don't regret the experience and I now have a better idea of what's expected and how to present a query in pitch form.
5) Every aspect of the writing process comes easier when not counting words. I found out early December that when I'm not fussed about my word count, I'm in the meat of the story, much more connected to the inner workings, instead of the outer influences. Yes, I did NaNoWriMo again and I made it at a steady pace. But after NaNo, the moment I let go of the numeric stressor, clean words began to fly.
4) 15 minutes of Morning Pages a day keeps the muse happy, healthy, and calm. For the first time in a couple of years now I set my morning pages aside. For the month of November, I only worked on my word-count projects. Then, come December, I lost almost a week of sleep to Manic Midnight Muse Madness (quad-mu?). The words came and they didn't stop flying onto the page. They didn't always make the most sense at 2 in the morning, but they were there. It was about a month's worth of 15 minute playtime for my muse . . . for the sake of my health I now know better than to deny her playtime ever again.
3) Accountability begins at home. I have the hubby's support and goal reminders, but we're still working on the whole "do-not-disturb during writing time" lesson.
2) When all else fails, call a TriMu. As writers we all go through rough patches of doubt and worry. As people we all go through up times and down times. Friends tell us the hard, honest truth; give us a look when it's time to stop whining; catch our silly, you-should-know-better mistakes before we humiliate ourselves; teach us something new every day; and remind us that a break is in order to catch our balance. I can't finish a recap of 2009 without raving about the stunning ladies who alternate posts with me on this blog. I'm intensely grateful that I met and am able to work with such talented professionals and steadfast friends.
1) There is nothing more beautiful than spending the entire day writing a story your heart is desperate to share with the world. I had an opportunity to take a couple unpaid weeks off of my full-time job to work on revisions for my novel. Those two weeks were nothing short of fantastic, and memories of those two weeks are going a long way to fueling my need to become a full-time writer someday.
Friday, December 4, 2009
Tuesday Morning at the BookaPlex
The 'ping' was either Mom's breakfast toast or a new email. Anteriyuma Snapdragon Cooper, just "Snap" to her classmates, swiped her thumb across the fingerprint-resistant screen on her ComPlex cellphone. "Wicked-nova!" she stared at the bright display. The five-star review for the newest Zombie Paradox book had just zipped to her Inbox. "Marra Thneed's book got front line POD billing!"
"I take it you're off to the BookaPlex this morning," Mom said, scraping a healthy measure of grape jam over a piece of hot sourdough. "Vampire's Den Eleventeen?"
Snap rolled her eyes. "Zombies, Mom. Zombies. Vamps are SO 21st century." She sniffed the air and shifted from foot to foot. The smell of roasting caffeine was tempting, but Mom didn't have the caramel flavoring in the cabinet like the BookaPlex's café. "I saved up for the paperback. And I figure I'll grab some coffee with friends."
Mom spun around, butter knife still in hand, and a drop of jelly oozed into a pockmark in the beige linoleum at her feet. "Your father and I make sure you have perfectly good coffee at home. Why do you insist on squandering your allowance over there?"
"For the third time this week, Mom. It's not the coffee, it's the company." Snap waved her cellphone at Mom and snagged her Plastic from the holder by the back door. Shoving the card into her back jeans pocket, she added, "I'll be back for dinner." Snap bounded down the back stairs and onto the sidewalk, hiding a grin at the lingering image of her disgruntled mother with her hands on her hips, hair sticking up like she'd shoved the knife in the toaster instead of just the bread. Mornings.
The BookaPlex was bustling with activity, and Snap spotted her usual crowd by the periodicals. "Mere!" Snap waved her phone and the little plastic cartoon doll hanging from the phone's keyring lit up as she approached. Mere's friendship doll lit up in response and Snap's best friend barreled across the café area with arms outstretched and twin braids bouncing over her shoulders.
"It's out! Have you read the reviews? Oran42 said it's the best one Marra Thneed's ever written! Ever! How do you beat that?"
"I know!" Snap's sneakers squelched against the polished floor as she jumped into the air for a high-five. "You get your copy for the signin'?"
"Five more minutes. I've been nursing my hot chocolate and checking out the mags." Mere pointed to where two of their other friends were sitting, thumbing through the latest news on the BookaPlex's rental touchscreens.
Only Sasha waved in their direction; Toby had his headphones on, his eyes closed, and bobbed his head to the latest issue of what Snap knew had to be Music World.
"Be back, Mere." Snap scampered onto the thick pile carpet that filled a good third of the rest of the BookaPlex. She weaved past the bargain table, stepped around shelves of hardcovers and audiobooks, and made a direct line for the PODs. Two were empty, and she dove for the door, slipping inside with a quiet 'snick' of the latch.
"Good morning," the machine chirped at her with a friendly sort of voice.
Snap loved that voice. It meant she was going to get a brand new, hot-off-the-presses book before she'd even finished her cup of coffee.
"Will you be using paper or Plastic today?"
Snap swiped her card through the reader and tabbed through the printing and shipping options on the screen. "Not electronic, not mailed to my doorstep, I just want plain old . . . " she mashed the button with a grin, "paperback."
"Please make your selection."
Snap typed in the title and wiggled her fingers in the air before pressing down on the cover image with barely restrained glee. A preview of the text sprang to the screen and she thumbed through it, already more than happy with the book about to be in her hand.
"Would you like to make any other purchases today?" A list of related titles came to the forefront of the screen, each sporting their own preview. The list based itself on publisher marketing and her own previous purchases.
Snap thought about it. She 'could' print off a copy of Nosereaper. And maybe get something for her brother. She stared down at the card in her hand. Not today. The holidays were around the corner and she would have them all shipped instead, pick up a stack of hardbacks her parents had been drooling over. Besides, the new Ed Riley wasn't even out yet and Mom would want that for sure.
"Leticia McEllen's Faeries and Peacocks is 20% off today with your purchase of Zombie Paradox Four."
Snap thought harder. She chewed on her bottom lip, sighed once, and finally pressed "No."
"Please verify your identity by placing your thumb on the scanner," the machine chirped. When she did, it said, "Thank you," adding in her own voice, "Anteriyuma Cooper."
Snap's cellphone pinged as the receipt hit her Inbox. "Wicked-nova! Zombie Paradox Four is so mine!"
"Your book will be ready in - 30 - minutes at the front desk. Please be aware that if you do not pick up your purchase in the next 24 hours, it will be shipped to your home address. Have a book-tastic day!"
Snap grinned and stepped down from the POD. Already a line had formed for the machines, most of them teens like her. Someone asked, "Printing?"
"Printing!" Snap waved the receipt still gleaming on her cellphone screen at the boy in line. "Coffee time," she murmured to herself and trotted off to join her friends.
"I take it you're off to the BookaPlex this morning," Mom said, scraping a healthy measure of grape jam over a piece of hot sourdough. "Vampire's Den Eleventeen?"
Snap rolled her eyes. "Zombies, Mom. Zombies. Vamps are SO 21st century." She sniffed the air and shifted from foot to foot. The smell of roasting caffeine was tempting, but Mom didn't have the caramel flavoring in the cabinet like the BookaPlex's café. "I saved up for the paperback. And I figure I'll grab some coffee with friends."
Mom spun around, butter knife still in hand, and a drop of jelly oozed into a pockmark in the beige linoleum at her feet. "Your father and I make sure you have perfectly good coffee at home. Why do you insist on squandering your allowance over there?"
"For the third time this week, Mom. It's not the coffee, it's the company." Snap waved her cellphone at Mom and snagged her Plastic from the holder by the back door. Shoving the card into her back jeans pocket, she added, "I'll be back for dinner." Snap bounded down the back stairs and onto the sidewalk, hiding a grin at the lingering image of her disgruntled mother with her hands on her hips, hair sticking up like she'd shoved the knife in the toaster instead of just the bread. Mornings.
The BookaPlex was bustling with activity, and Snap spotted her usual crowd by the periodicals. "Mere!" Snap waved her phone and the little plastic cartoon doll hanging from the phone's keyring lit up as she approached. Mere's friendship doll lit up in response and Snap's best friend barreled across the café area with arms outstretched and twin braids bouncing over her shoulders.
"It's out! Have you read the reviews? Oran42 said it's the best one Marra Thneed's ever written! Ever! How do you beat that?"
"I know!" Snap's sneakers squelched against the polished floor as she jumped into the air for a high-five. "You get your copy for the signin'?"
"Five more minutes. I've been nursing my hot chocolate and checking out the mags." Mere pointed to where two of their other friends were sitting, thumbing through the latest news on the BookaPlex's rental touchscreens.
Only Sasha waved in their direction; Toby had his headphones on, his eyes closed, and bobbed his head to the latest issue of what Snap knew had to be Music World.
"Be back, Mere." Snap scampered onto the thick pile carpet that filled a good third of the rest of the BookaPlex. She weaved past the bargain table, stepped around shelves of hardcovers and audiobooks, and made a direct line for the PODs. Two were empty, and she dove for the door, slipping inside with a quiet 'snick' of the latch.
"Good morning," the machine chirped at her with a friendly sort of voice.
Snap loved that voice. It meant she was going to get a brand new, hot-off-the-presses book before she'd even finished her cup of coffee.
"Will you be using paper or Plastic today?"
Snap swiped her card through the reader and tabbed through the printing and shipping options on the screen. "Not electronic, not mailed to my doorstep, I just want plain old . . . " she mashed the button with a grin, "paperback."
"Please make your selection."
Snap typed in the title and wiggled her fingers in the air before pressing down on the cover image with barely restrained glee. A preview of the text sprang to the screen and she thumbed through it, already more than happy with the book about to be in her hand.
"Would you like to make any other purchases today?" A list of related titles came to the forefront of the screen, each sporting their own preview. The list based itself on publisher marketing and her own previous purchases.
Snap thought about it. She 'could' print off a copy of Nosereaper. And maybe get something for her brother. She stared down at the card in her hand. Not today. The holidays were around the corner and she would have them all shipped instead, pick up a stack of hardbacks her parents had been drooling over. Besides, the new Ed Riley wasn't even out yet and Mom would want that for sure.
"Leticia McEllen's Faeries and Peacocks is 20% off today with your purchase of Zombie Paradox Four."
Snap thought harder. She chewed on her bottom lip, sighed once, and finally pressed "No."
"Please verify your identity by placing your thumb on the scanner," the machine chirped. When she did, it said, "Thank you," adding in her own voice, "Anteriyuma Cooper."
Snap's cellphone pinged as the receipt hit her Inbox. "Wicked-nova! Zombie Paradox Four is so mine!"
"Your book will be ready in - 30 - minutes at the front desk. Please be aware that if you do not pick up your purchase in the next 24 hours, it will be shipped to your home address. Have a book-tastic day!"
Snap grinned and stepped down from the POD. Already a line had formed for the machines, most of them teens like her. Someone asked, "Printing?"
"Printing!" Snap waved the receipt still gleaming on her cellphone screen at the boy in line. "Coffee time," she murmured to herself and trotted off to join her friends.
Friday, November 20, 2009
I Love the Smell of Libraries in the Morning
I'm a book buyer, an avid reader of fiction. I still do my research at the library. From dusty old books. Because they're tangible. The physical connection to the book is one of the reasons I love them. One more note to my overactive brain that says, "Cool. We're reading now. Shut everything out but just this one imaginary world, time, person, people, creature. Immerse yourself. Because you deserve it."
Books have been my alternatives to movies for a long time, first for the price difference and second for the lack of a screen, though the former is leveling out at an astonishing rate as the price of a paperback goes up a dollar a year. Increasingly, I've been entering physical bookstores and can't find the book I'm looking for since they refuse to carry it. Sure, I can order it through the physical store, sure I can order it online, but when I want a book NOW to read NOW and can't find it because it's not carried in the store hey -- a short walk away from this bookstore over here is a movie theater. It's lunchtime, and matinees are just $7. Which is $0.99 to $1.99 cheaper than the book I would have bought...big screen, here I come.
If they do have it in stock, the bookstore wins every time. Because you know what's NOT cheaper than a book? New eyes.
(Insert severe train-jumping veer to the left here. Weee!)
I squint at a screen innumerable hours a day. My eyesight is wretched--still steadily declining from the negative 7s and ousting me from the range of some formats of laser surgery. My morning and evening commutes, and bathroom breaks, are about the only time during the day when I'm "unplugged". I'm a technical writer, copy editor, graphics designer, and software quality assurance technician during my day job. I write fiction at a computer in the evening, I watch TV with my husband at dinnertime, I exercise to an assortment of cheap fitness DVDs and the Wii Fitness Trainer, and I even record my steps on a handheld game thingymabob. The last thing I need is another screen. I've resisted the smartphone, though the Droid is like a homing beacon calling to my inner Star Wars obsession. (In that every time I hear about it, the iconic Verizon "Can you hear me now" is replaced with "Where could he be? Threepio! Threepio, will you come in?") Procuring a smartphone at this point would likely sign the remaining usefulness factor of my eyes away.
The eReaders theoretically have a format that's book-like, and won't induce further eye deterioration. I'd be inclined to acquire one as the competition wears on, but only if I can, say, back up the data elsewhere in case the thing blows up, be able to redownload without repurchasing my purchases (via CONVENIENT activation/inactivation of licenses or somesuch), and limit my access to simply BOOKS from the thing. I've recently discovered I do too much from my laptop/desktop computers, and to that end I can't sit there and read an ebook for hours on end like I can with a physical book. This has nothing to do with eyestrain. There is simply too much going on.
Online, I can't shut out the world.
Nothing tells my brain to enjoy the book, immerse myself. Instead, my brain goes, hey, go check your email! Go update the latest version of this eReader software! And while you're there, go read the replies on your twitter! Go see the latest publishing news! Go work on your own book! (Thankfully that last one does in fact occur despite the other distractions around me. But at that point I actually have to disconnect from the internet to keep that kind of work going longer than 15 minutes.)
Do you have too much screen exposure? What steps of physical separation do you have to take to get a moment of peace or get back to work? How do you get away from the monotone electronic buzz that flits through our lives every hour of the day?
....Do you even try?
Books have been my alternatives to movies for a long time, first for the price difference and second for the lack of a screen, though the former is leveling out at an astonishing rate as the price of a paperback goes up a dollar a year. Increasingly, I've been entering physical bookstores and can't find the book I'm looking for since they refuse to carry it. Sure, I can order it through the physical store, sure I can order it online, but when I want a book NOW to read NOW and can't find it because it's not carried in the store hey -- a short walk away from this bookstore over here is a movie theater. It's lunchtime, and matinees are just $7. Which is $0.99 to $1.99 cheaper than the book I would have bought...big screen, here I come.
If they do have it in stock, the bookstore wins every time. Because you know what's NOT cheaper than a book? New eyes.
(Insert severe train-jumping veer to the left here. Weee!)
I squint at a screen innumerable hours a day. My eyesight is wretched--still steadily declining from the negative 7s and ousting me from the range of some formats of laser surgery. My morning and evening commutes, and bathroom breaks, are about the only time during the day when I'm "unplugged". I'm a technical writer, copy editor, graphics designer, and software quality assurance technician during my day job. I write fiction at a computer in the evening, I watch TV with my husband at dinnertime, I exercise to an assortment of cheap fitness DVDs and the Wii Fitness Trainer, and I even record my steps on a handheld game thingymabob. The last thing I need is another screen. I've resisted the smartphone, though the Droid is like a homing beacon calling to my inner Star Wars obsession. (In that every time I hear about it, the iconic Verizon "Can you hear me now" is replaced with "Where could he be? Threepio! Threepio, will you come in?") Procuring a smartphone at this point would likely sign the remaining usefulness factor of my eyes away.
The eReaders theoretically have a format that's book-like, and won't induce further eye deterioration. I'd be inclined to acquire one as the competition wears on, but only if I can, say, back up the data elsewhere in case the thing blows up, be able to redownload without repurchasing my purchases (via CONVENIENT activation/inactivation of licenses or somesuch), and limit my access to simply BOOKS from the thing. I've recently discovered I do too much from my laptop/desktop computers, and to that end I can't sit there and read an ebook for hours on end like I can with a physical book. This has nothing to do with eyestrain. There is simply too much going on.
Online, I can't shut out the world.
Nothing tells my brain to enjoy the book, immerse myself. Instead, my brain goes, hey, go check your email! Go update the latest version of this eReader software! And while you're there, go read the replies on your twitter! Go see the latest publishing news! Go work on your own book! (Thankfully that last one does in fact occur despite the other distractions around me. But at that point I actually have to disconnect from the internet to keep that kind of work going longer than 15 minutes.)
Do you have too much screen exposure? What steps of physical separation do you have to take to get a moment of peace or get back to work? How do you get away from the monotone electronic buzz that flits through our lives every hour of the day?
....Do you even try?
Friday, November 6, 2009
Rewards for NaNoWriMo?
It's NaNo, and I'm not having any trouble keeping above a daily 1,667 word count because I've had a set daily goal all year long. It feels like a tiny boost compared to last year's uber-challenge. As of last night, I was already up to 12,226 words! So if I want a real challenge, I have to spice things up a bit.
This month, I will:
My rewards? At 25k I get to start using the WiiFit Expansion pack in my daily exercise routine. At 50k, I get to hit the bookstore for Cherie Priest's new novel: Boneshaker. And for the first two weeks of December I get to avoid writing altogether while my prose stews -- time enough to binge on the new Sims 3 expansion pack, whittle down my TBR pile, and busy myself with holiday craftiness.
What are your rewards for meeting your goals this November?
This month, I will:
Write 50k words from beginning to THE END of one or two versions of the story driving into my skull. Complete four steampunk rings and post completed pics up on my blog to show off the finished results. Give up my Saturday morning writing time in leiu of "Husband Appreciation Time". This is prime hours for me productivity-wise, but the hubby is so supportive and awesome regarding my writing efforts that he should get a medal. (In leiu of medal I'll be popping something in the slow cooker on Saturdays and watching a movie with him...hehe!) Increase my baking to 2 loaves of bread a week (yum!) to have extras in the freezer. Stock up on frozen baggies of homemade slow cooker soup.
My rewards? At 25k I get to start using the WiiFit Expansion pack in my daily exercise routine. At 50k, I get to hit the bookstore for Cherie Priest's new novel: Boneshaker. And for the first two weeks of December I get to avoid writing altogether while my prose stews -- time enough to binge on the new Sims 3 expansion pack, whittle down my TBR pile, and busy myself with holiday craftiness.
What are your rewards for meeting your goals this November?
Saturday, August 29, 2009
Creative Nurturing
There's some stuff in the office fridge that has reached the "Do Not Feed After Midnight" and "Do Not Get Wet" stage. You know the species. The kind that turns green, sprouts arms, yells "Feed me, Seymour!", and shrinks away from the tiny yellow bulb in the upper right corner. The kind that runs and hides on trash day. Every trash day. For a year.
If you love writing, or painting, or singing, or whatever art form calls to you and you're not out there, doing it, as often as possible, you'd better prepare for the aforementioned monster. This beast lays the guilt on thick, ruining your art-free day, accidentally trampling on your self-esteem with its raging. You think, "I'm not cut out for this; I'm never going to be an artist, so I should just give up!" and the nudge persists, changing from gentle urging in clear, plaintive tones to insistent, constant nagging. And raging! Oh the raging...Stifling headache? Let the creativity free!
You give in.
The muse-turned-uncouth-monster can react in many ways.
1. The Binge. A tumultuous session of art-binging is satisfying but unsustainable. This practice creates a vicious cycle. You will be blissful on the days you give yourself up to the art - and yelling at yourself for the rest of them. Pace yourself.
2. The Dance. This is the not-quite-what-I-want sequence of steps. You prance around what you really want to do with everything and anything but that to which you must eventually succumb. Avoid the inevitable. Don't let your muse samba alone.
3. The Chair. Like a pro-wrestling smackdown, a man's soap opera, you take the ring and assail yourself with a round of hurt - berating yourself for ever wanting to give art the time of day. Ever. Beating it with the folding chair, into submission, until it's quieter than a mouse nomming on the ceiling tiles and attic insulation. And just like in wrestling - that move will come back to bite you.
4. The Pretender. You decide (*snort* You decide? Your muse totally decided for you, silly human...) that you're going to give art another chance. Your muse believes you as you sit down to work and promptly stuff her in a pretty genie bottle, mosaic glass. You quickly reverse your position and abandon the art in Perfect Storm splendor. That bottle won't hold the muse-monster for long. Whiplash hurts. Brain whiplash is twice as bad.
5. The Leaf-On-The-Wind. You display a rare patience with that creative creature that threatens to eat the right half of your brain. Repetition, contemplation, dabbling in the medium of your choice - your real desire - calms the storm between your ears. You recognize peace, but soon allow yourself to be swept away by some newfangled thing that promises you even more happiness. Don't listen to the anti-creativity temptress. The crash landing can be disastrous. Muses can't die. Not really, not forever. But they can take an inordinate amount of time to recover - and it itches.
I am and have been guilty of each and every one of these offenses against the muse, but I am lucky enough to be once again back on track with music and writing to fuel my journey. (And also a brain. Brains are vital to this process.)
Daily cultivating of your imagination garden, your art song, is the only way to sooth the agony of artlessness. Creative nurturing tames the soul.
If you love writing, or painting, or singing, or whatever art form calls to you and you're not out there, doing it, as often as possible, you'd better prepare for the aforementioned monster. This beast lays the guilt on thick, ruining your art-free day, accidentally trampling on your self-esteem with its raging. You think, "I'm not cut out for this; I'm never going to be an artist, so I should just give up!" and the nudge persists, changing from gentle urging in clear, plaintive tones to insistent, constant nagging. And raging! Oh the raging...Stifling headache? Let the creativity free!
You give in.
The muse-turned-uncouth-monster can react in many ways.
1. The Binge. A tumultuous session of art-binging is satisfying but unsustainable. This practice creates a vicious cycle. You will be blissful on the days you give yourself up to the art - and yelling at yourself for the rest of them. Pace yourself.
2. The Dance. This is the not-quite-what-I-want sequence of steps. You prance around what you really want to do with everything and anything but that to which you must eventually succumb. Avoid the inevitable. Don't let your muse samba alone.
3. The Chair. Like a pro-wrestling smackdown, a man's soap opera, you take the ring and assail yourself with a round of hurt - berating yourself for ever wanting to give art the time of day. Ever. Beating it with the folding chair, into submission, until it's quieter than a mouse nomming on the ceiling tiles and attic insulation. And just like in wrestling - that move will come back to bite you.
4. The Pretender. You decide (*snort* You decide? Your muse totally decided for you, silly human...) that you're going to give art another chance. Your muse believes you as you sit down to work and promptly stuff her in a pretty genie bottle, mosaic glass. You quickly reverse your position and abandon the art in Perfect Storm splendor. That bottle won't hold the muse-monster for long. Whiplash hurts. Brain whiplash is twice as bad.
5. The Leaf-On-The-Wind. You display a rare patience with that creative creature that threatens to eat the right half of your brain. Repetition, contemplation, dabbling in the medium of your choice - your real desire - calms the storm between your ears. You recognize peace, but soon allow yourself to be swept away by some newfangled thing that promises you even more happiness. Don't listen to the anti-creativity temptress. The crash landing can be disastrous. Muses can't die. Not really, not forever. But they can take an inordinate amount of time to recover - and it itches.
I am and have been guilty of each and every one of these offenses against the muse, but I am lucky enough to be once again back on track with music and writing to fuel my journey. (And also a brain. Brains are vital to this process.)
Daily cultivating of your imagination garden, your art song, is the only way to sooth the agony of artlessness. Creative nurturing tames the soul.
Friday, July 31, 2009
Aside: As the Brain 'Splodes
Nothing provides me with a wellspring of glee so much as dipping pen to paper and forming words on a page. Novels, short stories, poems, or general world-building -- as long as I'm creating, molding, weaving, bliss is mine.
The instruments of my happiness in the writing endevour are firstly my brain, which recognizes the true joy of building and spinning tales from the ether, and secondly my muse, a whimsical mind sprite who graces me with her presence from time to time in the form of Brilliance (which my inner editor assures me is all in the mind of the writer).
A couple of weeks ago, needing a break from relentless editing, I delved into the realm of a new short story and decided to play there for a while, spinning it on the pottery wheel of my earstwhile brain. The brain was pleased, as was my muse, who clapped her hands in fiendish delight as the words tumbled out onto the computer screen.
But brains, like muses, are fickle creatures. Possibly in reaction to a looming zombie threat, my brain decided to pull a garden gnome on me -- it split for better pastures. Oh sure, I got postcards with big glossy pictures and fluffy, loopy text: "The plot's here, wish you wrote this well!" and "This is your brain on books." and "Viva l'Existance!" I got tales of how my brain was feverishly editing elsewhere, working for someone else, enjoying the greener grasses. I got a lot of pictures of blue phone boxes and fireplaces, which are apparently all the rage in the travelsphere these days. (They never appear on Expedia or Priceline - I can only assume they're so popular the tickets go as soon as they appear on the sites.)
The messages became more obscure as the week passed - something about harsh labor conditions and no regrets. The last photo I saw of my missing gray matter was on the back of a lunchroom milk carton, just moments before the news broke -- "Brain declared DED". Depleted, Exploited, and Dead.** The shockwave of my brain's explosion had killed three innocent pencils and twice as many trees. I was in shock. That was ALL? Just how depleted was my brain when it went, anyway?
So this week I set about reborning a brain for myself. For those of you unfamiliar with the process, it takes a lot of clay, paint, precision, and a well-ventilated oven. Once the process is complete, it looks quite brain-like. And once you stuff it with polyfill pellets no one's the wiser.
Except for my muse. She popped in rather tentatively Wednesday, just to make sure my mind had returned, and made it quite clear she despised the echo, found the lighting dreary, and would have demanded HER money back for the decorative travesty. After declaring the whole place positively unfit for her dwelling, she vanished. Usually she makes a ruckus on departure, screaming and ranting about some injustice or another, but this time there was nothing. Only silence.
Sometime between Thursday and this morning she returned with piles of designer throwrugs, a tiffany lamp, a papasan chair, and a pack of popped corn. This afternoon, I checked back to see an outrageous, expensive wardrobe had found a home, along with her favorite pet quartz and several pounds of chocolate. (Apparently the fact that I can no longer indulge in solid chocolate does nothing to stop my muse from flaunting her personal stash.) Yes folks, it looks like she's here to stay.
Now me, my muse, and my brain return to our regularly scheduled Plan Hours. Will we meet our word count goal? Will we ever finish our short story and return to the enduring tale of StarStones? Tune in next week for another installment of "As the Brain 'Splodes"...
**And remember, kids, don't loan out your brain to timelords.
The instruments of my happiness in the writing endevour are firstly my brain, which recognizes the true joy of building and spinning tales from the ether, and secondly my muse, a whimsical mind sprite who graces me with her presence from time to time in the form of Brilliance (which my inner editor assures me is all in the mind of the writer).
A couple of weeks ago, needing a break from relentless editing, I delved into the realm of a new short story and decided to play there for a while, spinning it on the pottery wheel of my earstwhile brain. The brain was pleased, as was my muse, who clapped her hands in fiendish delight as the words tumbled out onto the computer screen.
But brains, like muses, are fickle creatures. Possibly in reaction to a looming zombie threat, my brain decided to pull a garden gnome on me -- it split for better pastures. Oh sure, I got postcards with big glossy pictures and fluffy, loopy text: "The plot's here, wish you wrote this well!" and "This is your brain on books." and "Viva l'Existance!" I got tales of how my brain was feverishly editing elsewhere, working for someone else, enjoying the greener grasses. I got a lot of pictures of blue phone boxes and fireplaces, which are apparently all the rage in the travelsphere these days. (They never appear on Expedia or Priceline - I can only assume they're so popular the tickets go as soon as they appear on the sites.)
The messages became more obscure as the week passed - something about harsh labor conditions and no regrets. The last photo I saw of my missing gray matter was on the back of a lunchroom milk carton, just moments before the news broke -- "Brain declared DED". Depleted, Exploited, and Dead.** The shockwave of my brain's explosion had killed three innocent pencils and twice as many trees. I was in shock. That was ALL? Just how depleted was my brain when it went, anyway?
So this week I set about reborning a brain for myself. For those of you unfamiliar with the process, it takes a lot of clay, paint, precision, and a well-ventilated oven. Once the process is complete, it looks quite brain-like. And once you stuff it with polyfill pellets no one's the wiser.
Except for my muse. She popped in rather tentatively Wednesday, just to make sure my mind had returned, and made it quite clear she despised the echo, found the lighting dreary, and would have demanded HER money back for the decorative travesty. After declaring the whole place positively unfit for her dwelling, she vanished. Usually she makes a ruckus on departure, screaming and ranting about some injustice or another, but this time there was nothing. Only silence.
Sometime between Thursday and this morning she returned with piles of designer throwrugs, a tiffany lamp, a papasan chair, and a pack of popped corn. This afternoon, I checked back to see an outrageous, expensive wardrobe had found a home, along with her favorite pet quartz and several pounds of chocolate. (Apparently the fact that I can no longer indulge in solid chocolate does nothing to stop my muse from flaunting her personal stash.) Yes folks, it looks like she's here to stay.
Now me, my muse, and my brain return to our regularly scheduled Plan Hours. Will we meet our word count goal? Will we ever finish our short story and return to the enduring tale of StarStones? Tune in next week for another installment of "As the Brain 'Splodes"...
**And remember, kids, don't loan out your brain to timelords.
Monday, July 6, 2009
Aside: FullTime DayTime Jobber, HalfTime NightTime Writer Part Deux
Shhhh...I know I'm sneaking a post in, and late, but don't tell!
The Plan hours for the first week and a half were a blessing. I made progress on a chapter that I hadn't been able to move for over a month. I penned scenes for a new short story on my "off Plan hours" and got in exercise every day (because, as you may or may not know - exercise is AWESOME for creativity). I posted my blogs on time and let myself get wrapped up in my galaxies.
Last week, however, was a little rougher. It started out well, but I came down with a cold which led to the inevitable "sick day". And since I had a dr. test run on Thursday to make sure I wasn't dying of the dreaded "John Hurt" moment, that meant I felt even worse for the rest of the week. I edited Friday because of my wonderfully supportive TriMu (helping me out of my "after anesthesia funk"), but I could barely convince myself to move on Saturday except to do major research on what I now can and cannot eat.
Yesterday was better. Whether that came from feeling better from eating food that didn't kill me or the calm, cool acceptance of the fact that I'll never be able to look at a strawberry/peanut butter M&M or ice cream or yogurt or pizza ever again - I don't know. And really, all that mattered was that I felt good enough to get out and socialize again - and write. Edits happened slowly, but it made me feel like the whole week wasn't a waste.
So now I'm back to the Plan - with a new diet and a new determination for progress. I doubt I'll make up my lost ground, so there's no way I'll make my September deadline - but this isn't about guilt for lost writing time or sadness over missed self-imposed goals. This is about shaking off the perfection and making progress.
The Plan hours for the first week and a half were a blessing. I made progress on a chapter that I hadn't been able to move for over a month. I penned scenes for a new short story on my "off Plan hours" and got in exercise every day (because, as you may or may not know - exercise is AWESOME for creativity). I posted my blogs on time and let myself get wrapped up in my galaxies.
Last week, however, was a little rougher. It started out well, but I came down with a cold which led to the inevitable "sick day". And since I had a dr. test run on Thursday to make sure I wasn't dying of the dreaded "John Hurt" moment, that meant I felt even worse for the rest of the week. I edited Friday because of my wonderfully supportive TriMu (helping me out of my "after anesthesia funk"), but I could barely convince myself to move on Saturday except to do major research on what I now can and cannot eat.
Yesterday was better. Whether that came from feeling better from eating food that didn't kill me or the calm, cool acceptance of the fact that I'll never be able to look at a strawberry/peanut butter M&M or ice cream or yogurt or pizza ever again - I don't know. And really, all that mattered was that I felt good enough to get out and socialize again - and write. Edits happened slowly, but it made me feel like the whole week wasn't a waste.
So now I'm back to the Plan - with a new diet and a new determination for progress. I doubt I'll make up my lost ground, so there's no way I'll make my September deadline - but this isn't about guilt for lost writing time or sadness over missed self-imposed goals. This is about shaking off the perfection and making progress.
Friday, June 19, 2009
FullTime DayTime Jobber, HalfTime NightTime Writer
Working full time and stuffing in enough writing/editing time in to feel like an actual writer is quite difficult for me. I don't know how people manage it successfully. Except that they've had a lot more practice at it than I have. At times, I feel as though there's so much to be done with the bills, paperwork, and housewifely cleaning that I don't have enough time for me, let alone the myriad of characters plunging around in my gray squishy matter. And if it's this bad now, how in the universe am I to cope when I have kids? Fretting like this does me no good, serves no purpose. So the hubby and I had a chat over budgeting and longterm future goals. An agreement and compromise was born. The Plan.
The Plan involves a more rigid schedule during my weekdays to help me find both destressing time and writing time. During the weekend it's more fluid, to allow me to write during my best part of the day and be home administrator as needed. The Plan involves only one social outing a month (for the time being). I keep my critique meetings Sunday afternoon but I lose my TriMu meetings on Wednesdays and instead take on choir rehearsal. The daily schedule builds in time for my Morning Pages (The Artist's Way), plotting and planning time, and THREE hours of writing time after dinner.
The hubby has declared that I may continue to read all the publishing blogs and articles I would like - but not during my Plan hours. I may no longer research for my "agent wish list" nor submission guidelines until I have completed this latest editing run-through of StarStones. (Yes, by "run-through" I mean complete rewrite of several chapters, and pokey fixins of others.) No more work on short stories or smaller subs during Plan hours until this is done. Now, I can still scribble on the outskirts of those hours, but unless I meet my goals on the bigger work - the shinies and short stories get taken away. So I guess I better bust tail and get on it, huh?
Our priority goal?
To allow me to finish this run-through of StarStones by September 1st.
A 2 hour session of new writing consisted of a 15 minute prep/outline, then writing for 15 fast minutes, exercising for 5, etc. until time was up. A 2 hour editing session would be a straight word binge. Until I do a week of the new 3 hour sessions, however, I won't know the flow. So expect the next update about this fulltime day job halftime night writer Plan to cover how I've managed to make it work for me.
The Plan involves a more rigid schedule during my weekdays to help me find both destressing time and writing time. During the weekend it's more fluid, to allow me to write during my best part of the day and be home administrator as needed. The Plan involves only one social outing a month (for the time being). I keep my critique meetings Sunday afternoon but I lose my TriMu meetings on Wednesdays and instead take on choir rehearsal. The daily schedule builds in time for my Morning Pages (The Artist's Way), plotting and planning time, and THREE hours of writing time after dinner.
A Typical Plan Day:
Morning Routine
AM Commute - Morning Pages
AM Break - Daily Writing Goal Spreadsheet
Lunch - Blog Reading/Composition
PM Break - Calendar, Email Reply-To List
PM Commute - Vent, Rev Up Blocking
After Work Routine
The 3 Plan Writing Hours
Before Bed Routine
The hubby has declared that I may continue to read all the publishing blogs and articles I would like - but not during my Plan hours. I may no longer research for my "agent wish list" nor submission guidelines until I have completed this latest editing run-through of StarStones. (Yes, by "run-through" I mean complete rewrite of several chapters, and pokey fixins of others.) No more work on short stories or smaller subs during Plan hours until this is done. Now, I can still scribble on the outskirts of those hours, but unless I meet my goals on the bigger work - the shinies and short stories get taken away. So I guess I better bust tail and get on it, huh?
Our priority goal?
To allow me to finish this run-through of StarStones by September 1st.
The Plan's 2009 Schedule:
September 1: Latest StarStones revision complete
September 2-7: Revision of query letter, research of submission takers, and the mailing of the first official query
September 8-30: Preparation of material for the October writer's conference
October 1-4: Writing Conference
October 5-23: More revisions
October 24-31: Pre-NaNo Plotting Week
November 1-30: National Novel Writing Month
December 1-31: Short Story Bonanza
A 2 hour session of new writing consisted of a 15 minute prep/outline, then writing for 15 fast minutes, exercising for 5, etc. until time was up. A 2 hour editing session would be a straight word binge. Until I do a week of the new 3 hour sessions, however, I won't know the flow. So expect the next update about this fulltime day job halftime night writer Plan to cover how I've managed to make it work for me.
Saturday, May 9, 2009
I'd Like to Thank the Little People
The original intended post has been preempted by the resolution of a major plot problem in StarStones. Said problem resolution was celebrated with a toast and according to my hubby, I must dedicate several pages of acknowledgments in the following manner:
I will have sparse real estate indeed. But how to convey one's gratitude in a single sentence for someone who married you AFTER already putting up with you through not one, but TWO novel-in-a-month adventures? Through the day-to-day grind of the writing time management crises? Does "to hubby, with love" seem too abrupt for gratitude?
...
I would like to thank my personal gourmet chef, gardener, electrician, dish-washer, garbageman, plumber, computer repair guy, network technician, database administrator, and home inspector, without whom this book would never have been possible.....
.....I would be remiss if I left out my live-in plothole-catcher, logic-finder, devious-thinker, procrastinateling-slayer, and corkboard-alternative....
....and in closing, I would like to again thank my wonderful, darling husband for everything he puts up with, from the endless chattering to my own imaginary friends to the random spontaneous critique meetings to the "leave me alone, I'm blocking a fight scene" (or the "hey honey, hold this sword for a second. Okay good, now swing it at me from this direction...") wee hours of the morning.
...
I will have sparse real estate indeed. But how to convey one's gratitude in a single sentence for someone who married you AFTER already putting up with you through not one, but TWO novel-in-a-month adventures? Through the day-to-day grind of the writing time management crises? Does "to hubby, with love" seem too abrupt for gratitude?
Friday, April 24, 2009
Baby Steps Through the Pages...
I have to keep reminding myself where I am on my writing journey.
I've always wanted to be a writer.
I've always been a writer.
My brain frequently dabbles between short fiction, flash fiction, poetry, song lyrics, and random exercises in creative prancing. In 2006, I attempted my first novel, a complicated piece that was more self-challenge than thoughtful prose - something different. Sick, stressed, and distracted due to school, doctor visits, and work, I set it aside.
But I didn't stop scribbling.
The merry band of heroes and requisite universe of StarStones have been clanging in my head since 2002. I'd done dozens of short stories from their points of view, mini-adventures, before finally chronicling a more epic adventure - this time starring their younger selves - in 2007. Having finished the book, my very first wholly-complete deeply-flawed novel, I moved into edits and dragged it to a writing conference for some critique. By September of 2008, I had deleted and rewritten the ending.
In November of 2008, I completed my second full novel, set in a new place, in an unfamiliar genre. Yay!
By December of 2008, I had deleted the ending of StarStones again. Boo!
And somewhere in there, in the midst of life and living, I decided I could never NOT be a writer. Editing REbegan in earnest. Fellow Tri Mus accepted me into the ranks. Goals were hashed out, mashed out, and then made realistic. Research began on submission deadlines and formats, publishers, agents, editors, query letters -- all things publishing. Another writing conference was scheduled. StarStones now has yet another ending. And there are many, many more edits to follow. Many, many mistakes to make. Support from the hubby: immeasurable. I determined I could indeed write, write, write forever. Good or bad - it didn't matter.
Where I am on my journey is just past the starting blocks: Committed to my writing path. No longer close enough to home to run back and grab those few things I forgot on the desk before starting off again, but still tentative in uncharted territory. I shouldn't feel like I'm behind, rushed. I don't have an external deadline (save the tantalizing open submission dates for some spiffy short story anthologies).
These are the days for making amateur mistakes, taking small steps, shaking off doubts. These are the days for soaking up all the education I can on the writing process and publishing world. And these are the days to vow (in application!) never to stop learning, never to stop listening, never to stop watching, never to stop writing. This - THIS! - is the beginning.
I've always wanted to be a writer.
Kindergarten: I wrote a small, bound (and illustrated...LOL) book about the day a dinosaur (from the pictures, it appeared to be a brontosaurus) appeared on my front step for a playdate.
...
2nd Grade: I handed in my natural science report on robins as written from the bird's perspective.
...
5th Grade: I decorated spelling tests with flash fiction scribbled on the back using one vocab word in every sentence.
...
10th Grade: I slammed through my history report, presenting it as written by a member of an archeological dig's team. Complete with photos and "ancient scrolls". Oh yeah.
I've always been a writer.
My brain frequently dabbles between short fiction, flash fiction, poetry, song lyrics, and random exercises in creative prancing. In 2006, I attempted my first novel, a complicated piece that was more self-challenge than thoughtful prose - something different. Sick, stressed, and distracted due to school, doctor visits, and work, I set it aside.
But I didn't stop scribbling.
The merry band of heroes and requisite universe of StarStones have been clanging in my head since 2002. I'd done dozens of short stories from their points of view, mini-adventures, before finally chronicling a more epic adventure - this time starring their younger selves - in 2007. Having finished the book, my very first wholly-complete deeply-flawed novel, I moved into edits and dragged it to a writing conference for some critique. By September of 2008, I had deleted and rewritten the ending.
In November of 2008, I completed my second full novel, set in a new place, in an unfamiliar genre. Yay!
By December of 2008, I had deleted the ending of StarStones again. Boo!
And somewhere in there, in the midst of life and living, I decided I could never NOT be a writer. Editing REbegan in earnest. Fellow Tri Mus accepted me into the ranks. Goals were hashed out, mashed out, and then made realistic. Research began on submission deadlines and formats, publishers, agents, editors, query letters -- all things publishing. Another writing conference was scheduled. StarStones now has yet another ending. And there are many, many more edits to follow. Many, many mistakes to make. Support from the hubby: immeasurable. I determined I could indeed write, write, write forever. Good or bad - it didn't matter.
Where I am on my journey is just past the starting blocks: Committed to my writing path. No longer close enough to home to run back and grab those few things I forgot on the desk before starting off again, but still tentative in uncharted territory. I shouldn't feel like I'm behind, rushed. I don't have an external deadline (save the tantalizing open submission dates for some spiffy short story anthologies).
These are the days for making amateur mistakes, taking small steps, shaking off doubts. These are the days for soaking up all the education I can on the writing process and publishing world. And these are the days to vow (in application!) never to stop learning, never to stop listening, never to stop watching, never to stop writing. This - THIS! - is the beginning.
Friday, April 10, 2009
Magical Montage Moments
Writing is an art that must be accomplished over time with much effort, toil, and revision. We write, write more, scrap, write more, rewrite, scrap, write more, with the hope that someday, somewhere, we'll get it on a bookshelf for an unsuspecting reader to shuffle home with, open up, and be whisked away to another kingdom with our mystical guidance. Chief among the things we must do to reach that goal is to WRITE. Sit down, pull out the tools, and get to work.
There is no 80's montage.
Don't get me wrong, there are magical moments that occur between the pen and paper - when everything is perfect, never to be revised again - but these are few and far between. That is why they are called 'moments'. Truth: If we had it that easy all the time, they would be hardly magical. They would be normal. And we wouldn't appreciate them quite so much.
There is no sudden soundtrack of 80's pop music that will explode in your head while you are writing, somehow defeating time and space to bound through the task of writing 300 pages (in 2 seconds), selling your book for the quadruple-million figure book deal (in 5 seconds), watching your book fly off the shelves (in true omnipotent fashion), and finally, as the final notes of the montage taper off, panning in to see yourself from above, happy and relaxing, a job well done.
Cherish the moments, and cherish the toil.
The toil is what gets us to the endgame. The moments are the carrots along the way, reminding us that some good things happen within these pages. I wouldn't trade the effort and experience for the world. There's all of this cool stuff about my worlds and characters that only I know - and I learn a bit more about them every day. Discovery is part of the journey. Enjoy the moments you spend with your characters. Get to know them, get rid of the ones that annoy you (untimely deaths via ink are all the rage), and come to love them. There will come a time when you revise a scene and think "Woah. He would never say that." followed by "Instead, he would...". You have to spend the time getting to know them before you can make that call. It's like having dozens of friends - all inside a neat little package of gray matter.
Last week, I finished the second chapter of my science fiction novel for the seventh time. The first time, it was exciting. Verbose and clunky, but exciting. The second, third, and fourth drafts stripped out the bad stuff. And suddenly, the character was dull. Utterly lifeless on the page. He spent a good seven pages talking to himself and feeling sorry for the misfortune of others. Going back to my scraps, I found the good bits and put them back in for versions five and six. He still wasn't right, still thought too much. I added a new character, and that ember began to glow once more. My husband looked over my shoulder and made a tiny suggestion. I stared at him as if he had grown another pair of eyes. How in the world does he know my characters better than I do?
It was a solution that had been staring at me since I started revisions; I was merely fighting it. That's right: The magical moment was sitting there tapping its foot, yelling at me from time to time (this explains the recent headaches) and I only had to let it through to the page. Lesson: Stand aside and let those come through. Just because they are rare doesn't mean that you should ignore them when they come to the window.
I rewrote the whole chapter in a few evenings (not seconds!) without bothering with my previous material. The adventure was back! They were alive! And I was still able to go back and pull some of the old material forward when I was done. Now, it will be changed again over time. For now, however, I have a good draft of a chapter that stays true to my characters as they should be - exciting, insane, and raring for adventure. Wouldn't trade that time for the world.
Besides - don't you think being in the montage would make you really, really dizzy?
There is no 80's montage.
Don't get me wrong, there are magical moments that occur between the pen and paper - when everything is perfect, never to be revised again - but these are few and far between. That is why they are called 'moments'. Truth: If we had it that easy all the time, they would be hardly magical. They would be normal. And we wouldn't appreciate them quite so much.
There is no sudden soundtrack of 80's pop music that will explode in your head while you are writing, somehow defeating time and space to bound through the task of writing 300 pages (in 2 seconds), selling your book for the quadruple-million figure book deal (in 5 seconds), watching your book fly off the shelves (in true omnipotent fashion), and finally, as the final notes of the montage taper off, panning in to see yourself from above, happy and relaxing, a job well done.
Cherish the moments, and cherish the toil.
The toil is what gets us to the endgame. The moments are the carrots along the way, reminding us that some good things happen within these pages. I wouldn't trade the effort and experience for the world. There's all of this cool stuff about my worlds and characters that only I know - and I learn a bit more about them every day. Discovery is part of the journey. Enjoy the moments you spend with your characters. Get to know them, get rid of the ones that annoy you (untimely deaths via ink are all the rage), and come to love them. There will come a time when you revise a scene and think "Woah. He would never say that." followed by "Instead, he would...". You have to spend the time getting to know them before you can make that call. It's like having dozens of friends - all inside a neat little package of gray matter.
Last week, I finished the second chapter of my science fiction novel for the seventh time. The first time, it was exciting. Verbose and clunky, but exciting. The second, third, and fourth drafts stripped out the bad stuff. And suddenly, the character was dull. Utterly lifeless on the page. He spent a good seven pages talking to himself and feeling sorry for the misfortune of others. Going back to my scraps, I found the good bits and put them back in for versions five and six. He still wasn't right, still thought too much. I added a new character, and that ember began to glow once more. My husband looked over my shoulder and made a tiny suggestion. I stared at him as if he had grown another pair of eyes. How in the world does he know my characters better than I do?
It was a solution that had been staring at me since I started revisions; I was merely fighting it. That's right: The magical moment was sitting there tapping its foot, yelling at me from time to time (this explains the recent headaches) and I only had to let it through to the page. Lesson: Stand aside and let those come through. Just because they are rare doesn't mean that you should ignore them when they come to the window.
I rewrote the whole chapter in a few evenings (not seconds!) without bothering with my previous material. The adventure was back! They were alive! And I was still able to go back and pull some of the old material forward when I was done. Now, it will be changed again over time. For now, however, I have a good draft of a chapter that stays true to my characters as they should be - exciting, insane, and raring for adventure. Wouldn't trade that time for the world.
Besides - don't you think being in the montage would make you really, really dizzy?
Friday, March 27, 2009
Time to Lock and Load
Friday: The tentative clacking of keyboards begins. Discussion of works, past and current and future, is shared among all. Word challenges amass, 15 minutes of frenzied counting, one, two, three times and more. Sleep? What is this?
Saturday: A bare whisper of sanity is snuffed by the early morning dew. Dragonflame licks along the windowsill. Furious treasure-guarding gnomes begin digging into the front lawn. Sexy shapeshifters deliver pizza. A steady typing rhythm ensues, gathering momentum, hour by hour. Rain or shine, the word airline is on time, no delays. A broadsword-wielding crazy-man stands on the kitchen table, threatening the bananas and the cookies. The stars wink on by the dozens, every ball of light a new tale.
Sunday: Coffee would be really good about now. The gnomes have broken through the living room floor. A dragon is snoozing lightly on the front lawn. There shall be no escape. Breakfast is interrupted by an indoor snowstorm, two monkeys, and a small talking rodent. The word counting games have escalated into all-out conquest, war. Too many plots draw tighter, close ranks, victory at long last. A car door slams. They have come to take us away. Home. The world thousands upon thousands of words richer.
This is no ordinary weekend. It's a Tri Mu lock-in!
Saturday: A bare whisper of sanity is snuffed by the early morning dew. Dragonflame licks along the windowsill. Furious treasure-guarding gnomes begin digging into the front lawn. Sexy shapeshifters deliver pizza. A steady typing rhythm ensues, gathering momentum, hour by hour. Rain or shine, the word airline is on time, no delays. A broadsword-wielding crazy-man stands on the kitchen table, threatening the bananas and the cookies. The stars wink on by the dozens, every ball of light a new tale.
Sunday: Coffee would be really good about now. The gnomes have broken through the living room floor. A dragon is snoozing lightly on the front lawn. There shall be no escape. Breakfast is interrupted by an indoor snowstorm, two monkeys, and a small talking rodent. The word counting games have escalated into all-out conquest, war. Too many plots draw tighter, close ranks, victory at long last. A car door slams. They have come to take us away. Home. The world thousands upon thousands of words richer.
This is no ordinary weekend. It's a Tri Mu lock-in!
Friday, March 6, 2009
Roll Call: Sarah
Well, okay, I, Sarah, shall grace the site with an introduction.
I work in science fiction and fantasy, and dabble in a bit of everything else fictional. My everyday "reality" sports a healthy dose of elves, talking animals, dragons guarding stolen treasure, and aliens. And I like to write about them, too.
I'm obsessed with names and world-building - from social and environmental factors all the way to fleshing out of specific characters who may never even show up in a book. It just isn't right for me to set a story on a world I'm not able to play with. The obsession of my youth has led to the crafting of three whole galaxies, the planets and people therein, and countless short tales that are somewhere between short stories and flash fiction. Luckily, the time was not wasted; I'm using one of these model solar systems for my current project, StarStones.
StarStones is a YA science fiction novel (that may or may not actually be young adult by the time I'm through with edits). I'm also seeing how my creative energies do when they're focused on the romance genre, with one paranormal romance on paper so far. With the wealth of knowledge among the Tri Mu, I suspect these projects will blossom and grow into complete works. Works ready for me to stick my thumb out to the publishing world and see if someone will pick me up.
And that...is me!
I work in science fiction and fantasy, and dabble in a bit of everything else fictional. My everyday "reality" sports a healthy dose of elves, talking animals, dragons guarding stolen treasure, and aliens. And I like to write about them, too.
I'm obsessed with names and world-building - from social and environmental factors all the way to fleshing out of specific characters who may never even show up in a book. It just isn't right for me to set a story on a world I'm not able to play with. The obsession of my youth has led to the crafting of three whole galaxies, the planets and people therein, and countless short tales that are somewhere between short stories and flash fiction. Luckily, the time was not wasted; I'm using one of these model solar systems for my current project, StarStones.
StarStones is a YA science fiction novel (that may or may not actually be young adult by the time I'm through with edits). I'm also seeing how my creative energies do when they're focused on the romance genre, with one paranormal romance on paper so far. With the wealth of knowledge among the Tri Mu, I suspect these projects will blossom and grow into complete works. Works ready for me to stick my thumb out to the publishing world and see if someone will pick me up.
And that...is me!
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